Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The man- boy, really, though nearly everyone seems unbearably young to Jonah these days- doesn’t catch his eye immediately, just one of the dozen or so students interested or bored enough to attend an inconveniently late guest lecture on the esoteric. Only the faint trace of the Web about him makes him noticeable enough to take note of, one to intercept if he sticks around after the lecture to ask questions and chat with his fellows. He, like his peers, starts to shift uncomfortably when Jonah’s just over half through, feeling the increasing weight of being Watched the longer the lecture goes on. Visits like this may be useful for maintaining the Institute’s academic ties and respectable front, but they nearly always yield at least one new recruit or meal as well.

It isn’t until he filters down through the empty aisles of the lecture hall afterward, joining a few others brave or interested enough to approach Jonah for introductions and further discussion, that something in the back of Jonah’s head lights up. The man smiles awkwardly as he shakes Jonah’s hand, stammering, “Dr., Dr. Bouchard, I’m a great fan of your Institute’s work.”

Flooded with an overwhelming and entirely unfamiliar sensation, Jonah barely manages to keep his wits about him enough to return the handshake firmly and speak. “I’m pleased to hear it…?”

The man blushes and bites his lip at the forgotten introduction. “Jonathan Sims.”

Jonah smiles and nods at Jonathan, moving mechanically through pleasantries with the next student as he tries to sort through the wave of feeling pouring into him through his connection to his Patron.

The Eye has been combing through the heads of Jonah’s audience for the past hour. It always does, his presence helping mature useful worries into proper fears- petty squabbles and secrets no darker than the indiscretions of youth. Jonathan Sims, though...

Something about Jonathan has snagged his Patron’s attention in a way Jonah has never felt before. The nearest thing he can compare is the pull toward the best candidates for his next vessel or Archivist- but that might as well be a gentle breeze compared to the vacuum of attention directed toward Jon. Beholding wants him. Jonah isn’t sure even the Entity knows of a precedent for this instant, single-minded fascination with an seemingly-unremarkable university student.

Jonah is nothing if not a loyal servant. If his Patron wants Jonathan Sims then Jonah will see to it that it has him.

He knows, as he returns his full attention to the situation, that the subordinates who have made the journey to Oxford with him will have Jonathan’s quiet transportation back to London arranged by the time Jonah needs it, and that those back home will have finished adding new security measures to appropriate lodgings deep in the secret part of the Institute when they arrive in need of a place to lay Jonathan’s head.

Though, knowing Gertrude, “appropriate” is likely the best to be said for any room arranged for Jonathan. Jonah usually values her pragmatism, but he finds himself wishing he had left someone else in charge. Gertrude is sure to dismiss anything he says as fanciful until she met Jonathan herself, and Jonah is tempted to pout at the idea of having to lay Jonathan down on plain cotton sheets in a bland little room, even if it will be only temporary. His word should be enough, but competent Archivists are difficult to raise.

-

It's difficult not to turn his full attention to Jonathan- “Jon, please”- as Jonah goes through the motions of the discussion, but it wouldn’t do for the other students to attach undue significance to him in the narrative the police will assemble of Jon’s final movements. He could likely leverage his connections to diffuse any trouble, but he’s not nearly so well-connected in Oxford as he is in London and it wouldn’t do to gamble with something so important. Jon’s additions are all more insightful than his peers’- Jonah would be able to tell even without the supernatural interest throbbing behind his breastbone. The others speak of their studies with the detachment and amusement of people who view it all as folklore, psychology, anything real wrapped in hypotheticals. Jon gives everything the subtle weight of experience, of Knowledge. He would be on Jonah’s recruiting list even if his Patron hadn’t forcefully opened his eyes to just how special Jon is.

When Jonah finally makes his excuses and the tiny gaggle of students disperses, he has no need to rush as he packs up his coat and his lecture materials. Oxford may not be as surveilled as London, but it’s hardly difficult to keep an Eye on Jon. Nor is it difficult to find himself endeared by the way Jon's shoulders hunch at the feeling of Eyes on his back and quickens his step. Jonah is glad he’s long since established a habit of taking the latest time slot a university will allow to a guest lecturer in the name of being able to spend the day around campus scouting out potential recruits. In late fall, Jon’s route home is shrouded in darkness, only the orange of the street lights to keep him company. Much easier to remain hidden.

Jonah’s Patron feeds him a more efficient route to Jon’s destination. It requires a bit more… hiking than he’d prefer, but he hardly notices, giddy at the potential of what Jon is, what he could be. By the time Jon arrives back at his flat Jonah is waiting for him, concealed around a corner until the moment is right.

As Jon fumbles with his keys, Jonah steps up behind him and has a hand on Jon’s throat and the other over his mouth before the younger man can even notice the heat of another body in his personal space, never seeing Jonah’s face. He tries to keep his grip light, true pressure restricted to Jon’s carotid arteries; he doesn't want to bruise him.

Jon writhes in his grasp, then goes limp in a clever attempt to trick him, then lunges forward, trying to hit the doorbell and alert his flatmate (and ex-girlfriend, broken up amicably, touched by the End- interesting, that Jon should find himself in such close proximity to someone else marked by the Entities without realizing). Jonah takes a step back, less gracefully than he would have preferred. Jon continues to fight, but his movements are growing weaker; Elias’ body is less adept at taking his weight than Jonah suddenly finds he would prefer.

The Eye alerts him when Jon is well and truly unconscious, somewhere between rebuke at the damage to him, however minor (imagine that! An Entity concerned about damage to a human), and a delighted coo at the idea that he will soon be ensconced within its Temple. He’s heavy, deadweight- how to get him downstairs…

“Here.” Jonah does not jump at the voice- of course he recognizes Gerard, of course their Patron would send him to help carry the object of its infatuation to safety. Bringing Gerard is often a nuisance, with his above-average awareness of the world outside the Institute making him both an asset to recruitment and a potential wild card. Even if he was willing to carve his devotion into his skin, Jonah doesn’t dare trust it, not after Eric, but in this case he’s just grateful to have the boy's youth and stature on his side.

He doesn’t miss the way Gerard’s eyes stay fixed on Jon’s face as he grabs hold of his ankles, shifting so that he can loop an arm under Jon’s knees before leaning in to take the rest of Jon’s weight. Jonah releases him reluctantly. If he doubted what he’d felt in the lecture hall, Gerard’s reaction is more than confirmation- the boy looks positively besotted, even with devotion to their Patron that's more bargain than faith.

They hurry back down to the ground floor and back out into the night, Jonah keeping his mind on ensuring none of the cameras along their path will show anything beyond Jon entering the building. There are no cameras inside, and so no need to decide whether Jon making it to his door or not would make a more convincing narrative for police. Not that Jonah intends to be around to deal with such minutia.

The van is idling and ready, empty of passengers beyond those it carried down from London. “No one was really willing to buy into the ‘hey wanna join our cult’ pitch today,” Gerard clarifies without being asked, acid as always. “Probably for the best, abduction would make for a pretty rough initiation.” Jonah doesn’t dignify his flippancy with a response.

The seats in the back of the van have already been put down flat, and Gerard climbs in, keeping Jon in his lap. Jonah climbs into the passenger seat, reluctant though he is to distance himself from Jon.

He shoots Michael a glare when the van fails to shift into motion as soon as all are aboard. Where Gerard had kept his surprise and admiration silent and hadn’t let it interfere with his task, Michael is openly gaping at the small figure in the back seat. Gerard ignores him, though Jonah notes how gently he cradles Jon’s head and rubs at his throat after placing some sort of tablet in his mouth. “Should keep him out until well after we’re back in London,” Gerard explains.

Michael is still staring rather than performing his duty as the getaway driver from what is now, technically, a crime scene. He finds his voice before Jonah can prod him into action. “He’s- what is he?”

Someone less assured of Michael’s loyalty- it is nice to have that unwavering foundation in accompaniment to the suspicion he can’t help but feel toward Gerard, even if the blond can be a bit dim- might take offense at the phrasing, but Jonah understands.

He smiles more genuinely than he has in nearly a century. “Something special.”

Chapter Text

Jon’s head is thick and muzzy and his eyes feel as though they’ve been glued shut. Water would help, probably, but the idea of moving his arm enough to grab it off the nightstand seems monumental. He’d probably knock it over anyway, with his eyes closed. What did he do last night?

A weight pushes down the mattress next to him, making him roll a bit toward the depression. He muffles a groan. If Georgie’s here, he’s almost certainly late for class. He can feel her eyes on him but, uncharacteristically, she says nothing.

He tries to get his arms beneath him to sit up, even if his eyes still admit only the barest sliver of light, and her hand catches against his back, guiding him up. His muscles feel stiff and sore. Is he sick?

Georgie props his head against her shoulder and presses a glass to his lips. He drinks greedily. Strange; the shoulder beneath his head is leaner, bonier than Georgie’s ought to be.

“There you go,” a voice says, rumbling through the torso Jon rests against.

It isn’t Georgie’s voice. It isn’t the voice of anyone he knows.

Jon sputters, arms jerking as he chokes on the water. The glass disappears, the hands (stranger’s hands, where is he who is this) pulling him further upright and rubbing his back. “Easy!”

His heart is pounding and his breath is coming in gasps not wholly related to the coughs still shaking his frame, but his hands are clumsy as he tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He tries to scramble away from the unknown person in his bed (is it his bed? Now that his attention is drawn to it, he can’t stop rubbing his foot in tiny circles against the sheets, fixated on a texture that isn’t what it should be) but his limbs stay unnaturally heavy despite the panic he can feel starting to constrict his lungs.

The stranger holds him against their chest, propping him upright and bringing the glass back to his lips. Jon clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head. What if it’s poisoned, what if it’s drugged, that has to be what’s wrong with him, when was he drugged?

“Alright.” He can hear the glass being set down on a hard surface, but still can’t turn to look, body uncooperative. “You’re alright, Jon.”

He whines, thoughts too heavy for proper speech. They know his name.

He remembers… he remembers saying goodbye to Georgie, her teasing him for bothering to get all the way back to the center of campus for a lecture. She was going to come but had found herself suddenly swamped by an unexpected essay assignment. He… thinks he made it, thinks he remembers some of the speaker’s points about the early Spiritualist movement. It was less academic than he’d expected, peppered with more obscure anecdotes about the antics of the movement’s earliest proponents, but it had been entertaining and informative, enough to distract from the uncomfortable energy of the lecture hall, the professors there to ensure the room’s microphone and projector worked and none of the attendees did anything to embarrass the university watching just a little too closely to be comfortable. He’d stayed after the end, worked up the courage to approach the lecturer and join his more outgoing peers in discussion.

He’d headed home later than he’d planned, but he hadn’t really noticed, feeling light and excited at the attention Dr. Bouchard had paid to his ideas. Just quickened his step through the night, towards home…

He doesn’t remember what happened after. He still hasn’t seen his abductor’s face (he shouldn’t want to, if he doesn’t know their face they have no reason to- oh, God, to kill him- but he wants to know), doesn’t know why he was taken. What he was taken for. It’s not as though he has any money or family to make a ransom worthwhile.

He blinks hard, and his vision finally clears enough to show him a plain little room, a desk, the end of the bed, a rug over cold tile, no windows that he can see without changing position. The door looks sturdy and locked, and the furnishings are all the sort of standard issue items found in thousands of pre-furnished flats. He could be anywhere.

The person holding him has their legs splayed out to either side of his on top of the blanket, pinning Jon beneath it, their height obvious and black-socked feet turned in so Jon’s toes rest on their ankles. They’re wearing black jeans too, with stains and holes and pins through them, all the dark cloth in stark contrast to the pale fixtures in the rest of the space. A tattoo of an eye peers up at him from the thin sliver of skin exposed where the top of one sock doesn’t quite meet the hem of the jeans.

Jon’s breath starts to steady, but then one of the hands rubbing his back moves to stroke through his hair and he flinches, chokes on nothing.

The hand drops, thumb rubbing circles on the elbow of one of his useless, useless arms instead. “Sorry.” They sound genuinely apologetic, and Jon could almost laugh.

Instead he tries to take an even breath and speak. “Wh-who…?” He can’t tell if the way his words trail off is down to fear or whatever they gave him during the place where his memory goes blank.

Something between a sigh and a laugh blows at the hair by his ear. “Right. I’m Gerard...” Jon swallows, and Gerard trails off, less as though he’s finished speaking and more like he’s lost in thought. He’s quieter when he resumes, but Jon decides he doesn’t actually care about whatever emotional conflict introductions seem to have sparked in the man who kidnapped him. “...yeah. Gerard. Nice to meet you, Jon.”

Jon doesn’t realize he’s going to laugh until it’s already voiced, a high and desperate thing. Nice to meet you. He’s less successful than he’d like to be in not sounding like he’s on the verge of tears. “Why- why did you…” He can’t bring himself to say it, feels like he shouldn’t have to. Beyond the fear, it feels like every nuance of his intonation is being dissected, his every microexpression examined. He searches the corners of the ceiling- those he can see without moving more than his eyes, at least- for cameras, but instead his gaze ends up fixed on the molding, more ornate than the rest of the room would imply. It’s intricately carved, and it makes him shiver- it’s all eyes, like the one on Gerard’s ankle.

Gerard seems to misinterpret the motion, and pulls the blanket up to tuck closer around Jon’s shoulders. It makes him feel trapped, but he doesn’t dare shrug it off and risk angering Gerard. “Right. Right, you wanted to know about… us us, not… Well, we’re. Er. It is a cult.”

“What?” Jon had felt like his faculties were starting to return, but evidently not. A cult, why…

At least Gerard seems as conscious of the absurdity as Jon, almost embarrassed at his own words. His head dips, chin nearly resting on top of Jon’s head, arms wrapping around his waist, practically holding him like a teddy bear. “I mean. I didn’t start it! But Jonah said… you had. I mean, you’re marked by the Web. You experienced something, something weird, right? Supernatural. Probably something with, er, addiction, manipulation, control, spiders...”

He doesn’t realize he’s thrown himself from the bed until he hits the floor, but he wastes no time in scrambling to his feet, tangled and ensnared by the blankets. He doesn’t bother looking to closely at Gerard (just a long-limbed, black blur on the bed, he’s missing his glasses, where-) eyes darting around until they land on a door. He lunges for it, slipping on the rug and nearly falling, catching himself and rattling the handle.

It’s locked. Of course it’s locked, but he has to get out, he needs to get away! He’s really crying now, tears flecking his cheeks as he hurls himself against the door. No, no, no-!

“Hey, hey!” Long arms catch him before he can hit the heavy wood of the door again (long arms pulling a boy through a doorway) and hold him back, strong despite Jon’s desperate efforts. “You’re- we’re not the Web, you’re safe here, okay? Spider-free zone, I promise. That’s not us.”

Jon reaches for the door again, he doesn’t care if it isn’t his worst nightmare (he’s probably lying anyway no no no), this is still a nightmare, he wants to leave, but Gerard shifts his weight a bit and carries Jon easily back to the bed, only letting go when he slumps and stops fighting. He settles across from Jon, face anxious and guilty.

He isn’t- he doesn’t look anything like a spider, now that Jon sees him properly. A few years older than Jon, with dyed-black hair. The idea of being kidnapped by a cult of goths is a bit galling, but Jon’s attention is drawn to his hands, fidgeting in his lap, tiny, speck-like tattoos decorating the joints. More eyes, like his ankle.

“Here.” Jon jumps, not realizing how close he was to Gerard’s hand, still examining the tattoos, until the other waves his glasses in front of his nose. He snatches them and shifts back, away.

Gerard rubs the back of his neck, head ducked, still looking guilty. Good. Jon wipes at the tears on his cheeks with shaky hands as Gerard starts again. “We’re not whatever you encountered. We’re just. I thought. You’ve run into this stuff before, yeah? Just let me explain.”

Jon settles back a bit, leaning into the wall. He doesn’t suppose he has a choice, so he stays silent as Gerard starts to expound on fear and monsters.

Chapter Text

Jon stares up at him with wide eyes, jaw clenched trying to hide the waves of fear roiling inside him. Gerard wonders if he should tell Jon not to bother, that most people at the Institute will be able to tell if he’s afraid no matter how well he hides it. Then again, if he does, Jon’s face might crumple in resigned terror the way it had when Gerard had hauled him away from the door and onto the bed, and he doesn’t know if his heart could take that.

If Gerard had been the one to find Jon, he doesn’t think he would have brought him here. The Eye rebels at the mere thought now that it has him in the heart of its temple, but Gerard thinks that if he had been able to intervene before Jon was already well in hand he could have convinced it that it was better to leave him be- observe him in his natural habitat, as it were. Jonah’s own nature reflects the greedy acquisitiveness of their god, and it never occurred to him to resist it, but Gerard might have. To keep Jon from having to grapple with the concept of the Entities, all dumped on him at once without any say in the matter, he might have. Even as part of him purrs along with the Eye at Knowing Jon is safe and surrounded by Beholding’s power, he hates that it came at the cost of tearing any chance at a normal life away from him and forcing him into the world of the Entities and their acolytes instead (just as Gerard had been- he dismisses the comparison; his own feelings are irrelevant, it’s just that Jon deserves better (better than Gerard had had, deserves a choice)).

When Gerard carried Jon in, every single person they passed stared at him for as long as they could, eyes alight with curiosity and excitement that wasn’t entirely human. For good or ill, now that Jon’s here he’s here to stay.

Jon stays silent, arms wrapped around himself and eyes fixed on Gerard. Gerard’s never been good with people, doesn’t know if he should maintain the silence or break it. The Eye is just as intently focused on the problem of which will be better for Jon (which is quietly fascinating, the idea that it could care to inspire a feeling other than fear) but has even less to contribute.

His decision is eventually made by the fact that Gerard desperately wants Jon to like him, and as little experience as he has making friends he knows sitting in a silence thick with the undercurrent of fear isn’t how it’s done. He clears his throat awkwardly. “You… you don’t have to worry about the Web, or the other Entities. Like I said. You’re safe here. It’s just the Eye.”

Jon looks down at his knees. “Where’s here.” He says it like he doesn’t expect an answer.

Jon has little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, like he’s someone who smiles a lot. It’s been nearly 24 hours since Gerard first saw him, but he’s never seen Jon smile. He wants to, though, desperately. “London.”

Jon’s head jerks up, and now some of the fear in those big brown eyes is replaced with surprise. Jonah won’t like it- neither will Gertrude, once she’s actually met Jon and come around- but it’s the most positive feeling Gerard’s seen from Jon, so he pushes on recklessly. “It’s a temple of the Eye. Most of the building’s hidden from the city, except the public-facing part.”

Jon’s eyes are sharp with the familiar thirst for knowledge. “What’s the public-facing part?”

Gerard’s mind is suddenly plunged into a memory of one of the first times Mum ever hit him, the betrayal and hurt and remorse of a little kid who doesn’t understand why his caretaker's angry. Gerard shudders but forces the memory down, makes eye contact with one of the larger eyes carved into the molding and flips it off, heedless of Jon’s confusion. It isn’t as if he won’t put it together himself once Jonah finishes his talk with Gertrude and makes his appearance, anyway. “The Magnus Institute.”

Jon’s breath catches, but anything he has to say is cut off by the door slamming open and Jonah storming in.

-

It’s nearly a week before Gerard is allowed to see Jon again.

He tries not to show how galling he finds it, but it’s made more difficult by the fact that most of the other acolytes have barely caught a glimpse of their new paragon, or whatever it is Jon is to the Eye, and Gerard is one of the only sources with actual information. Jonah and Gertrude are too tight-lipped and Michael, while willing to share, barely interacted with the man. The others are usually put off from interacting with Gerard by his reputation and Jonah’s grave warnings about his family being corrupted by the outside world, the way he’s turned Gerard and all the most sordid details of his life with Mary into a walking parable on the dangers of straying from the Eye, but apparently Jon outweighs all that. He’s pretty sure some of the more gullible ones, the ones who never really had any knowledge of the Entities until they joined the Institute and don’t understand how dark and dangerous they are, see him being part of the group that brought Jon back as some sort of sign of absolution for the sins of his father.

(Of course Gerard was with the group that brought Jon back, he’s almost always part of any sizable group to go into the outside world, experience and his ability to actually blend in outweighing any qualms about his loyalty (as though he hasn’t proven that a thousand times over.))

He keeps his mouth shut- what he and Jon said to each other (such as it was) is their own business, and he won’t share it unless forced. That seems unlikely- even the Eye is strangely protective of the idea of Jon having privacy, where normally it revels in private conversations made public. Then again, it’s always been in the Watcher’s nature to hoard rather than share; maybe it’s just never considered the lives of its acolytes as belonging to it in the same way Jon does.

Jonah summons him on the sixth day after Jon’s arrival. His expression is sour as he directs Gerard to deliver Jon’s lunch- he’s in a new room, the last few days a frenzy of activity so that Jon can be hosted in the degree of luxury and comfort Jonah and the Eye deem acceptable. Gerard’s witnessed at least two fistfights break out over carpet pile.

Jonah doesn’t explain why Gerard’s banishment is being lifted, and Beholding is equally silent on the matter. He decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth, just accepts the key and tray and sets off. He notes with pleasure that Jon’s meal is better than the food in the mess- there’s a reason he’s notorious for abusing his privileges to leave the Institute around meal times.

He has to shoo away a gaggle of people when he gets to Jon’s new quarters; he doesn’t want any nosy parkers slipping in when he unlocks the door, and he doesn’t want Jon to feel too much like he’s on display, even if with the Eye some degree of the latter is inevitable.

He was planning to just leave the food and go, be grateful for the glimpse of Jon he’s being afforded and note anything he can pester Jonah and Gertrude into improving, but Jon leaps to his feet the moment he enters. His eyes don’t have the weight of Beholding behind them, not yet (though Gerard’s sure Jonah has plans for that), but he burns under Jon’s gaze anyway. God, he can’t be blushing, he doesn’t blush.

“Gerard!”

He shifts the tray of food onto the top of a dresser and locks the door behind him, tucking the key into the inner pocket of his jacket and buttoning the front closed. He gets the feeling he’s going to be here longer than planned. “Um, hi?”

Jon seems stuck to the spot, just staring at Gerard, so he picks up the food and comes closer, taking note of the room as he does. It’s bigger than the first one; he’s pretty sure Gertrude shifted around some walls to make it, and it looks leagues different from the barracks, or even his room back when he lived with his mum. It looks like a normal room in a normal house (he’s pretty sure) except for the eye molding and lack of window.

Finally, Jon swallows, voice inexplicably hoarse as he asks, “Are you alright?”

Gerard furrows his brow and sets the tray down on the desk next to them. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jon wraps his arms around himself. He’s in new clothes, Gerard notes, their choice clearly steered primarily by Jonah and Gertrude’s sensibilities. He’ll have to snag one of the Institute cards next time he goes out, get Jon some other options. “I thought- he was so angry- and as soon as you left, he wasn’t anymore, so he must have been angry with you. I don’t know why he was only angry with you when I asked, and I don’t know how he knew you told me, I swear I didn’t tell him!”

Jon’s eyes are big and wide and teary, and Gerard feels like the worst person in the world for putting that expression on his face. “You’re talking about Jonah?”

Jon nods. “I thought- I thought they hurt you, and that was why you didn’t come back. I’m sorry.” His face crumples and his shoulders sag with guilt.

Gerard swallows back his surprise- it shouldn’t be surprising that Jon would think like that, he doesn’t get it yet, just knows they kidnapped him and won’t let him out of his room (even if it is surprising he’d care what happened to Gerard), of course he’s scared. “Nothing happened, they just didn’t let me come back to see you. It’s not your fault; finding out things without being told is kind of the Eye’s whole thing. Jonah’s probably still watching us right now.” He tries to add the last lightheartedly, but Jon shudders anyway. Right, he grew up normal. That’s probably not the kind of thing normal people joke about. Gerard makes a mental note.

Jon stares at the floor, still hugging himself like the shudder might spread and shake him apart. “I thought- I thought maybe they’d killed you.”

The small, sad voice he says it in is what makes it click. “Oh. Have you been asking about that this whole time ?” He’s almost touched- he doesn’t think anyone’s ever cared about him enough to worry about his safety two days in a row, not if they didn’t need something from him.

Jon clearly doesn’t take it that way, head jerking up with a glare. “I didn’t know! I was just- I was worried!”

Gerard holds his hands up, placating. He looks sweet, flustered and angry at thinking Gerard is making fun. “Okay. Just surprised. That’s probably why they sent me in today.” He gestures at himself. “Alive and in person, before your very eyes. Safe and sound.” He half-laughs, he’s not sure at what, and ends the movement with his hands in his pockets, a deprecating shrug. “Anyway, enjoy your lunch.”

“Wait!” One of Jon’s hands actually jerks from their place around his torso toward Gerard, though it stops before he reaches far. Gerard stops, trying to keep his face open and curious. He doesn’t want Jon to think he’s making fun of him. “Will- Do you have to go?”

“Do you want me to stay?” He can’t quite hide the incredulity, but if Jon asks him to do something he doesn’t care what else he might have on the docket, Gerard will do it.

Jon gulps, looks down. “Please.”

Gerard pauses, nods, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “Eat your lunch. I can stick around for a while.”

Chapter Text

In his first week as an unwilling resident of the hidden half of the Magnus Institute, Jon receives:

• an explanation for the strangest and most traumatizing incident of his childhood, which mostly implies that things could have been (could still become) much, much worse.

• a wardrobe of new clothes; they fit him perfectly, and some of them are tailored. (He tries not to think about Gerard or Dr. Bouchard taking his measurements while he was unconscious.)

• an ornately outfitted room (not a cell, his captors insist despite the lack of windows and the heavy lock he can hear them close whenever they leave, and it feels safer to mirror their terminology) that still smells like new paint and is decorated in precisely his favorite shade of blue (...surely a coincidence).

• a large and rotating selection of books, primarily pulled from the Institute’s libraries (plural, though he is not allowed out of his room to see either), split between tomes clearly meant to persuade him of the same fiction his captors are laboring under, like An Official History of the Cult of Beholding, Volume I: 1816-1900, (which he resents) and miscellaneous selections that all seem to cater precisely to his most obscure and niche interests (which he resents more).

• A pair of gallingly concerned looks when he finally broke down in front of Gertrude and Dr. Bouchard, all the hurt and fear he’d been bottling up focusing on a single concern, the only one that seemed like it might get a definite answer, Gerard having been hurt or worse because he’d answered Jon’s questions.

• 30 minutes of additional conversation with Gerard, primarily revolving around whether or not Gerard had been harmed for the information he’d given Jon and whether there was anything he could do to make Jon more comfortable (save letting him go, naturally).

Jon only actually asked for or desired the last. He supposes it's some comfort knowing that the moral code of the people holding him may have been unbothered by abduction and false imprisonment but it at least doesn’t extend so far as to recommend execution for every petty slight. Based on the absolute fury on Dr. Bouchard’s face when he had stormed in and dismissed Gerard, the way it had all melted away when he turned to Jon, he hadn’t been sure.

(He’d been stuck on the idea since Gerard slipped out of his sight with wrath at his heels, picturing uncountable scenarios of violence and torment, the kind of punishment that kind of anger might devise. Wondering if it was worth it, if Gerard regretted it, if he'll meet the same fate.)

He likes Gerard, more or less. At least, he likes him better than Dr. Bouchard (bad enough to feel the sting of betrayal from a man he admired, but Jon never knows how to respond to his assertions that he’s actually Jonah Magnus, reincarnated or something) or Gertrude (maybe it was just a holdover from being raised by his grandmother, but she always makes him feel as though he’s doing something wrong). Gerard at least seems to both know and care that Jon doesn’t want to be here.

Maybe his preference is obvious, for all he’s tried to hide it, because Gerard becomes his most regular mealtime visitor, though the other two are never away for more than a day or two. Maybe Gertrude and Dr. Bouchard are simply too occupied with running an evil cult to bother with such minor daily chores. Or maybe his preference is being used to implicitly hold Gerard hostage against Jon’s good behavior.

Jon is determined not to let the final possibility bother him. Gerard is… decent enough. But he chose to join a cult, to help kidnap Jon, to keep him prisoner instead of offering to help him escape. Anyone who knowingly commits themselves to something like this enough to tattoo its symbol all over their body can’t rightly claim victimhood if it blows up in their face. Jon didn’t ask for any of this. Whatever might happen to Gerard, it isn’t his fault.

(At least, he can almost convince himself of as much. He’ll have plenty of time to sort through the rest with a psychologist once he’s home.)

He spends another week keeping his eyes on the door, every time it opens. Gertrude and Bouchard are usually conscious of what they let him see through the brief opening, keeping it blocked with their bodies even when they’re carrying a tray of food, but Gerard is more careless. He seems more invested in closing the door as quickly as possible than keeping Jon from seeing out into the hallway beyond. It will make it more difficult to slip by him, but he’ll have more information when he does.

He carefully remains on his best behavior, not counting that first day and a few abortive attempts at the door after they moved him. Or his outburst about Gerard (and being trapped and missing Georgie and not knowing what would happen to him, but as far as his captors know, just Gerard. He was worried! If that worry was the outlet for all his other concerns, that was no one else’s business). He keeps his most pressing questions to himself- as much as he wants to know why he’s here, why him, why bother, if the answer is that they want to- to sacrifice him to a volcano like some kind of Indiana Jones villain (who knows what a group that openly calls themselves a cult is capable of!) then the need to monitor him for an escape attempt will go from a likelihood to a certainty. He needs to keep whatever plausible deniability he can.

He doesn’t think that they necessarily buy his apparent acceptance and compliance- particularly since he can never quite seem to manage to keep himself from occasionally indulging his misery with sarcasm and cutting remarks- but he doesn’t intend to be here long enough to need them to completely believe him. They just need to believe enough to become complacent.

Evidently there are far more people sharing the building than the three he’s seen, but they aren’t allowed access to Jon- Gertrude had phrased it exactly that way when he’d asked, access , as though he was a server full of confidential information rather than a person- and based on the snatches he can catch over Gerard’s shoulders, many of them seem to frequent the hallway immediately outside his room. He isn’t sure, yet, whether that will be an asset or a hindrance. If his presence is a secret to the rank and file then they might be willing to help him, but if they all know he’s here his escape will end before it begins.

Even so, even if he manages to slip through the door only to be caught in an obstructive crowd and put back again… he has to try.

Whoever they are and however much they know, Gerard doesn’t seem fond of them. His entrances are increasingly marked by muttered cursing and a clear difficulty navigating whatever people and objects lay outside Jon’s door.

That’s what gives him his chance. He’s prepared, trying not to so much as think of escape at breakfast or dinner lest he give something away- if he’s in part of the Magnus Institute, there must be people, normal people, and he has a better chance of encountering them at lunchtime. When lunch does come, he’s always ready, socks off- he doesn’t have any shoes, his own taken when they first drugged him and tucked him into bed (and why would he need new ones to match the clothes, when he’s confined to a single room?) and running in socks on the kind of smooth floors favored by places like the Institute seems like an unnecessary risk. Gerard is used to him staying stock still, sitting on the bed or at the desk, until the lock clicks behind him. He’s never even made an attempt at the door before now- at least, not with Gerard.

Even before he knows his chance is coming, the air feels electric with nervous energy, like the building itself can sense a change. He knows that Gerard is the one bringing him lunch, because he starts shouting right outside the door.

Whoever the people out there are, Gerard seems annoyed at their presence- Jon can’t make out everything, but he does hear something about making a mess, and a bellowed “Leave!” that sends multiple sets of running-pounding footsteps racing away. No one to see him if he goes for it-!

Gerard opens the door, looking down and kicking at something around his feet, Jon’s lunch balanced in one hand. Jon can’t quite see what he’s got tangled around his shoes, with the door opened as little as it is, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.

He’s lucky he’s skinny is all he can think as he barrels toward Gerard and takes a running leap, over one of Gerard’s feet and whatever he’s fiddling with, barely slipping between Gerard and the doorframe. He stumbles, but finds himself in empty, open corridor, Gerard cursing behind him.

He runs without care for where he’s going. There are no exit signs in this part of the building- naturally, why bother keeping your secret cult compound up to code?- and he was unconscious when they brought him in. One direction is as good as another, as long as he stays ahead of Gerard.

The building seems to have been designed to be confusing, hallways branching off in unexpected places and staircases that only alter the floor’s elevation by mere feet. He isn’t sure if that’s an advantage or a disadvantage; if he gets turned around, he could become hopelessly lost, but in the meantime the random path he takes through equally random corridors means that Gerard will have that much more difficulty finding him.

It takes longer than he expected to run into someone else- Gerard really must have scared them off with his display earlier- but when he does he literally runs into them. He and the taller woman both bounce back, landing squarely on the ground. She’s more graceful than he is, and is staring down while he’s still scrambling to his feet.

“Are you alright? What are you doing here?” Her tone is casual, and she doesn’t seem to have noticed Jon’s bare feet or the genuine panic behind his frazzled energy. She’s dressed neatly and carrying a notebook. She doesn’t look like a cultist. (As though Gerard, Gertrude, and Dr. Bouchard do.) Maybe he's somehow made it into the public parts of the Magnus Institute?

“Er, fine, sorry, I’m looking for the exit, actually.” He laughs awkwardly, glad that the kind of clothing he’s been given mostly approximates the kind of business casual that would be appropriate for an academic institution. “I seem to have gotten a bit lost.”

The woman nods understandingly, and hope sits like a lump in Jon's throat. “It’s the building- gorgeous, obviously, and historically significant, et cetera, but you can only remodel and add onto something so many times before the floor plan becomes incomprehensible.”

He tries to nod along like everything is fine, like he has all the time in the world. “Right. Oxford can be the same way.” Chuckles. If he tells her what’s really happening, she could phone the police long before Jon could get out of the building or Gerard (not just him, surely if he hasn’t found Jon by now he’s enlisted help, how long has it been?) can catch him, but if she’s in on it, if she’s part of the cult and he hasn’t slipped into the Institute proper-

“I can show you out.” She smiles, and loops her arm through his. She has to be genuine, he needs her to be genuine. “I’m Sasha, by the way.”

He nods again, rendered mute by indecision- not that Sasha gives him much of a choice, pulling him along cheerily.

He tries to keep track of the turns and stairs they take, so he’ll at least have some warning, a chance to tear away and run again, if they approach the cell (even thinking of it in those terms feels like freedom).

“You mentioned Oxford?” Sasha asks, voice still light. Not the tone of someone returning an unruly prisoner to their captors- at least, he hopes not.

“Yes, I-I’m a student there,” he says, feeling jarringly normal. She keeps on asking about Oxford, about his degree (he’s going to get to finish his degree! He isn’t going to die here!), makes suitably impressed sounds when he notes how near he is to completing it. She’s so normal it’s surreal, it almost makes him want to spill the whole sordid tale out to her and beg for help. But he thought Dr. Bouchard was normal, too.

Their path has been trending downward long enough that’s he’s really started to believe he’s going to make it out- even if they haven’t really encountered anyone else, even if the corridors they’re passing through don’t look like what he’d expect (even if there are surely plenty of places to lock him up and go get others in a building like this)- when he hears the faint rise and fall of familiar voices.

At first, he thinks it’s just the sound of other people that startled him- too far to make anything out, he’s just jumpy, it’s almost over (it has to be). Sasha continues moving smoothly through his flinch, seeming not to notice it any more than she’s noticed his sockless feet. When he realizes with a sinking feeling that he recognizes those voices, she pulls him along as he nearly trips. “W- Sasha, hang on a moment, wait,” he stutters, but it’s too late, they’re already rounding the corner and his attempts to set his heels can do little against someone strong enough to tow his entire body weight and hardly notice.

Gerard is slouching against the doorframe of the room- the door is still half open, he can see inside, no no no no- looking more abashed than Jon’s ever seen him, even when he plays sympathetic to Jon’s plight or when he was the focus of rage intense enough Jon thought he’d be murdered over it. Dr. Bouchard is looming over him, even though he’s shorter, that same rage in his expression, with something else underlying it, a tension, almost nervous. Probably worried Jon will make his way out and get them arrested. Gertrude is off to the side, disinterested mask in place, but even she looks ill at ease. When Sasha drags him around the corner, nearly cutting off the circulation in his arm with how tightly her own is wrapped around it, all three look up like dogs catching a scent, eyes fixed unerringly on Jon.

“Jonathan.” Dr. Bouchard’s voice technically never leaves its usual, coolly professional register, but it’s lax with- relief, he supposes. The tension melts from all three of his captors. Gertrude gives Sasha a small, approving nod. Gerard and Dr. Bouchard beam.

It doesn’t make sense, they took too many stairs and haven’t turned enough times to have looped all the way back round, right back to where he started! “No, no, Sasha please -!” He’s breathing too fast, his limbs uncoordinated and his heart and stomach swapping places like he’s in freefall. No one seems to notice as Sasha neatly passes him off to Gerard. He wheels around before Gerard can crush him into a hug, making the goth clamp his hands down on Jon’s shoulders instead, and tries to make desperate eye contact with Sasha. She meets his gaze easily, face soft with sympathy. “Please, don’t, Sasha!”

The momentary lines on her forehead vanish when Dr. Bouchard speaks. “Thank you, Miss James. Well done. I trust you didn’t have to… deliver Jon from anything too dangerous?”

She smiles at him, all the casual poise and smothered delight of someone receiving a favorable performance review. “He’s fine. We had fun.”

Bouchard nods, and Sasha’s next move is so unexpected Jon almost thinks he’s imagining it. She leans in, cups his face (wipes a tear from his chin, when did he start crying?) and plants a light kiss on his cheek. She draws back, smiling enormously, and gives the part of his shoulder not engulfed in Gerard’s inescapable grip a friendly squeeze. “Bye, Jon! See you around!”

She practically skips off, grin splitting her face. Pleased to have done her duty to her god, he supposes. His insides feel like grinding gravel, the kind whose sound under his feet sets his teeth on edge, as he’s steered back into his room.

Chapter Text

There is a part of Gerard that feels horrendously guilty, wrangling Jon back into his room so they can start cleaning up the mess and making sure it doesn’t happen again. The rest is too busy cooing over how Jon looks like a disgruntled kitten, letting himself droop bonelessly over Gerard’s arm in hopes he’ll drop him. He’s not sure that part is entirely the Eye.

He tried to tell Jonah that letting so many people hang around and leave things outside of Jon’s room was going to become an issue eventually, but Jonah just smiled blandly and thanked him for his input. Granted, Gerard had been thinking more on the order of fire hazards than an escape attempt, but blocking a doorway with enough trinkets and tokens to make it look like a roadside memorial should have been a self-evidently bad idea. He hates having to agree with the avatars of other Entities who scoff at Beholding’s tendency to see but not understand.

He doesn’t bother locking the door, Jonah and Gertrude still locked in discussion outside it, just deposits Jon on the bed and hovers awkwardly as he curls his face into his knees and continues quietly crying. Obviously Jon was upset, still didn’t understand that he belongs with them, with the Eye, but he kept up such a strong front it was easier to tuck that knowledge away. Now, openly sobbing, Gerard wants to make him stop, make things better, but he doesn’t know how. Every shake of Jon's shoulders feels like it steals the air right out of Gerard’s lungs.

He sits down on the bed, out of reach of Jon- he wants to touch him, hold him, but doesn’t think that would be well-received- but close enough Jon will be able to feel the shift and know he isn’t alone. Jon mumbles something into his knees.

“Sorry?” Gerard leans a bit closer, “Did you say something?”

Jon raises his head a tiny bit, keeping his face hidden but allowing his words to be heard more clearly. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Gerard opens his mouth, but his voice stops before any words can come out. How does he explain the depth and novelty of what Beholding feels? How those feelings are passed onto its followers? Even beyond that, how does he get Jon to believe him when he’s still skeptical of most aspects of the Entities, down to ostentatiously continuing to call Jonah by the wrong name?

He takes too long. Jon hiccups in a breath and barrels on, “What do you want with me? Why am I here, why me?”

He speaks quickly when Jon’s done; the more questions he asks, the more upset he seems to get. “It likes you. Beholding, the Eye, I mean. It… really likes you.” Maybe he’ll understand, if he knows the flood of feeling comes from more than just them, that it’s tied into the feeling of being Watched Gerard knows most people feel around the Institute. Maybe he’ll feel better if he can put a name to it. Jon doesn’t seem like the type to use words like “love” early in a relationship; that’s probably even truer when the relationship is also a kidnapping.

Jon’s head jerks up, and he stares at Gerard, incredulous through his tears. “What does that mean? Even- even if I believe you, it must like plenty of people, enough to let them read minds or... what have you! However you knew about… about Mr. Spider.” Gerard doesn’t, technically, know about anyone or anything called Mr. Spider, but assumes it has something to do with Jon’s encounter with the Web, and that curious as he is Jon definitely doesn’t want to share that story just now. “Why me, specifically, when you already have however many people there are here? And that would just be London, there must be others everywhere else! Why me, what do you need one more person for?”

Gerard shakes his head. “It’s not like that, you- you’re different!” Obviously, beautifully, fascinatingly different; everyone in the entire Institute knows that, how can Jon not?

He runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated huff. “Different how?”

Gerard’s mouth hangs stubbornly open, throat clicking. “Can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what!” The tears are rising again, and between Jon’s distress and the incomprehensibility of what he’s saying, Gerard feels a rising panic.

They both startle at the sound of a throat being cleared. Their conversation has caught Jonah’s attention, and he leans against the doorway, Gertrude gazing in evenly from behind him. “You’re right, Jon. Beholding imparts enough favor to make its presence known to many of its followers. It uses them to keep itself fed and to build its power, and in return the most devoted among us are granted pieces of its power, the ability to see things others do not and even perform feats beyond the normal limits of our humanity.” Jonah walks over to the bed and sits on the edge of it with a grace that makes Gerard feel for a bizarre moment like a child at a sleepover, sprawled and crumpled over the comforter with Jon while Jonah graces its surface as though it were a throne. He’s never even been to a sleepover. Jonah takes Jon’s hand, making his breath catch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“It doesn’t feel for us, though. Until very recently, I didn’t think it was capable of feeling anything, except perhaps hunger and satisfaction.” Jon stares up at Jonah transfixed, eyes wide and mouth trembling. “But from the moment you came into its awareness,” he brushes his free hand against Jon’s cheek, and Jon flinches, but there’s nowhere for him to escape to under Jonah’s scorching stare, “it loves you, Jon. More strongly than it has felt anything in my two centuries of connection to it. Likely more than in its eons of existence. It adores you down to your very atoms. What else could I do but bring you back to its temple, where you can be safe and Watched, always?”

Jonah leans in close to Jon, their breath comingling, and for a moment Gerard thinks he’s going to continue moving over those last centimeters and kiss Jon. Something in him burns with curiosity and longing at the thought- the Eye had jolted with elation at Sasha’s quick peck to the cheek, earlier. Another part of him is faintly jealous, that it should be Jonah and not him kissing Jon. Barely perceptible, Gertrude’s breath tightens, betraying the same thoughts.

Instead, Jonah brushes Jon’s tears away, and then the ones that follow, until Jon visibly bites his lip to stop any more from falling. He brushes Jon’s hair out of his face and draws back, and it’s like everyone in the room lets out a breath at once.

Gerard straightens when Jonah’s attention shifts to him, much as he usually dislikes the man. “Gerard, why don’t you take Jon for some fresh air while Gertrude and I take care of things here.” It isn’t a question, and Gerard abruptly Knows that Jonah’s already ensured that the hallways between Jon’s room and the lower courtyard will be clear. He nods anyway.

Jon looks utterly incredulous and a bit lost, staring from Jonah to Gerard and back as Gerard coaxes him up from the bed and leads him out of the room, arm around his shoulders. Jon shakes minutely under his touch, and Gerard wants to tuck him tight into his side and hold him.

As they get further away from his room without this newfound freedom being revoked, Jon gets more daring, stepping out from under Gerard’s guiding arm. He snags him by the hand before he can get too far, and even knowing the utility of it, Gerard’s heart flutters. They’re holding hands.

Jon alternates between shrewd examination of their surroundings and keeping his head down, eyes focused on the ground; the latter tends to be brought on whenever they pass a particularly large image of an eye. Gerard can practically see the gears turning in his head, though he doesn’t know if he’s processing Jonah’s words or trying to map out a future path for escape.

When Gerard finally elbows open the door out to the lower courtyard, he can hear Jon’s breath catch in a tiny “Oh.” Probably disappointment- he likely hoped that “fresh air” meant Gerard would be bringing him out into some part of London proper. Still, he rushes forward at the sight of grass after days without so much as a window, and Gerard lets his hand slip away. There’s nowhere for Jon to go here, anyway.

The courtyard is long and broad, cobblestone path leading around and across a wide expanse of grass, flowerbeds around the perimeter, the occasional fountain or statue. It’s never sunny, the confluence of Powers that allows it to exist unseen in a space-that-isn’t behind the Magnus Institute keeping the sky full of clouds and mist during the day, though the presence of the Vast gives them the occasional clear night. Gerard’s never found it particularly impressive, more ornamental than the upper courtyard’s food garden and playset, a space for Jonah to bring visitors on walks when hanging around his office becomes tiring.

Jon looks at it like a miracle, running forward and falling to his knees in the grass, stroking his hands through the blades. Gerard sits down at the edge of the path near him, content to watch. Maybe he’ll reevaluate his opinion of the lower courtyard.

Jon spends nearly an hour with the grass and flowers, walking up and down the courtyard, grass staining his bare feet- he’s clearly looking for an escape, but Gerard knows he won’t find one, entirely enclosed here by the Institute’s walls- before returning to Gerard and lying down on his back in the grass, staring up into the gray sky.

“G-Gerard?” He perks up at the sound of his name, humming an acknowledgment. Jon swallows. “Was he telling the truth?”

Gerard stares at Jon for a moment, the eager grass stains on the knees of his trousers and the way the filtered light catches the line of his nose, the sprawl of dark hair on the lawn. “You really can’t feel it?”

Jon closes his eyes, shakes his head, brow creasing. “I don’t know what there is you think you feel.”

It makes his heart ache, to think Jon doesn’t Know how much he’s loved the way the rest of them do. “Jonah was telling the truth, yeah.”

Jon scrunches his face up and wraps his arms around himself, shoulders pressing up against his ears. “Why are you here?” He sits up before Gerard can stutter a response, opening his eyes and propping his chin on his knees. “I mean, not here with me. Here. Why join if you knew it was a cult? If you knew all the fear behind it?”

“Oh.” It’s not something he likes to think about, or a line of reasoning he particularly likes to examine, but Jon wants to know. “I- A lot of the people here, they grew up in it. Don’t really leave the Institute, or even go into the public parts.” Jon’s eyes don’t carry the weight of Beholding, not yet, but they feel better than any stare that’s ever fixed on Gerard before. “Some of them are descended from Jonah’s first batch of recruits, way back in 18-whatever.

“My dad- I don’t know much about him. But he grew up here, he was one of the ones who left sometimes for research trips and the like. And he met my mum. She wouldn’t join, had her own way of doing things, with the Powers. And he couldn’t be with her otherwise, so he left.” He’s still not clear on what leaving entailed, knows it can’t have been as simple as it sounds, but it’s not exactly knowledge Jonah’s keen to spread around and Mum never talked about his dad. Everything he knows had to be reconstructed second or third hand. “He left, and he married Mum, and they had me.”

“That… sounds very romantic,” Jon says, clearly unsure how this ends with Gerard back in the Institute’s loving embrace.

He laughs, a bit bitterly. “Maybe. Mum was… very driven. Thought she could use the Dread Powers without following any of them. She didn’t really put up with much that could get in the way of what she wanted. And she decided-” He swallows, this is all years back, talking about it shouldn’t be so difficult, “-she decided Dad wasn’t... useful, anymore. So she. She killed him. I don’t really remember him.”

Jon’s eyes are wide, but not just with curiosity. He thinks it might be the first time someone heard this story and looked at him with unfiltered sympathy, no frisson of fear or smugness, taking it as confirmation that the outside world is best left alone. “When I was a teenager, I started to look into him. Found out he grew up here. Mum was... getting worse. In a few ways. Seemed like the better option. Been here, I dunno, ten years, give or take? And it is. It is better.” He bites back the impulse to note that it’s not just better because of Jon.

He nearly startles at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, but suppresses it. He’s not sure how Jon moved closer without him noticing; was he that wrapped up in the past? The gesture is light, hesitant. “I’m sorry,” Jon says, eyes down. “About- all of that.”

Gerard shrugs. “Mum’s been gone herself a few years now. Guess it doesn’t matter much anymore.”

Jon looks like he wants to object, but lets Gerard keep his careless facade. At length, he murmurs, “I never knew my dad, either.”

Gerard bites his lip. He wants to know more about Jon like he wants air, but Jon listened to him honestly and sincerely. He owes Jon at least that much. “Dead?”

Jon nods. “When I was a toddler. Mum a few years later. I was raised by my grandmother.” He stares down at the grass, lost in thought.

Gerard chokes a laugh. “I’m sorry. This is all messed up.” Not just their mutual tragic childhoods.

Jon looks up with a grimacing smile and wet eyes and knocks their shoulders together. “Cheers.”

He lets Gerard wrap an arm around him and drops his head to rest on Gerard’s shoulder, and even with the tears burning behind his eyes it might be the happiest Gerard’s ever been.

Chapter Text

Jon lets himself lean into Gerard and he feels weak, weak, weak. The only other person who’s held him like this, through grief and anxiety, is Georgie, and she’s become much more sparing with touch since their breakup; they both have, not quite sure where their new boundaries lie. This closeness isn’t the same as it is with Georgie, Gerard’s shoulder is bony and he’s much taller, there’s no borrowed shelter cat twining across both their laps and none of Georgie’s steadiness, but he feels safe in spite of himself. He doesn’t trust whatever- whatever love his captors claim to feel for him, but he does at least trust Gerard to be honest, not to hurt him for the sake of hurting. The moment earlier, when his insides had gone ice cold with certainty that Dr. Bouchard was about to kiss him… he thinks Gerard would ask, first.

He feels exhausted and like energy is buzzing beneath his skin, leftover adrenaline from his near-escape (was it near? Was he ever even close?) mixing with the crash. He feels like he’s been cut to ribbons by the mix of hope and disappointment and touches he’s welcomed and touches that terrified him and seeing the sky for the first time since he was kidnapped.

He doesn’t know when the next time he’ll see the sky will be when Gerard finally pulls him to his feet. He’s afraid to ask, already struggling enough to hold back another round of tears. He wants to lean into Gerard as he’s led back to his room, tired and hungry enough that walking straight feels like a burden, but he doesn’t want to encourage... any of them, really. Whatever the people here think Jon is, he has no framework to understand what it means. He doesn’t know what to do.

Gerard and Gertrude and Dr. Bouchard stick around long enough to watch him eat his dinner- he missed lunch, he thought he’d be eating dinner in a police station, maybe even back in his flat with Georgie, he wants to go home- and he’s too numb to be bothered by their eyes on his back. Being alone is a relief, even if he’s locked in and they can watch him like Gerard says. He falls asleep on top of the covers.

-

Wakefulness comes with difficulty, his eyes still crusted with the remnants of the previous night’s tears, but Jon fights for it. He’s had his breakdown, but now he needs to focus on finding a way out. Even if he really, really doesn’t want to. He wishes he had the guarantee of some knight in shining armor, so that all he had to do was sit back and focus on surviving. Being an idle damsel in distress whose happy ending is nevertheless assured sounds incredibly appealing. But no one is coming unless he goes out and gets them himself. No one is going to rescue him unless he rescues himself first.

It’s still early; he has plenty of time to pull himself together and formulate his new approach before someone arrives with breakfast. He has plenty of time to examine what Gertrude and Dr. Bouchard somehow added while Gerard took him outside.

It’s some kind of opening in the wall, with a metal tray obstructing any view of the outside. It’s difficult to lift, and when he does manage to get a grip on it, no part of its trajectory allows him even a sliver of a glimpse of the hallway outside. It’s clearly meant to be moved, even if it’s difficult from this side- intended to be operated from outside, then.

He’s sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, chin resting on a kneecap, when his mental image comes together and he nearly bites his tongue off when the thrill of realization jerks his back straight. If there’s a handle on the outside, with the slanted tray on the inside meant to hold something, it must look almost identical to a library’s after-hours book drop.

He doubts it’s meant for books- at least, not exclusively. Maybe this is the consequence for his near escape, the risk of the door eliminated entirely and his only opportunities for human companionship with it, his meals delivered through the chute. It seems unnecessarily elaborate when a slot in the door could serve just as effectively- maybe more, he’s not sure how a tray of food will survive the rotating motion, but restricting him to energy bars and packaged crisps could very well be part of the punishment as well. On the other hand, much of his imprisonment seems unnecessarily elaborate, even with the context of its supposed motivations.

Maybe part of serving something concerned with observation and secrets just comes with an obsession with keeping up appearances to rival any social-climbing suburban housewife.

But breakfast comes through the door, and earlier than he expected (he can’t help but connect the dots to the supposition that they are watching him, and they knew he was up early). Gerard seems to realize Jon’s in no mood for conversation and leaves him quickly, with an awkward pat on the shoulder. Jon resumes his position curled up on the bed, staring blankly at the wall and trying to string together enough thoughts for an escape plan.

He’s first startled out of reverie by the chute just before 9. It moves nearly silently, nothing but the barest whirring squeak and the shifting of its new contents to catch his attention. He approaches with trepidation.

It’s a red rose in a tiny vase, some of the water spilled and the stem slightly bowed from the awkward transport. There’s a card tied around the neck of the vase:

“A rose from Rosie :)”

He puts the rose on the desk like it’s a live bomb and resumes his position on the bed.

-

Random objects continue to be delivered through the chute throughout the day, their frequency only increasing. Many have cards attached- most of them are signed with hearts- but some are anonymous. A scarf, some biscuits, a nice pen, a poem (he only reads the first two lines before he’s blushing too hard to continue and abandons it on the desk), more flowers, chocolates.

He wants to believe that Dr. Bouchard has arranged all of this to underline what he said yesterday. Wants to believe that was a lie, and this is all done out of an obligation to support their leader rather than any real feeling. He’s never met any of these people, but they’re giving him uncomfortably romantic gifts- it’s like having an entire crowd of secret admirers.

Jon had always thought that the idea of a secret admirer sounded more anxiety-inducing that romantic.

When Gerard brings him lunch, he’s trying to hold back something approaching panic. Before he can get any words out around the lump in his throat, Gerard glances around at the flowers on the desk, the scarf draped over the chair, the poem, and snorts. “Better in here than in front of the door, yeah?”

Jon blinks, swallows. Whatever had tangled Gerard’s feet and allowed his near escape- this is the new manifestation of it. This- this was going on before his conversations with Dr. Bouchard and Gerard. Nearly as long as he’s been here.

Gerard carries on when Jon fails to come up with a response, shooting him a glance that takes a moment to identify as shy. “I have a few things, myself. To bring you, if you wanted. Thought you might like some normal t-shirts. In addition to the old man academic shirts.”

It’s an objectively kind gesture. Jon would like that. It makes him feel like he’s always on the clock at a job he didn’t apply for, wearing button downs all the time. It still feels like a tiny betrayal. “T-thank you,” he manages to croak. Why do people keep giving him things?

Gerard looks worried, makes a gesture like he’s going to offer Jon some kind of pat or hug before jerking back and rubbing the back of his neck instead. Jon still hasn’t touched his food, doesn’t know if he can eat with the nervous knot occupying his stomach. “Jonah and Gertrude will be coming by with your dinner, later. Just- fair warning.”

“Thank you.”

The tray squeaks, and they both jump. Gerard steps over and picks the newest gift up, hands it to Jon. He accepts it, holds the heavy, eye-shaped pendant in his lap and stares at it sightlessly. The blue stone set into the iris stares back. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Jonah has labored for nearly two centuries, trying to bring pieces of his Patron into the world. It hasn’t worked.

The god he serves has never been a loving one, but everyone in the Institute can feel the changes. The way service is more often rewarded with a giddy excitement; the attention of the handful allowed outside the walls being drawn not just to the Marked, to those with potential, but to mundane things, wondering would he like this; the way they look at Jonah with a new respect in their eyes, for having done something not even he had imagined possible until it was already done, for flooding the halls with a feeling of newness and excitement the Institute hasn’t felt since its founding, lifetimes before most of the current roster of devotees were born. The way that feeling comes from their Patron, threaded into the depths of being, rather than being generated by the naive exuberance of those just setting out on a grand endeavor.

When he founded the Institute, the devotion of himself and the handful of others wasn’t particularly religious. It was based in the excitement of new knowledge, the desire to always know more, more, more. But as their numbers swelled, as generations were born and died under his gaze, Jonah has found the trappings of religion useful. He’s always seen himself as apart from it all, the neutral leader picking and choosing pieces of theater to keep his people devoted to the cause, his own connection to Beholding wholly different to what the majority of his subordinates have, more cerebral, more dangerous, more powerful.

In this, as in all things, Jon is singular. The sight of him overtakes Jonah with a fervor that makes him want to gild and ornament him with ceremony, surround him with a holy haze like the Oracle at Delphi, spread his name until all who hear it speak it with reverence. The thought of Jon once he truly belongs to the Eye feels electric in his veins.

He’s put off properly introducing Jon to more than a small handful of people too long. Of course the combination of the exhilaration of Jon’s presence and the buzzing temptation of something important yet unseen would lead to foolishness. His oversight and greedy procrastination (it has always been the Eye’s nature to hoard secrets) nearly lost Jon. But they have to do it right.

They can’t just allow Jon to mingle with the full population of the Institute; even if the risk of him fleeing could be ameliorated, setting him out among the rabble like any common recruit doesn’t feel right. Besides, Jon is a shy sort, and dozens of people high on unveiled mystery and their patron’s gleeful love would overwhelm him too easily. Allowing him to be mobbed would send entirely the wrong message, particularly when Jon himself is so reluctant to believe in his own importance.

For all he’s viewed the Institute’s religious spaces as empty theater over the centuries of construction, maintenance, and improvement, Jonah is glad of them now. It feels right that Jon should be placed in the center of a space devoted down to the smallest nail to the Ceaseless Watcher, surrounded by opulence worthy of him.

His discovery and arrival may have been spontaneous, but Jonah plans Jon’s introduction with all the care the decades have cultivated. It would take months to arrange it precisely to his preference, but he thinks he does well given the limited time frame, and Jon isn’t going anywhere. This is hardly their last chance.

It’s rare that the Institute at large eats a meal as lavish as the one planned for Jon’s Debut, replete with enough meats and sweets to put any medieval feast to shame. Better to have too much, when enough of Jon remains to be discovered, what foods he’d like best still a question. Everything is polished to a shine, most of the devotees manic with the desire to give Jon the best possible first (proper) impression of his new home outside his room. Tiny flaws that have been left neglected for years have been repainted, repaired, and remade until the Institute looks newly-built. Those who exit the Institute’s embrace have been practically run ragged acquiring everything necessary for today, even up to Jonah himself. The Institute’s most dangerous corners, usually left mostly unguarded under the assumption that all within her halls are either aware of them or new enough to be entirely disposable, have been sealed up tight since Sasha’s report of how close Jon, in his mad flight, had come to one of the entrances to Artefact Storage.

Some of the work has been delayed by the workers’ desire to bring gifts to their new idol, but Jonah hasn’t had the heart to put a stop to it. Watching from afar as Jon receives and puzzles over each item, storing away which he reacts positively to and which attract his ire or disinterest, is far too engrossing for that.

The rites of the Cult of Beholding have always been performed on an as-needed schedule rather than regular periodic observance, and Jonah has never felt the need to enforce any idea of “Sunday best,” relying on the fear of being seen as inadequate to ensure all are appropriately turned out with demeanor to match. His wandering supervision notes that that strategy is more effective now than it ever has been, every soul under his roof determined to be at their absolute best when introduced to the nearest thing to divinity they are likely to ever see. All that remains is to ensure the same is true of Jon himself.

He takes Michael and Sasha with him to prepare Jon for his Debut. Gertrude is busy overseeing other preparations, and he’s unwilling to risk the rapport Gerard has managed to build; Michael and Sasha have already met Jon, brief though it may have been, and shown an ability to remain composed in his presence. Jon will be more comfortable with a familiar face than a multitude of strangers, and dressing him for the evening will be much easier with his cooperation.

They find Jon sitting at his desk, wearing one of the shirts Gerard gave him. Jonah balks at the baseness of the attire, but Jon seems to like them, unfortunately. Jon was warned last night that something is coming- though Jonah thought it best to keep the exact details vague, lest Jon take the opportunity to scheme up an escape plan or work himself into a panic. Sasha positions herself primly to the side while Jonah locks the door behind them, smiling at Jon with her stack of boxes piled neatly in her arms. Michael doesn’t quite manage to emulate her easy grace and professionalism, his face betraying his awe at Jon’s presence and his load teetering. Jonah would be more concerned, but he’s heard multiple people refer to Michael as “like a puppy,” and trusts that Jon, too, will see him as more endearing than irritating. At least enough to comply with his encouragements.

Jonah tucks the key into his pocket and notes Jon’s eyes following it. “Put the boxes on the bed.”

Michael nearly causes a small avalanche, but manages to right it with a few muttered apologies before scuttling into the en suite to draw a bath. Sasha quietly sets to sorting the boxes.

Jon eyes them warily. “What’s in the boxes?”

“Everything you’ll need for today.” Jon’s eyes flicker to the two newcomers, so Jonah continues, “You’ve met Sasha, and that’s Michael. You were asleep when you met previously, but he drove the car when we brought you home.”

Jon flinches and draws into himself, speaking in a whisper, maybe only meant for himself, “This isn’t my home.”

Jonah hums skeptically, but doesn’t pursue the argument. Actions speak louder than words, and today’s itinerary is replete with actions. “Do you want Michael, Sasha, or myself to help you bathe?”

Jon’s eyes gleam with alarm and a bit of defiance. “I don’t need help!”

Jonah meet his gaze coolly. “Michael, Sasha, or myself?” He adds in an undertone, “This doesn’t need to be difficult. We only want to help.”

Jon glances frantically around the room, but he’s locked in, outnumbered, and even Jonah is bigger than him. Jonah has always been good at convincing people that they don’t have choices, and the proverbial apple of the Eye needs to get used to being Seen. Jonah is willing to compromise by acclimating him slowly.

Jon swallows, almost gulps. “...M-michael.”

Michael beams and bounds back into the main room, sleeves already rolled up. He takes a moment to collect a few things before returning and offering his hand to Jon. “Come on!” His smile is almost unbearably earnest.

Jon stands without taking his hand, arms wrapped around himself. Jonah turns to help Sasha with putting the rest of Jon’s things for today in order and tidying his room wherever necessary, but his eyes follow the pair into the bathroom and behind the closed door, peering out from the icons scattered all across the décor as Jon is reluctantly coaxed into undressing and entering the bath. He keeps watching as Michael pelts him with inane small talk, and is pleasantly surprised when a line of questioning about favorite animals gets Jon to nervously pontificate about cats while Michael rubs soaps and oils into his skin. Sasha is clearly trying to listen, though she’s without Jonah’s advantages. She’s always taken well to their Patron, could even make a good Archivist once Gertrude relinquishes her position if not for her regrettable childhood outside the Institute's walls.

When Michael finally dries Jon off and wraps him in a fluffy robe, none of them comment on Jon’s face being slightly tear-stained or the fine trembling that’s taken over his body. Jon squeezes his eyes up and goes stiff when Sasha hands over the final bottle of lotion and Michael begins applying it, but he holds still until his skin is all soft and bright. He seems ready to cry with relief when he’s finally helped into his soft leggings and undershirt. No amount of prompting gets Jon talking again as his hair is brushed and dried, his nails filed and buffed, and his eyes are carefully outlined and emphasized with shimmering makeup.

Jonah is rather proud of the outfit he’s selected for Jon’s Debut. Over the foundation layer, a golden tunic- it was difficult and expensive to source genuine cloth of gold, but seeing the way it catches the light, draws all eyes to Jon, and highlights the warm undertones of his skin, more than worth it- that hangs to the knee, a Grecian drape to it; over that, a green silk robe, open at the front and embroidered all along the edges with golden eyes- though not as heavily as Jonah would have preferred. It’s simple, but every bit as beautiful and attention-grabbing as Jon deserves. All accessorized with a plethora of necklaces and rings, ear cuffs and earrings and fine golden chains braided through his hair, soft, green slippers for his feet and bracelets jingling at his wrists.

Jonah remains a bit put out at the finishing touch- the fine golden circlet, with its jeweled eye that stares out from the center of Jon’s forehead, golden lashes sketching a star against his skin, is lovely for everyday, but its sister piece, with the continuous band of eyes staring out in a halo and more gems, would have been preferable for today if it had been finished in time. Alas, one can’t have everything.

The effect of the completed ensemble is breath-taking. Jon looks perfect.

Chapter Text

If love is made of electrical impulse and chemicals and firing neurons, what It feels for Jonathan Sims is waves of cosmic radiation, the expansions of nebulae, the light of a long-dead star living on in the telescopes of a distant planet. It did not Know It could Love, until It Saw him and the barest skim of his face, his thoughts, his self made stars collapse into black holes where It lacked a heart.

It Knows that Jon (Jon) is pressingly aware of the weight of fine fabric on his shoulders, of the way he catches the light and draws all Eyes even without Its influence. Its servant-who-fears-death has draped him in Its symbol until Jon glows with It, brown human Eyes wide as he tries to take in every detail of Its Temple. This is good.

It Knows that the great undistinguished mass of Its servants, those beneath Its notice but for how they fear and fuel and feed and live and die in devotion, wait eagerly in the space constructed to glorify It, desperate for a glimpse of Jon’s transformative essence. Each of them would tear out the heart of their humanity and hand it to Jon, warm and beating, if it meant he would be safe, be Watched, be pleased. This is good.

It Knows that when Its servant-who-fears-death leads Jon into the basin of Its chapel and sets him in the seat that is more stool that throne only because the low back leaves him unobscured, Seen from every angle by mortal Eyes as well as Its own, he will click a thin golden bracelet around Jon’s wrist, indistinguishable from his other adornments but for the chain that links it to the seat, the bolts that hold the seat in place, the small key kept in the breast pocket of Its servant-who-fears-death. If Jon is left unsecured, he might take flight from Its Temple, vanish into the crowd of humanity; Its Eyes would follow him, will always follow him now that It has found him, but It would not be able to draw him back, to See into the depths of him, to keep him from the grasp of Its Siblings, until one of Its servants followed. It did not Know this until it was made clear in crystalline fear from Its servant-who-fears-death, Its Archivist, and Its servant-who-was-found. This is not good.

Jon does not Belong to It. The Ceaseless Watcher has chosen him, but he has not Chosen It back. Its servant-who-fears-death has not forced the decision, fearful that the Choice may be reversed in the same manner found by Its former-servant-who-was-lost. Jon slipping away to End outside Its Sight is a concept Its entire being rejects, shuddering the walls of Its servant-who-fears-death’s office when he dared to think it. It has ever been selfish, impatient, but Jon must be brought into the fold irreversibly, must Choose It so utterly that no mortal means could slip Its hold.

It frets over the measures taken in the interim, the bracelet and the locked door and the windowless room. It Loves Jon, and so Jon must be meant to See and learn as much as possible. It wants to present all of Its accumulated Knowledge, the tangible form of It inside Its Temple, and to make him Know that it is all His as much as it belongs to It, because he Belongs to It. When Its servant met him, Jon’s Eyes had been bright and happy with the thought of Knowledge; since he has come to Its Temple, he has been low and dour, untempted by most of Its servants' offerings of Knowledge, in outright denial of others. It blames Its Sister, Her Mark on Jon (seethes that any of Its Siblings had dared to touch him before It found him). It is certain that the reason Jon rejected Its servant-who-was-found’s explanations so violently can be traced back to that encounter (its details still tantalizingly mysterious), that Jon’s mortal mind is unable to See that Belonging to It and being on the puppet strings of Its Sister are different.

Until he Belongs to It, It cannot make him See how much he is Loved. It can only press the Fear of It into his back, the hairs of his arms. It Loves all of Jon’s moods, but It longs for the smiling curiosity of when they first met and cannot accomplish that through fear alone. Surrounded by Its emblem and servants, Jon is acutely aware of being Seen, but not of being Loved.

Its servant-who-fears-death speaks to Its followers as they gaze rapturously on Jon, securing their loyalty through words as well as their connection to It. It Knows Jon feels uncomfortable at the center of so much attention- attention he must learn to appreciate, attention It intends to heap upon him every single day until It fades away alongside the Universe and Ends- and the flattering words of Its servant-who-fears-death. He dislikes the seat, longing to curl into himself and pulling his back straight under the scrutiny. The seat is comfortable, designed to be so, and It prompts Its servant-who-fears-death. Without pausing his speech, the Knowledge that the seat is comfortable, and he may use it however he pleases, is pushed into Jon’s mind as gently as possible. Jon bites his lip, wavers, and lays down on his side, head on one armrest and legs curled up onto the seat. He flinches when the crowd murmurs and sighs at the indication of the object of their adoration’s comfort with them Watching, but only wraps his arms around himself and continues staring back.

Chapter Text

There is no dome on the outside of the Magnus Institute. It’s all Jon can think about, his mind veering away from being touched and chained and stared at and praised to focus on the enormous work of stained glass glaring down at him. There is no dome on the outside of the Magnus Institute, but one colored and crafted to look like an enormous eye directs weak sunlight into every corner of the- chapel? auditorium? He doesn’t know.

He never took more than a passing interest in the Institute, but he’s seen enough pictures to know that it does not have a dome; he’s fairly certain that it doesn’t have a courtyard either. No room for it in the slim, angular facade dwarfed between larger buildings. One inconsistency could be a mistake on his part, but two- it doesn’t make sense.

The easy explanation is that they lied to him; they are not in the Magnus Institute, London. Whether they’re holding him in some kind of satellite Institute (only he would know if they had one of those, it would have come up when he had looked into them back in his real life, wouldn't it?) or somewhere else entirely, he has no idea.

They keep telling him they aren’t lying, but they obviously are. They’ve been stalking him, found out about Mr. Spider from some childhood acquaintance who still remembered the panic attacks and night terrors that had so efficiently ostracized him even more than he already had been, and they constructed the rest of their story around that and their own deranged beliefs.

It makes sense. The internal logic is all more or less consistent.

He doesn’t think he believes it any more.

There’s something almost tangible about being set in the center of the Eye’s chapel, the feeling of being Watched bearing down on him like a heavy blanket. There’s something else there, just as something else guided his hand to knock on Mr. Spider's door.

He doesn’t like it, and he doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t like the impulse that convinced him to lie down on his little stool instead of staying straight-backed and still and hoping that would be enough to divert any amount of attention away from him, like a mouse freezing to evade a predator’s notice. He doesn’t usually follow through on those thoughts, but he did this time. He isn’t sure why.

He doesn’t like the way resting his head on the plush armrest and pulling his feet onto the seat makes him feel like a small child, waiting for its parents to grow bored of a party gone on too long. He especially doesn’t like the way doing so has changed the tenor of the crowd; where before they were just excited, now a significant proportion seems to be cooing over him, like he’s a cute cat on the internet instead of a human person they’re holding prisoner.

He knows they can see the chain holding him to the stool, knows they all saw Dr. Bouchard put it on him. It jingles along with the bracelets heaped onto his wrists when he moves, and the chain is stark where it lies against the green of the jacket-thing they forced him into. They know he doesn’t want to be here.

Between that and the finery, the washing and the painting his eyes and the slow perfectionism as they’d gotten him ready, he’s still not convinced he’s not about to be thrown into a volcano. Maybe they’ve concocted a narrative where he has to die to be united with their god, his so-called true love, Jon’s feelings on the matter and Britain's general lack of volcanoes be damned.

He tries to block everything out and pretend he’s somewhere else. The chapel looks a lot like a theater in the round; he’s never really been a performer, but he likes going to shows, and he likes the idea of it- just not the reality of the time and effort and attention. If this were a play, his prince charming should be due any minute. Maybe Georgie, his sudden absence shocking her into the realization that she really does love him and she’d do anything, brave any peril, to be with him.

Georgie’s better off without him- or, maybe not without him like she is now, with him practically vanished off the face of the earth. But they’re both better off as friends, he’s over the break up. He just... doesn’t exactly have an expansive stable of other imaginary rescuers. And he misses Georgie. Without him there to split the rent, she won’t be able to afford getting a cat like they’d planned; she probably misses him as well.

He’s distracted enough that he startles when Dr. Bouchard kneels in front of him. Jon is trying to bring his heart rate down to anything approaching reasonable, heart still in his throat, and Dr. Bouchard is smiling. He takes Jon’s hand, the chained one, and gently removes the shackle with a tiny golden key. He doesn’t let go of the hand, using it to pull Jon upright and to his feet. The room is emptying rapidly, but he doesn’t know where they’re going. Maybe he would if he’d been paying attention. He clenches his teeth and doesn’t ask.

Dr. Bouchard must take him through a back corridor, leading him by the hand all the while, because although their journey is solitary everyone else seems to end up at the same destination. It’s as vaguely, dissonantly posh as the rest of the Institute, but looking past the wood paneling and the real tile instead of linoleum, he’s pretty sure it’s some sort of cafeteria that’s been decorated for- he supposes he’s the occasion? He’s being shared, or introduced. Or sacrificed to a volcano.

All of the tables are heavy-laden with food, absurd quantities of it even for a group this large, with more that seem solely intended to hold additional dishes without seating anyone. People mostly seem to be milling around, chatting and gesturing excitedly (pointing at him), few seated yet. They are all, of course, looking at him.

He pulls unconsciously at Dr. Bouchard’s hold on his wrist when he spots Gerard. He freezes almost immediately, but he knows it was noticed; he again feels demeaningly like a child trying to sneak away from a parent, or a preteen excited to find a friend in the lunchroom. He just- he didn’t see Gerard, before, he didn’t wanted to crane his neck to see the people behind him and Gerard wasn’t in front of him, and now he’s here, and Gerard’s the only person who’s been actually nice to him, a little. Not nice as a cover or immediate apology for something awful they’re doing to him at the same time.

He goes reluctantly when Dr. Bouchard pulls him back in, but the older man just grasps him by the shoulders and smiles, sharp at the corners. “It’s your party. Have fun.” He spins Jon back around and gives him a light push in the direction he had been headed, looking on like a proud parent. Jon shudders, but once he gets his feet under him makes his way toward Gerard as quickly as possible without running.

He wants to disappear into the crowd, to have a moment to himself, but he can’t. Consequently, when he slides onto a bench and presses himself into Gerard’s side, it’s both abrupt and more forceful than he’d intended. Gerard startles, and Jon draws back guiltily, a little afraid of his reaction. He stares at his lap, clenches his fists in the gleaming fabric there. “Sorry.”

“Jon!” He can feel Gerard staring at him, and he shrinks into himself even more. He’s trembling with pent up tension and hours of forcing himself to hold as still as possible, the energy released in his sprint to Gerard’s side not willing to be bottled up again. He thinks he hears someone hiss, and he wilts even more. Gerard swallows. “Hi! What are you doing here?”

Jon clenches his jaw and glares up at Gerard. He doesn’t have to rub it in. Maybe this was a mistake; he doesn’t want to lose that sliver of comfort, that illusion of safety. At least with Dr. Bouchard’s smugness he knows what to expect. “You won’t let me leave.”

Gerard’s teeth click as his mouth snaps shut. “No, I mean- isn’t there someone else you’d rather sit with?”

Oh. “Oh. I can-”

“Not that I don’t want you here!” Gerard interrupts. Oh! “It’s just- you know.”

He doesn’t know, really, but he has an idea. He hates how his voice comes out closer to a shy whisper than anything- he shouldn’t care what Gerard thinks, these people are kidnappers, he needs to escape!- but he persists. “I want to sit with you.”

“Oh. Um, here.” Gerard pushes at his side, and when Jon looks up he realizes that, now that he seems set on his seating choice, an unnerving number of people seem to be headed their way. He follows Gerard’s nudging until he’s at the very end of the bench, Gerard to one side and empty space to the other.

“Thank you.” This was the right decision. He wouldn’t have thought of this, would have suffered through whatever small talk and- and touching his other seatmate chose to inflict. And Gerard fixed it before Jon even realized there was a problem.

“Sure.” Gerard seems a bit surprised when Jon leans into his side more- he may be a kidnapper, but Jon’s rapidly reassessing just how upsetting that is in face of the current onslaught of people who are also aiding in his captivity but haven’t been careful not to touch him unexpectedly or taken him outside or laughed bitterly over lost childhoods with him. The rest of their table is filling rapidly- he’s pretty sure he saw at least a few punches being thrown, and parts of the crowd are near stampede- and Gerard feels like a pillar of safety and virtue right now. Gerard puts an arm around him and Jon practically collapses into him. Maybe Gerard’s jacket will hide part of Jon, and he’ll feel less out of place. Everyone is dressed nicely, but in a normal way. Except for Jon- and actually, now that he’s looking at him, Gerard, who is wearing the same jeans/t-shirt/trenchcoat/boots ensemble he’s been wearing every other time Jon’s seen him.

Gerard’s arm tightens as someone nearly collides with Jon’s unoccupied side. He swallows. “Why?”

Jon glances up at him, confused. “Why what?”

Gerard averts his eyes, and it occurs to Jon that he might also be nervous. Sitting next to Jon means he’s the focus of nearly as much attention. “Why not sit with- anyone else?”

“You’re my only friend here.” The words come out automatically- he’s said the same thing a million times, every time he’s called desperately upon his sole acquaintance in a class for a group project or awkwardly tagged along behind Georgie at a party. They aren’t accurate, not really, but... he thinks they could be friends, in other circumstances. Without the kidnapping.

He glances toward Gerard’s face again, seeking his reaction, and his stomach sinks to see that he’s blushing . He’s terrified for a long moment that the Gerard he could be friends with is going to disappear, replaced by the same impersonal, overpowering fascination as everyone else, but then Gerard looks down, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket, and clears his throat. “ I, I always thought I’d like my friends to call me Gerry.” If I had any hangs unspoken, and Jon feels an even deeper kinship, the sort that can only exist between two adults who used to be lonely children.

“Can I…?”

Gerry nods jerkily and Jon can’t help but grin, the rare elation of actually making a friend powerful regardless of circumstance. He wriggles even closer to Gerry- he’s practically inside the other man’s coat by now- and hides his smile in his black tee. It’s not a smile for the onlookers, it’s his.

“Comfortable?” Any happiness Jon feels is rapidly quashed by Dr. Bouchard appearing over his shoulder once again. He smiles congenially (always smiles, smiles, smiles) at Jon.

He’s pretty sure he knows what’s coming, but he nods anyway, like the entire interaction is inevitable. It feels that way, at least, like a line of dominoes clacking to the ground. The smile widens. “Excellent. You’ll make sure he’s taken care of, won’t you, Gerard?”

Jon can feel Gerry nodding, but he squeezes his eyes shut. Then he opens them, unwilling to let whatever’s coming be a surprise. Dr. Bouchard’s smile is tinged with mocking sympathy as he bends down to fasten one end of a long golden chain (do they think that making them pretty changes the fact that they're chains? Makes it any better to be tied up?) to the cross bar of the bench (long, heavy even without people on it, utterly immovable) and clicks the other shut around Jon’s ankle. He squeezes Jon’s shoulder amiably before vanishing back into the crowd.

Jon clenches his teeth against the feeling of tears welling in his eyes. He hadn’t even been thinking of trying to run! He would have stayed here all night if he’d been left well enough alone!

Embarrassment curdles in his chest. For all he knows that he’s the victim, that all of this is wrong , it feels acutely humiliating to be tied up like a dog in front of all those watching eyes, not trusted on his own for more than five minutes. Of course this was coming. He should have expected it.

They want this to be the rest of his life.

“Hey,” Gerry rubs his arm. “There’s lots of food! What do you want to try?”

Jon shrugs; if he opens his mouth he’ll start crying. If he starts crying, he won’t be able to hide it; his face is caked in makeup, especially his eyes. He doesn’t know what they’ll do if they catch him crying.

He catches a glimpse of Gerry’s concerned expression before fixing his gaze on his lap. He hates this kind of dining setup even under normal conditions, never knows when it’s acceptable to start serving himself or how much to take, but usually he at least has the reassurance that if he screws up, it’s unlikely anyone will notice or care.

“What do you want to drink, then?” That’s- Sasha. He didn’t notice her taking the seat across from Gerry. Looking around as covertly as possible, Michael is across from them as well; he supposes that’s for the best- he won’t have to try to fumble his way through the awkwardness of asking for introductions. Everyone already knows his name. “There’s wine, water-”

“Water,” he says, even though she seems set to keep listing things. Based on what everyone else seems to have, the majority of options are alcoholic; getting drunk is the last thing he needs. Sasha beams despite his rudeness, and reaches over her neighbor to grab a pitcher, standing up so that she can lean over the table and fill Jon's glass. “Thank you.”

She blushes at the courtesy.

Sasha and Gerry quickly take over filling his plate- everyone else seems to be having difficulty finding their words, even Michael. He just nods or shakes his head as they offer him each dish, hands clenched in his lap. Tries to ignore the people shooting the other two dirty looks in between staring at him. He can hear people at other tables commenting on his choices, though his own tablemates, at least, are quiet.

He takes a roll off his plate when it seems the others are about to start coaxing him to actually eat. He can hold a roll in his lap and nibble at it a crumb at a time for a long time, and it’s unlikely to worsen his nervous nausea.

“So, Jon,” Michael starts as everyone starts to settle into the mostly-silent rhythm of eating. Jon braces himself to have to come up with a response to whatever he asks; Michael demonstrated earlier that he can rattle off small talk topics apparently infinitely, no matter how awkward the circumstance, until one elicits a response. “Er…”

A glance confirms that Michael is blushing, the cumulative attention of the room apparently more unnerving than bathing Jon against his will had been. He almost feels bad for Michael; at least Jon’s not the only one who finds the staring uncomfortable.

“Michael.” He keeps his voice quiet, but everyone hushes to hear; he can’t help but want to come to the other man’s rescue. “H-how did you- how did you start working with Dr. Bouchard?” Maybe he can even pick up some useful information.

Michael’s brow furrows. “Dr….”

Gerry snorts. “He still thinks Jonah’s lying.” Sasha catches Jon’s eye and nods understandingly. He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that not everyone here buys completely into the absurdity.

Michael’s expression lights up almost comically. “Oh! He’s not!” Jon scrunches his nose- he didn’t want to start this argument again, when it’s such a blatant falsehood, but Michael barrels on. “I mean- you wanted, I guess, to know how long I’ve been here? Which is always, I grew up here! With the Institute, I mean.”

“Oh.” As much as he doesn’t want to consider the implications of that, Jon can’t help looking around the room- he hadn’t noticed (hadn’t wanted to notice) earlier, but there are, definitely, children present, sitting on parents’ laps and refusing vegetables and occasionally jumping up to carefully deliver a refilled water pitcher or uncorked wine bottle to their tables from a back room.

Michael barrels on, seemingly unaware of Jon’s disquiet. “Anyway, I know Jonah’s not lying- I was a kid, but I was around when he moved hosts!”

It takes Jon a moment to process Michael’s direction. “H-hosts?” He suspects he doesn’t want to know, but he can’t help but ask.

Michael nods, caught up in the story to the point that he’s no longer self-conscious of his audience. “I was- I don’t know, ten? We had a party beforehand- like this, only not quite as fancy, I think. For Elias- it was a big honor for Jonah to choose him, you know.

“And then we all went- not to the regular chapel, there’s one that only gets used for things like that, I don’t know if you would have seen it,” he darts glances at Gerry and Sasha, who both shrug, “but it’s got a big stone altar thing. And Elias laid down on it, and they made sure he couldn’t move and get hurt during- there was chanting and such, too, I just don’t remember all that as well. I don’t think I’ve ever felt the Watcher so present- I mean, barring just recently.” He smiles at Jon.

Jon doesn’t smile back. He’s finished his roll without realizing, so he starts picking at his plate so that Michael will continue his story instead of being distracted by whether Jon’s eating. “Then what?”

“Jonah- I don’t remember his last host’s name, I was just a kid- stood over the altar and… I don’t remember what it was he used, actually. But first he took out Elias’ eyes- they used to be green, not gray, I think there are still pictures somewhere, I can find them for you!- the whole thing, I remember the optic nerves dangling down. And Elias screamed- pain medication or knocking him out might have ruined the ritual. I don’t think it would work without the fear.

“Then Jonah took out his own eyes- I asked my mum why someone couldn’t help him with that part, it seemed difficult to do blind, although, I guess, he was looking through all the symbols, and our eyes, so he wasn’t blind, really- and he put them in Elias’ sockets. The exact moment he finished placing the second eye, his old body just dropped, completely crumpled to the ground!” Michael seems to remember they’re supposed to be eating, and smiles sheepishly.

It sounds outrageous. It should be another obvious lie, but- Jon believes him, he thinks. He’ll definitely believe him if Michael can produce those pictures of Dr. Bouchard- Elias?- with different eyes. “What happened to Elias?”

Michael grimaces, shrugs. “I… never thought about it? I know the old host’s body was cremated, and if he was gone Elias must be, too. But I don’t know what happened to his eyes.”

“I do.” Gerry sighs, but preens a little when Jon’s gaze snaps to him. “Jonah has a jar in his office. All his hosts’ eyes. I assume Elias’ are in there as well.”

“Why?” Sasha looks disgusted, but also just as intrigued as Jon.

Gerry rolls his eyes. “Because he’s weird. Even considering.”

Jon startles himself when he starts giggling. It’s just- it’s all so surreal, and he’s been keeping so much bottled up, and realizing he isn’t the only one who finds Dr. Bouchard- Jonah?- strange and melodramatic is such a surprise. It really isn’t the sort of thing they should laugh at, but the other three exchange guilty glances and join in, all four of them egging each other on like children every time their eyes meet into louder and louder gales of laughter.

-

The meal goes on for a very long time. It’s somewhat more bearable restricting his focus to the three he sort of knows, but Jon can still feel himself lagging by the time he finishes a dessert he feels a bit tricked into eating, Michael and Gerry starting a heated debate about the superiority of chocolate cake versus tiramisu, which they demand Jon settle after ruling Sasha out as a biased judge; evidently she doesn’t care for chocolate. He’d like to go back to his room, but.

But there’s still a chain around his ankle. He can’t go anywhere without permission. As much as he tries to focus on how bantering with Sasha almost reminds him of Georgie, on how Gerry never removes the protective arm around his shoulders, on Michael’s increasingly outlandish anecdotes about growing up in the Institute, he can’t dismiss that knowledge, or the persistent feeling of every person in the room watching him.

As he tires, it’s easy to lean into Gerry. With his eyelids heavy and his brain muddled by a heavy meal, it’s easy to rationalize sliding further down, until his head rests in Gerry’s lap. It’s harder for people to see him anyway, half underneath the table. He barely even notices himself falling asleep.

Chapter Text

Gertrude viciously crushes down the scrap of Beholding inside her that softens at the sight of Jon slipping asleep in Gerard’s lap, sweet and vulnerable. She made her choice when she Saw for herself that Jon was no passing fancy of Jonah’s, that their entire order would reshape itself to fit around him within days; for that status quo to be established and preserved, someone needs to maintain perspective. Jonah, for all he lauds his own patience and ability to shape situations to his advantage over the course of decades, has never been good at seeing the big picture in the short term. If they want to keep all of Jonathan’s care and captivity in-house, she is the only choice. Asking their allies for help would be unacceptable; China would try to leverage their longer history and greater facilities to remove Jon from the country entirely, and the Americans are by and large fools.

The sliver of Desolation that curls around her heart, that whispers that Jonathan is oh, so loved- and what would happen if that love were snuffed out, if it burned?- doesn’t merit even the attention to crush it. She has long practice at extinguishing such impulses.

From her position of deliberate objectivity, it’s difficult to see what drew the Watcher to Jonathan, out of all the billions who must have passed before Its gaze in the past. He has a bit more curiosity than average, a bit more fear, a bit more experience with the Entities (and oh, that Web Mark goes deep, she wants desperately to draw out the Statement behind it- but she can’t, certainly not before Jon is properly Bound to the Eye. Seeing him reliving his trauma in her dreams would be certain to break her of her forced distance), but he’s an altogether normal sort of man. Her own eye may be drawn to retrace the lines of his face, his body, over and over, but in the general sense he isn’t particularly attractive, nor unattractive.

The most remarkable thing he’s done of his own accord is draw Gerard out of his shell- she doesn’t know what to make of the man, who to this point has occupied a position somewhere between prodigal son and black sheep, possibly integrating more neatly due to Jonathan’s interest. The more human part of her, the part that was friends with Eric Delano, warned him away from Mary and mourned his leaving, is pleased to see his son happy. But the Archivist, who Watches over their order and steps in to maintain equilibrium whenever Jonah is too lax or absent-minded, begrudges the loss of a useful tool, a living demonstration of the dangers of the outside world. Several of their young people are in possession of a depth of curiosity that is both a credit to their Patron and a potential concern; with Gerard no longer treated as damaged goods and Jonathan’s determination to escape, that danger will grow.

Fortunately for her, Jonathan’s attention leading to more positive interactions with his peers than Gerard’s experienced in years leaves him primed for the favor she wants to ask. By rights, Jonah ought to at least be present, but the ridiculous man is still pouting over Jonathan’s attention being directed elsewhere; he was the one who took such pains to ensure the burgeoning friendship will persist, and Gertrude has no intention of entertaining his whining. He didn't have to let Jonathan forsake the high table.

She waits to strike until Jonathan has been carried from the mess hall, adornments carefully removed and makeup daubed off his face before Jonah and Gerard rouse him just enough to help him out of his clothes and tuck him into bed. As soon as they finish locking up, she seizes Gerard by the elbow and dismisses Jonah with a glare. He’ll be Watching anyway.

“Accompany me to my office, will you Gerard?”

Gerard blinks and gulps, trying to banish the soft, pleased expression from his face. “Er, yes ma’am?”

The Archivist’s office is at the bottom of the Institute, bordered by the Archives on one side and her rooms on the other, one of the only places where passage between the public and secret parts of the Institute is possible. The long walk down is silent aside from the occasional passing partygoer making their way to bed or late night work, Gerard’s confusion so thick in the air she can nearly taste it.

Gertrude takes the seat behind her desk the moment they arrive in her office, but Gerard hovers, unsure whether to pull the other chair from against the wall or remain standing.

She sighs. “Sit.”

Even sitting, Gerard’s nervous energy is nearly palpable, and he shifts awkwardly in the chair, managing to make it look like it’s sized for a child rather than perfectly adequate for his lanky form. Gertrude pulls a sheaf of notes from the second drawer of her desk. “I assume you are aware that your mother and I were acquaintances?”

Gerard looks alarmed at the line of inquiry, the mention of Mary erasing the last traces of his earlier contentment. “I guess?”

“Hm. On several occasions before you came to us, she mentioned to me that her son was rather skilled at creating images endowed with an element of the Powers.” Gertrude isn’t sure how trustworthy Mary’s descriptions are. She always enjoyed embroidering tales of Gerard’s accomplishments when they met, rubbing in the sting of Eric’s betrayal and her ownership of a child that should be growing up within their walls; Gerard certainly hasn’t shown himself to be much of an artist in the past decade.

He doesn’t bother to hide the perplexity in his voice and expression. “Yeah? I guess. I was a kid, I liked drawing and didn’t exactly have many other subjects.”

Gertrude nods- she’ll have to examine his work before they can use it, of course, but at least Mary wasn’t lying outright. “Jonathan may have been officially introduced tonight, but I’m sure you’re aware that he isn’t properly tied to the Eye.”

Gerard blinks. “Sorry.”

Gertrude waves a dismissive hand. “We could have had a Signing at any time, but it seems suited to find something more… lasting.” Gerard nods, though it’s clear on his face he doesn’t know where this is going. “I’d like your help designing that method. Keeping Jonathan safe and with us.”

She’s chosen her moment carefully. Ideally, tonight will have dismissed Gerard’s surlier, rebellious impulses, and balanced any feeling that upsetting Jon (and he will be upset in the beginning, even moreso than now) would betray their blossoming friendship with the idea that he might, finally, be developing proper ties here. She’s certain that, should Jonathan convince him, Gerard would be wholly capable of taking the other young man on the run, keeping him out of their grasp. Putting him in danger. As the sole devotee able to feed It new information on Jon, Beholding might not even allow the long-term effects of leaving the Institute to wear on him. She’d much rather have him on her side.

“I… sure. What exactly did you have in mind?”

Gertrude smiles.

Chapter Text

“The prodigal daughter deigns to grace us with her presence once again!”

Sasha elbows Tim as she slides onto the bench beside him. The mess has mostly returned to it’s normal state, though they’ll be working through leftovers for the next several days. “It isn’t my fault you’re slow.”

Though it was her fault that her friends didn’t know the suspicion that allowed her to guess where Jon might gravitate to, that he would try to avoid the high table and actually likes Gerard. If she’d told it would have spread, and she would have lost her advantage- until last night everyone assumed that Gerard is allowed to interact with Jon purely because he was there when they found him, and is more familiar with the outside world than most.

“What was he like?” Danny cuts in before they can really get into their bickering, kicking at their ankles under the table.

Sasha takes a big bite of her breakfast, pulling cross-eyed faces at Danny as she chews. When she finally swallows, she says, “Like you haven’t heard.” Almost everything they said was whispered across the hall as soon as they spoke; the outline of the conversation, at the very least, is already common knowledge. It was odd, being at the center of so much attention, more than she’d attracted since she was very, very new.

Tim sighs explosively. “Maybe we just want to hear it with that special James touch.”

Sasha snorts, eyeing the table around them. They’re early risers, and the mess is still mostly empty, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t sharp-eared eavesdroppers. She thinks she’s prevaricated long enough; she doesn’t want to gain a reputation as a braggart, but she does want to discuss every moment of last night with her friends in as much detail as possible. “What do you even want to know?”

“You said when you spoke with him before he talked about Oxford,” Danny says.

He’s made her go over Jon’s every remark about the university at least a dozen times already; she’s been expecting this line of questioning. “He asked more questions than he answered.”

“About?” Tim looks dangerously close to pouring his water over her head in frustration.

She answers the nearly identical glares aimed at her with a grin, giving up the game. “He mainly wanted to know what it was like growing up here. School, things like that. How it’s different to outside.”

“Lucky he had you, then,” Tim says, knocking their knees together. Sasha privately agrees; there aren’t many others in the Institute who joined at the right age to have cogent memories of both outside and Institute schooling.

“Everyone’s lucky to have me. Anyway, he shared a bit about his schooling, but not a lot. Sorry, Danny.” She shoots him a look; Danny’s always been more interested in the outside world than he should be, and he’s been taking Jon’s arrival as an excuse to ask more questions. For now they can joke about it, but she doesn’t want him to pry too far and get in trouble.

He takes the hint, shaking his head sadly. “Guess I’ll just have to ask him myself.”

“You wish.” Danny jolts and glares at the kick Tim accompanies his comment with, but they both note the odd look in his eye. Sasha doesn’t let her worry show on her face- Danny’s ideas only sometimes end well, and she doesn’t know what this one might be.

-

Breakfast can’t last forever, and when they eventually start to attract a crowd they clear up their plates and leave for their respective work, Tim and Sasha to Research and Danny still drifting around looking for something that suits him- she thinks he’s in with the kids at the moment, but she might be wrong, and he’s back in the Library.

She and Tim go along in companionable silence until they have to separate- Sasha’s been promoted to the upper floor of Research, while Tim’s still stuck on the lower. Privately, she thinks Tim would be much better at the kind of research they do in the public Research department, with all the calling people up and convincing them to corroborate or refute statements.

The upper Research office has big windows that let them look out over London, a perfect vantage point to see what happens in the cramped alleyways and behind carelessly-open blinds- and to let the sunlight in, when there is any. If anything’s ever caused Sasha to regret her family signing on with the Institute, it’s sunlight; it’s become much rarer in her life since moving into the enclosed hallways and permanently-dreary courtyards of the Magnus Institute.

It isn’t sunny today, but she dismisses the momentary disappointment and sets to work- nearly everyone is groggy and/or hungover from last night, and hopefully getting straight to work will make her stand out again. She’s working on the project that got her promoted- a system of hacked shop cameras that lets her identify chronic shoplifters. Once she has a target, she finds their banking details and sets to removing exactly the price of the stolen items in individual transactions.

She’s already gotten a man to have a nervous breakdown, smashing in the camera on a self-checkout register and shouting about being spied on after he matched the twenty or so unknown transactions on his bank statement to the sticker prices of his lifted items two months running. She got her promotion after he was released from hospital and came straight to the Institute to give Gertrude a statement about the cameras watching him. Sasha was pleased to learn it was a genuine Statement- her connection to Beholding is small enough that there’s nothing more than human determination behind her research, and she assumed the paranoia she was instilling wouldn’t register to her Patron or her victims as properly supernatural.

She’s also very pleased that she’s able to funnel the money into a separate account, rather than one of the Institute’s. Her supervisor had called it a reward for her ingenuity- a reward that feels even better now that Jon’s here. His arrival completely upturned the stable ecosystem of favors and commodities that exists between the handful of people allowed outside and the rest of them, increasing demand for outside treasures tenfold. It's only a matter of time before either the Institute’s internal economy topples entirely or Jonah or Gertrude decides that it's time to stop pointedly ignoring the black market and shut it down. With her private account, Sasha can bypass the whole mess and order things delivered straight to the Institute; Rosie knows what aliases she likes to use and always makes sure her purchases get to her.

As Sasha starts clicking through potential new targets (and cat-themed knickknacks Jon might like- she’s successfully bullied Michael into keeping that new fact a secret for now, but who knows how long he’ll hold out), she quietly thinks that her life might be better than it's ever been.

Chapter Text

Danny has been thinking about doing this… since Jon got here, honestly, but especially since Sasha met him. She said he was nice. He didn’t mind answering questions, even about the boring parts of university. He didn’t hold himself apart like Jonah and Gertrude; he talked with her as though he was entirely unaware of his own importance! And now the dropbox makes it possible.

He’s been keeping this idea in the most secret parts of his own mind- it makes him blush to even think about it, and he wrote and rewrote his little introduction a million times. Sasha and Tim know he's up to something, because the smell of smoke has been lingering in his clothes from burning his rejected drafts.

He almost can’t believe he’s really doing it, but-

If Jon will talk to him, he needs to know. Sasha hardly ever talks about life before the Institute, not since they were kids (and if knowing about what it’s like Outside is part of why Danny befriended her alongside Tim, well- no one but him needs to know that, and hopefully they never will).

Everyone who’s allowed to make trips Outside got the privilege because they can be trusted to be discreet. And Danny understands, he does! The outside world is dangerous. One look at Gerard could tell anyone as much. But life is dangerous, and no matter how he tries, he can’t make himself see how knowing more could be a bad thing. Knowledge, even- especially- of the deep and dark and dangerous, is the point, isn’t it? He was allowed to help out in Artefact Storage when he was a teenager, why can’t he know more- not even go out, just know!- about the Outside world as an adult?

He waited until everyone would be busy elsewhere- usually the best time for getting into places he isn’t supposed to or doing things he doesn’t want to be noticed (they will be Seen, of course, but going unnoticed is almost as good. Like the cut that doesn't ache until you see the blood) is just after dinner, when everyone disperses to finish the tasks of the evening or pursue personal projects, but being the longest expanse of unstructured time for everyone has them congregating around Jon’s door. This is less like trying to sneak into Artefact Storage when he was eight and more like trying to rig a prank on the tables in the mess- a scheme they eventually abandoned, because there are always people in the mess.

The best solution he could come up with was to sneak out of the barracks after lights out. It’s not rare thing to do (the barracks aren’t exactly friendly to romance, especially when there might be disapproving parents or partners involved), but it is uncommon enough that he hopes anyone doing the same is motivated by something other than Jon. Anyway, Jon isn’t bound by the same rules as the rest of them- he can stay up as late as he likes, same as Jonah or Gertrude, so hopefully, if Danny times things right, Jon will still be awake and the corridor outside his room will be deserted.

Unfortunately, Danny has never considered himself exceptionally lucky, and that bears out tonight. He should have brought Tim- would have, if Tim’s disapproval wasn’t half the reason for the secrecy in the first place. He presses himself against a wall, just close enough to hear the sounds of another person. It only sounds like one, which he supposes is a good thing, but they’re pacing the hall like they have no intention of leaving any time soon.

He creeps down the hall and carefully peers around the corner- it isn’t that difficult, with the number of decorative plants and sculptures and pieces of molding that tend to accumulate around the Institute’s corners to make spying easy, but he really doesn’t want word of what he’s trying to do to get around. He’s not sure what he thinks would happen, but he dreads it all the same.

Realizing exactly who his obstacle is makes him grind his teeth. Of course it’s Arun. Of course. He was bearable when Jon arrived, but since his introduction all Arun seems to do is write and rewrite and ask for feedback (which Danny hates giving- he doesn’t like poetry and he doesn’t like Arun, but he also doesn’t like upsetting people) on poems on every possible aspect of Jon’s being, his hair, his hands, his stride, and of course endless verses about his eyes. The impulse is understandable, but even Jon must be sick of it by now.

Despite having done this at least a dozen times before, Arun is pacing the corridor in the dark and muttering to himself. Danny has no idea what the poem giving him this much anxiety could possibly be about- thinks it might be better not to know- but he’s in the way . If he goes on much longer Jon will be in bed- he might be already. The door is too well-sealed to let any light seep out. Danny spent ages psyching himself up for this, only for it to be ruined by Arun psyching himself up. He wants to bang his head against the wall, but he wants to remain unnoticed more. He just stands there, unlit torch in one hand and pen and increasingly-crumpled paper in the other, getting increasingly frustrated. Maybe he’ll spit in Arun’s breakfast. Would it really be more immature than what Arun’s doing now, angsting over love notes?

Finally- finally!- Arun drops his poem in the box. Danny has just enough time to realize that he’s standing between Arun and the most direct route back to the barracks before the other man turns around and starts heading toward him. Danny ends up crammed under a table (thank Beholding it’s one with a cover that hangs down far enough to hide him) and holding his breath. Thankfully, Arun was never the most perceptive.

He waits under the table for a few minutes, just to be sure he’s alone. He lights his torch and examines his note one last time.

Jon-

I thought you might like to talk to someone besides the people you see every day. If you put your response in the dropbox and tap on the metal, I should be able to hear it. If you want to talk I’ll be here until-

He scrawls out his previous time estimate- he wants at least half an hour for Jon to decide whether to respond. He’ll probably decide within moments, but Danny’s always been an optimist. All staying later loses him is sleep.

Sasha said you told her about Oxford? Hoping for your response.

D. S.

He doesn’t think that signing with his initials will keep him from being identified, if someone wants to do so, but he’d never live it down if he didn’t at least attempt secrecy. After all, aside from being a bit embarrassing (he wanted so badly to sign with a heart, but Sasha had mentioned some things that made it seem like Jon wouldn’t like that, so he managed to repress his tweenage instincts. The note still seems a bit desperate-sounding, but maybe he is a bit desperate) he’s fairly sure that this isn’t allowed. And he doesn’t just mean breaking curfew (even if it’s mostly tolerated as long as you’re subtle about it).

Just before he opens the drop box to try his luck, he has a thought and scribbles an addition.

P. S. I’m not the same person who left you the poems.

The sound of the drop box seems cacophonous in the dark, deserted hallway, the sound of his folded sheet of paper hitting metal like thunder. Once the little door is closed, all Danny can do is slide down onto the floor and listen and wait.

He hears it sooner than he expects, and quiet as the sound of fingernail against metal is with a wall separating them is, it feels enormous. His heart rate kicks up as he opens the chute with bated breath- it could be Jon declining his offer, after all. Just because he answered doesn’t mean he’s interested.

D.S.-

I would like that. Using the chute is a clever idea. Was there something specific you wanted to know about Oxford?

-Jon

Danny’s heart leaps, and he pumps his fist. His victory cheer is more of a hiss, given the need for quiet, but even that can’t get him in too much trouble- he can feel the Eye sparking with excitement. He’s never felt his Patron so strongly, or in such a personal way before; it’s dizzying. If his God approves, everyone else will have to, too.

Chapter Text

Jon can’t help but feel a thrill of excitement every time his mystery correspondent appears. D.S. has started tapping on the outside, so Jon knows it’s him and not another poem.

He really wishes the poet, whoever they are, would stop- he has a stack of unread verse on his desk that gets taller by the day, and the bits he has read make him want to burst into flame. Reading about “midnight hair set with starlight/bright Eyes gazing upon his acolytes” is bad enough without knowing he’s the subject

He doesn’t dread the notes, though. They’re the first new thing- and therefore the best- to happen to him since what Jonah has been insistently referring to as his “debut.”

(It still feels strange, calling him Jonah, but he has to- Michael came through with the photos, painstakingly photocopied so that Jon can keep them for reference as long as he likes. They’re mostly a handful of group shots, and most of those are posed, Dr. Bouchard a small form barely distinguishable in the crowd, but they’re still clear enough to see his eyes, the odd shade of green, and he holds himself differently. If that weren’t enough, there’s the only photo where Dr. Bouchard is one of the primary subjects: He’s sitting on a flat slab of stone, ropes and chains visible in the background, green eyes staring directly into the camera. He looks calm and determined, and an elderly man with familiar gray eyes is standing next to him.)

(Jon dreams of those green eyes staring out at him from a jar of sharp-smelling alcohol. In the dream, they swivel around freely in the fluid, until someone behind him shoves the jar from his hands and it shatters. The dream ends when the person behind him grabs a shard of glass and drives it toward his face.)

He may not know his letter writer's name, or even their gender, but talking to them feels almost like progress. The late hour and obscured identity implies that they’re not supposed to be talking to Jon. If they’re willing to go against Jonah and Gertrude and the rest in one way, there’s nothing to say that they won’t in others as well.

He doesn’t voice that thought in his notes, just in case they are sanctioned and any implication that he’s planning to escape will be reported directly to his captors, but he can work toward that goal in other ways, talking to D.S.

He doesn’t quite dare to ask questions, but D.S. is eager to ramble on about any topic that Jon brings up in his answers to endless questions about Oxford, and then Bournemouth, and then what it’s like to see the sea, what it’s like to go to a shop, what it’s like to ride the Tube.

D.S. is shockingly naive, in many ways. Even beyond how basic some of their questions are, some of their fundamental assumptions about how the world works, some of the events they reference-

He assumed that Michael was, if not lying, exaggerating many of his stories at the dinner party, playing up the horror of his childhood after telling Jon about Jonah gained a more or less positive reaction. Michael decided that the horrific and macabre interested Jon, and so he emphasized or fabricated those elements in stories about a relatively normal childhood. He had to have- Jon hadn’t spent much time watching the children in the room, but they seemed normal enough. They didn’t seem... scarred, or frightened, or traumatized. Neither did any of the adults, the majority of whom, if Michael was to be believed, are lifelong cult members.

(Children can learn to hide those things very well, very quickly. By the time they’re adults, an outside observer might have no chance at guessing they had a dark past. Jon knows that far better than most.)

But D.S. confirms the kind of incidents Michael described without Jon even bringing it up. He just mentioned a few areas of Bournemouth he remembered being popular with couples, and D.S. responded with a description of the kinds of things that people here do to get a bit of privacy while they're dating, and the “girlfriend” their brother had when he was about 8 who “got lost in Artefact Storage.”

When Jon joked that a little girl getting lost was precisely why academic institutions didn’t generally allow children into the depths of their facilities- after all, how large could Artefact Storage be, and how long could it take to locate a single child?- D.S. had responded that, “It was Artefact Storage. They didn’t find her.”

Jon had asked one of his rare questions then, “What do you mean they didn’t find her?” His hand shook as he wrote. He, of all people, should have known better than to ask, should have known that the supernatural didn’t exempt children, but D.S.’s listing of other times people had been lost to artifacts had him concluding that it might have been better for the girl’s poor parents that there wasn’t any physical trace of her left- and that in his next escape attempt he would be avoiding Artefact Storage like the plague that evidently whittled D.S.’s childhood science teacher down to semi-liquid bone.

The notes aren’t so horrific, for the most part. It’s nice to talk to someone about the things he misses without them telling him that they don’t matter because he belongs here, without them trying to convince him to give in and be content with his lot. They both avoid too much personal detail, but sometimes Jon almost thinks that D.S. wants to leave nearly as much as he does. He catches himself thinking of them as a friend.

-

Are you insane

No , things like that don’t happen at Oxford. Or anywhere else. That’s awful.

Jon

-

Are you insane

They must happen, the Entities are everywhere. Ignoring them doesn’t mean you’re safe, it just means you’re ignorant!

D.S.

-

Regular people don’t talk about the supernatural. People who have had a genuine experience keep it to themselves, or they find a group of other people who believe them, but they aren’t mainstream. It’s not exactly a respected field of study.

I’m sure supernatural events do occur at universities, like anywhere else, but they aren’t reported as such, and they aren’t common. If people regularly vanished or died as part of a university’s operation they’d be shut down.

You don’t go into Artefact Storage, do you?

Jon

-

I’ve worked there, sometimes. It’s not so dangerous if you know what you’re doing. People who are supposed to be there don’t die- or disappear- very often. We do have safety guidelines, and things like an emergency shower for if someone accidentally activates a Desolation artifact or something. People get hurt and Marked, of course

Problems only really happen when people are messing around, or someone who isn’t supposed to be there wanders in!

Everyone knows you have a Mark, though. Where did you run into the Entities, if it wasn’t at university?

D.S.

-

Bournemouth. No one believed me at the time, because I was a child it sounded absurd, and I didn’t meet a single other person with an authentic encounter before all this.

For most of the world, the paranormal is vanishingly rare. Most of the world is safe.

Jon

-

What does that even mean, "safe"? Safe how?

Is it really?

Do you miss it?

D.S.

-

Of course it is, and of course I

Is that your way of asking if I'm planning something

No, it's wonderful here

Yes, and I don't know, I

I wouldn't

I'm not

Yes.

Jon

Chapter Text

Danny has never been close to his Patron. Most of them aren’t, content to act as the replaceable pawns in the Eye’s workings, supporting the chosen few who are blessed with more than the needling, Watching fear in the back of their minds. There are a few who show more of an affinity, people like Sasha who might someday be elevated to the status of a proper Avatar, but most of them are linked tangentially enough that an Avatar of another Power might not even notice them. He figures most of the Cult hadn’t ever really felt Beholding, outside of ceremonies and the like, before Jon came. Now, that spark of fear has turned from a knothole letting in a faint beam of light to a blazing star just out of reach, constantly on alert for any sight of him.

The Eye has never interfered in Danny’s illicit wanderings before; why would It, when the desire to uncover secrets and dig for knowledge to and beyond the point of self-destruction is what pushes people into Its light? It’s an open secret that many of the limits imposed on them have a fair bit more to do with Jonah trying to manage a group as large as theirs than the mandate of their Patron. Tim and Sasha spent most of their teens debating whether the rules were actually a test: go where you want to be, find out what you want to know, and if you do it well enough you’ll be chosen. (Danny never voiced an opinion, lest Tim catch on to the many, many more excursions he never confessed to)

Now, though, It pulls at him, aware in some way of what he has planned. He hasn’t written it down, hasn’t told anyone; right now the plan is more of an idea than Knowledge. Danny’s pretty sure that vagueness is what allows him to keep his hands from jerking as they go through the practiced motions of picking a lock. That and Jon. He isn’t defying his Patron, he’s seeing Jon.

Danny and Jon write each other nearly every night. Enough that they’re friends, maybe. Maybe Jon would come sit next to Danny in the mess, if Gerard was gone.

(As Gerard has been more and more, uncomfortable under the jealous, worshipful focus being Jon’s friend in addition to designated caretaker has brought.)

Danny is just going to see his friend- see Jon. Jon has been sad, and Danny is going to cheer him up. He might even smile.

Those are the thoughts Danny focuses on as the lock finally clicks and he stuffs his makeshift picks in his pocket. Won’t Jon be surprised to see him?

The room is as beautiful as when Danny last saw it, helping to haul in the heavy mahogany desk- just a bit less pristine and more lived in, now that Jon has taken up residence. Danny hadn’t known beds could be so large, or so soft; the confection Jon sleeps on has little in common with the barracks bunks, or even the married suites’ slightly larger editions.

Jon stands several feet from the door, shoulders hunched and arms half-raised as though he isn’t sure whether to prepare to fight or flee. He looks confused and frightened, and his face holds no recognition. His eyes scan the darkened hallway behind Danny and he shifts slightly. His mouth starts to shape a question.

“I’m Danny,” Danny says before he can ask. “Stoker.” He glances down and shuffles at the awkward addition.

Jon’s brow furrows as he mouths Danny’s name (Danny’s name!) before his eyes light with cautious recognition. “D.S.” He leaves off the lilt of a question; if he’s wrong, it could just be an odd observation, another element of what makes Jon so singular.

“Yeah.” He planned out every step to get to this point, and daydreamed about what comes after, but in the moment he realizes he never considered what to say to Jon once he entered his room. He holds out a hand and jerks his head, indicating the hall. “Do you want to…?”

Jon’s eyes flick to Danny’s hand, his face, the hall, back to his face. For a moment Danny thinks he’ll run.

“Yes.” Jon breathes the word out like a prayer, tense and hopeful.

They can’t go quite yet- Danny waits politely, with his back turned (despite the instinct that tells him to turn and Look, take advantage of the fact that Jon is too nervous to close the door) while Jon changes out of his pajamas. He hasn’t considered what to do about Jon’s lack of shoes; Danny’s own are well worn into his nocturnal habits, and they step quiet and light. They’re stained from more than one encounter with an unsavory spill.

It’s too late to find another pair. Jon doesn’t have any shoes, and Danny didn’t think to bring any spares. He’s worried about Jon’s safety, that’s all- and it’s chilly, besides.

They charge on without remedying the issue, Jon in thick socks unsuited to pavement or dirt. He at least has a coat, fine and soft and warm, and tailored so that it flares and draws attention to its wearer like a neon sign rather than dun camelhair. (He’s beautiful.)

Danny leads Jon through the Institute. Jon has never seen most of it; Danny is just giving him a tour. They’re only quiet and skittish because it’s late, and they aren’t supposed to be out- but knowledge stolen is all the sweeter for it.

Danny tries to think of nothing else as they come closer to their goal: Artefact Storage has a door to the public part of the Institute, so they can move artifacts between the halves without risking transport through the corridors. Danny has never seen the public part of the Institute, and neither has Jon. He ignores the increasingly painful tug of burning light and pushes forward. He isn’t doing anything wrong. (If he says that enough it almost feels true.)

The most dangerous part of their journey, in Danny’s opinion, is the hallway past the barracks. There’s no way around it; the only other route that won’t take them all night goes through a hall Jonah almost always has an Eye on, and they’re certain to be caught if they try it.

He stops at the last corner before the danger zone, making Jon’s warm hand jerk in his as he comes to an abrupt halt. He nods anxiously when Danny gestures to be quiet, dancing from foot to foot, eager to move on. They were already being as silent as they could manage; hopefully Jon got the message to be even more careful now.

They barely breathe as they pass through the hall, Jon pressing close to Danny and giving the objects displayed along its sides wary looks; they’ve never looked more precarious, all ready to tumble and clatter to the ground and end the entire venture at any moment.

Nothing falls. There is no misstep that rouses someone to come see who or what’s thumping around in the hall. Their breath does not whistle and their joints don’t pop.

Jon is no longer walking so close their sides are touching and the knot between Danny’s shoulder blades is almost gone when strong hands pull them off their course.

It takes Danny so off guard that a door slams before he catches his balance. There is a moment of darkened chaos, elbows flying and combatants trying to quiet each others' grunts of exertion without seeing what they’re hitting. There is a heartbroken squeaking cry that Danny is almost sure comes from Jon.

A light- the supply closet where they keep everything for cleaning the barracks, spare linens and detergent and things. A familiar face is gripping his shoulders and pressing his back to the wall.

“Daniel Alexander Stoker, what the hell are you thinking?” Tim hisses, his face inches from Danny’s. Danny was never able to win their wrestling matches as kids, even when puberty took away Tim’s size advantage. He doesn’t squirm.

“Evening, Tim. What are you doing out?” He attempts a smile, not a care in the world. Jon is crammed into the back corner of the closet, both brothers blocking his route to the door. He looks close to tears.

“The innocent act hasn’t worked on me since you were eight. Why would you do something like this?” The hands on Danny’s shoulders are shaking with furious exertion- he thinks they might leave bruises.

Danny sets his jaw. “Because I want to.” It sounds juvenile, but it’s the truth. A headache starts to bloom as he admits his goals to himself and the shining dot of his Patron. He’s always taken to the Eye well; he wants to know what it’s like Outside, even if it’s dangerous, even if he ends up like Gerard. He always has. Jon wants to go as well; he’s tearing himself up, trapped in his room. There are things he misses, and Danny wants to know what they are.

Maybe this was always inevitable, and Jon was just the push he needed, but now that he’s set his heart on a course Danny won’t change it. He has to know.

“Do you have any idea the kind of trouble you’re going to be in? I ought to turn you in right now.” Tim shakes him a bit, and the anger in his face is edged with desperation. “I could yell and have everyone up and coming right now.”

“I don’t care.” He can’t, can’t let that fear creep into his plans any more than it already has.

“Stubborn little- we could just take him back. Go to bed, pretend this never happened. Jon won’t tell.” Tim swipes a hand over his eyes, glancing to the door.

“No, please!” Jon has himself pressed tight to the wall, eyes darting between the two of them. His eyes are shiny. He looks shocked that he spoke, clapping a hand over his own mouth. He's shaking.

They both twitch toward him, driven to comfort the oncoming tears, but stay locked in conflict instead. Tim swallows, turning his face away from Jon very deliberately. “Please, Danny. What can I do for both of us to forget this whole thing? Please.”

Danny hates fighting with Tim. Tim’s the only person who’s always been on his side, no matter what. A small, childish part of him cries out, unable to understand why his big brother has turned on him. “No. There’s nothing.”

Jon wants to be free- it’s obvious from the way he writes, even if he doesn’t say it- and Danny wants to be free with him. He can’t go back after giving in to the idea that’s been at the back of his mind for years.

Tim makes a sound that’s somewhere between a sob, a grunt, and a moan, and Danny’s shoulders are suddenly released. He feels too light, bereft, like he’s lost Tim along with the touch.

“Idiot. ” Tim turns- wipes at his face again, is he crying? Danny tenses to run, glancing to Jon, the door, wondering how far they can make it before being caught. Not all the way. The Watcher burns in protest.

Tim pulls something from behind the spare sheets- Danny can’t see it, with him angled more toward Jon and the shelves. He could make it out of here before Tim could stop him, but he would have to leave Jon. He can’t leave Jon.

“Here.” Jon startles at being addressed, staring up at Tim with big spotlight eyes. Slowly, he takes the trainers, holds them like an alien life form, considering. Tim hikes the bag onto his back.

Something rises in Danny, and he feels abuzz despite his Patron’s discontent.

“They should fit,” Tim says gruffly, voice thick with irritation. “Hurry up. If we’re going to go, we need to go .”

Danny grins at him, hands waving with delight by his sides.

Chapter Text

This might be the most terrified Jon has been since realizing the person he was waking up to wasn’t Georgie.

He can’t stop focusing on the fact that he doesn’t know these people. As much as he enjoyed having Danny as a secret pen pal, that's a long way from putting his life in his hands. The halls of the Institute at night are shadowed and eerie, and it feels like they might be spotted at any moment. He’s oppressively aware that at any moment Danny could turn him in, summon someone and blame the entire venture on Jon. He could be setting him up so he can be rewarded for catching Jon the way Sasha seems to have been.

And Jon doesn’t know anything about the other man- Tim- at all. He must be related to Danny, they look too alike, but Jon doesn’t know how. He looks close to Jon’s age, handsome and strong- the kind of person authority figures automatically like and believe, and the kind of person with the strength to enforce his confident promise that if they called the whole thing off and forced Jon back to his room he wouldn’t dare to report them. It was all Jon could do not to fall to his knees and beg- they’d come so far, he was so close. He wants to go home.

He wants to have never learned what it feels like to know your entire life depends on the outcome of an argument between two near-total strangers.

The idea that this could all be a set up is even stronger with Tim accompanying them. His reversal happened so quickly, forcing Jon to turn his thoughts on a dime from whether he could escape from the tiny corner he was trapped in, whether he could throw or drop anything on the shelves as a distraction, whether he could run when they tried to take him back or if Tim would just pick him up and carry him to prevent that (he looked strong, strong enough to make Jon do anything he wanted, handsome and confident enough to get away with anything), to the utter mundanity of tying his shoes . His hands ended up shaking so hard Danny offered to do it for him.

They could just lead him around the Institute’s crawling corridors until morning without ever letting him near an exit, wait until he's too weakened from anxiety and exhaustion to fight back and- they could do anything. Hardly anyone here treats him like a person, but they all act like they’re obsessed with him. They could do anything.

His dread only increases when Tim turns do go down another hallway and Danny continues walking straight ahead. They notice before Jon has to react, returning to the point of divergence, whispering furiously.

“Where are you going?”

“Artefact Storage, we need to get to the other side.”

“You can’t take Jon through Artefact Storage! Look at him, he’s terrified!”

(He does gasp softly at the mention- Danny’s told him about Artefact Storage, why would he take him there, it’s full of things like the book, what if he touched one accidentally, what if Danny was going to use one on him on purpose? His throat is too tight to say anything, but apparently his expression is enough.)

“Where else would I take him? It’s the only place we might not get noticed.”

“Don’t you- Never mind, do you even have a key? You can’t pick the new lock, it’s alarmed.”

Danny pales, swears, runs his hands through his hair. “I forgot.” He looks at Tim with wide eyes, desperate and scared. Jon’s heart rate amps up- they don’t have a way out after all, they’re going to be caught, it’s all over. He doesn’t want to be locked up again.

Tim claps a hand on Danny’s shoulder, coming just short of pulling him into a hug. “It’s fine. I’ve got- just come on, trust me.”

He starts off the same way as before. Jon doesn’t trust him, but he follows; standing in one place too long feels dangerous. They could still be caught, even if Tim and Danny are genuine.

Danny drops back to walk beside Jon, letting Tim lead the way down several flights of winding stairs. His hand hangs at his side, open and stiff, and Jon takes it as an offer. He grips Danny’s hand tight enough for his fingernails to leave marks; Danny holds Jon’s hand just as tightly.

Danny bumps their shoulders together when Tim stops them, darting ahead to look for any trouble. “It’s okay. Tim wouldn’t have brought us to the Archives if he didn’t know what he’s doing.” The accompanying smile is wavering and watery. Jon gives Danny’s hand an extra hard squeeze and stays silent.

Tim looks to Danny first when he returns, then glances at Jon, at their joined hands. Jon can’t quite read his expression, but a smile teases the edges of his mouth. “We’re almost there. Come on.”

Something about this part of the Institute seems particularly dark and grim, as though the walls themselves are judging them on their tiptoed journey. His shoulder knocks against Danny’s as they both instinctively draw in close, trying to be small and insignificant. It doesn’t feel like the kind of place with an exit to the outside; it feels like a basement, buried deep in the earth and guarded from all outside eyes while paradoxically intensifying the feeling of being watched to near-suffocating levels. Jon quietly prays that who or whatever is watching allows their passage.

They round the corner to see- what Jon is afraid is Tim’s way out. A gaping hole interrupts the smoothness of the polished hardwood, reaching out from the wall like a hungry mouth. Danny swears quietly. “What the hell is this?!”

“I thought you knew! Figured you’d already found them at some point.” Tim beckons them closer to the pit. “Hurry. You first, then Jon. I’ll come through last and close the trapdoor.”

Danny looks like he wants to argue, but bites it down. Tim swings his bag off one shoulder enough to reach a torch clipped to the opposite side, angling it down into the hole. The light doesn’t seem to shine as far or as brightly as it ought to, but it does reveal a ladder. Jon gulps and pries his hand away from Danny’s feeling strangely bereft without his nervous, sweaty anchor.

He feels strangely dizzy and detached, as though the night’s events have finally become too strange for him to process. Maybe he’s dreaming, so desperate to escape that he imagined the whole adventure.

Even if he is, there’s nothing to do but move forward. Either he’ll wake up or he won’t, and he wants this to be real. His whole body shakes with the nerves of it, making him sway slightly on the spot.

Danny sits, dangles his legs over the edge of the hole, just next to the ladder. When he glances to Tim for reassurance, he gets a grimaced smile as the other man turns, trying to keep the light on the ladder and himself facing any potential threats at the same time. Jon considers offering to hold the light, but he’s pretty sure he’d drop it. Danny seems to brace himself before swinging down onto the ladder.

It doesn’t take long for Danny to pass out of the torch’s meager light. Jon moves to follow, but instead startles and nearly gives them away with a barely-suppressed shriek when Tim grabs him by the shoulder. “Not until Danny’s at the bottom.”

The hand on his shoulder doesn’t vanish, so he has no choice but to comply. The seconds seem to stretch to hours as he bounces from foot to foot, adrenaline coursing through him with nowhere to go.

Finally, Danny calls, “Made it!” and the pressure on Jon’s shoulder lifts. His knees tremble as he approaches the trapdoor. His thoughts circle around memories of childhood- he was a decent ladder-climber then, but he hasn’t really had much cause to do so in years. Part of him is absurdly concerned he’ll make a fool of himself somehow.

What he feels when his head dips below the level of the floor is almost enough to make him fall. He’d been aware of the feeling of being watched ever since his abduction, put it down partly to paranoia and partly to whatever supernatural phenomena he's reluctantly willing to acknowledge, but he didn’t realize just how heavy that weight was until it's suddenly gone. In a less urgent situation, he might have ducked his head back up, then down again, experimenting with the feeling.

He just makes his slow way down the ladder, unwilling to rush after that shock of disorientation. The moment his feet hit the ground, there’s an arm around his waist and Danny is calling up to Tim. Jon only has a moment to look up at the square of dim light before it slides shut, leaving them in near total darkness, the torch sending wild beams across the walls as it hangs from Tim’s wrist as he climbs.

His speed, as marked by the torch, is dizzyingly fast, faster than a human should be able to navigate a ladder, until he comes close enough for Jon to see that instead of climbing he held the sides and slid down, relying on the grips of his shoes to control his momentum.

Tim hits the ground running, swinging the torch into a proper grip. “Everyone hold hands. We have to run, they’ll be coming.” Danny makes a sound like he wants to ask something, or object, but Tim seizes him by the hand and gives him only a moment to grab Jon’s before they are, indeed, running.

Jon soon loses track of their trajectory, instead focusing on holding onto Danny and through him their only light, and trying to keep up with two taller and fitter men. Beyond the pounding of his feet and the wheeze of his breath, he thinks he hears whispers, sees strange colors that shouldn’t be visible in the low light, feels the temperature and the material of the ground change, but he can’t pay them any attention. He might be willing to erase any doubts he has about Tim for the simple fact that he’s incredibly grateful for the trainers.

He’s really only held upright and propelled by Danny’s unyielding grip on his hand by the time they come to a stop. He nearly falls, unable to rein in his forward momentum, but Danny catches him, easing him to sit on the ground. He’d thank him, if he were capable of anything beyond trying to catch his breath, listing sideways as Danny sits next to him, eyes locked on Tim across from them as he repeats his question. “What the hell?”

"One second,” Tim says. The two of them sound winded, but not like Jon is. He should have taken Georgie up when she offered to let him join her on her morning jog.

Yellow light encompasses the space, revealing it to be a small room and nearly blinding Jon with its unexpectedness after so much darkness. The walls and floor are all made of the same gray stone, and the light comes from a battered lantern in the center. The only other furnishings are a pair of bags to match Tim’s, which he slides over to them. “I couldn’t get hold of much, but it’s something.”

Jon only hesitates a moment before diving into the bag, but Danny just keeps his eyes on Tim, question hanging in the air.

“Right. Tunnels.” Tim runs a hand through his hair. “I really thought you’d found them.”

Jon finds a bottle of water to be one of the few items in his bag, and begins trying not to gulp it all down at once, still panting for air between sips.

“Well. I didn’t. What are they? Why can’t I feel-” Danny cuts himself off, but Jon guesses that he’s alluding to the same lack of the prickling of eyes on the back of your neck Jon feels.

“Robert Smirke,” Tim says as though that stands on its own as an explanation. Apparently he’s at least partially right, because Danny’s brow furrows and he nods for the other man to go on. “Tunnels are part of the old Millbank Prison. The old Panopticon is down here somewhere, if you go far enough, but other than that it’s a blind spot. The Eye can’t see anything down here. Got enough of the Spiral in them that this deep it’ll take a while for any search parties to find us. By then, we’ll have moved on. There are- I know where a few outside exits are.”

The Eye- that bit Jon understands, even if he doesn’t quite catch most of the rest. The thing they all worship. The thing that supposedly likes him. It can’t find them here.

“Why can’t we- can’t we go now?” Jon asks. If there’s a chance of being found, they need to go.

Both of the others give him a look, and Jon shrinks into himself. He gulps his water so he doesn’t have to say anything else, but chokes and ends up in a coughing fit.

Danny rubs his back and says, “We have a minute. Just… just catch your breath.”

Chapter Text

Gerry’s already halfway out of the barracks before his mind catches up to his body and reluctantly makes him turn back for something more than his pajamas. Around him, everyone else is half out of their beds, not enough rule breakers among them to fully leave bed after lights out and no furious energy rattling across their skin (if he doesn’t get out of here now his tattoos might just burst into flame) to override the habit. He feels their eyes tracking him as he throws on his jacket and some shoes, looking for an explanation or reassurance, but he has none to offer them, only the headache-inducing pounding of JON, JON, JON.

His feet lead him down to the Archives, which he takes as a bad omen. Anything involving Jon this urgently not located on his room is a bad omen.

Jonah and Gertrude are already there, wearing dressing gowns and evidently in the midst of a blazing row heated debate. He almost trips when he gets close enough to see the unfamiliar hole in the floor next to them, but he catches himself against the wall.

(Gertrude Robinson does not own, much less wear, a frilly pink dressing gown. He refuses.)

“What- Jon-” he pants. The pit in the floor at least provides both an obvious egress and focus of investigation if they try to tell him it’s none of his business and to go back to bed and let his superiors come to a decision. He wonders how far down it is, and whether the landing would break anything.

“He’s gone.” Gertrude says, even sharper than normal. He already suspected as much, but his stomach plummets as though he leapt into the hole regardless. “They left through here.”

“They?”

“Who would do it?” Jonah interrupts, clearly picking up the thread of their argument. “ Everyone here is loyal to the Eye-”

“Who else would have known he was here?”

“It- you think it was an inside job?” Gerry asks, scrambling to keep up. “Is anyone missing?”

They both pause. “...I’m not sure,” Jonah admits. Gerry waits, but apparently their illustrious leader doesn’t keep close enough track of his people to be able to tell.

“Right. I’ll go check. But the hole in the floor?”

-

He doesn’t quite become fully aware of himself until he’s nearly back to the barracks, too focused sorting through the first-person account of the tunnels’ over two hundred years of history Jonah shoved into his brain rather than waste time explaining to pay attention to terrain he knows so well anyway. He’d much rather climb down there and begin pursuit, but he supposes someone has to do the practical detective work. There’s even some rationale to it; Jonah or Gertrude showing up after the Eye sent everyone such an unprecedented wake up call would probably just incite panic.

A few people have gone so far as to get out of bed, but they’re just sort of milling about, still unsure what to do and afraid to stray far. The lights are still out, but no one’s gone back to sleep. He smacks them on with an elbow and grabs the first person he encounters near the doors. “Did anybody leave?”

“Other than, you? No.” The man, not anyone familiar to Gerry, looks deeply unsettled by the whole affair.

Whoever’s responsible, if it was one of their own, should be the only one missing, then. “Right, I need a headcount. Who’s missing?”

“But no one-”

“On it,” a woman- someone else allowed out, an L name maybe?- interrupts. “Want me to check if anyone’s in the infirmary, too?”

He nods, grateful someone else is taking some part of this off his shoulders. It still feels like ants are crawling under his skin; if he didn’t know why he’d be checking himself for infection by the Corruption. As it is, he gets to step back and just breath almost long enough to count to ten.

Almost.

-

Even after hauling her downstairs so Gertrude can Compel her, the idea that the people who took Jon are coincidentally best friends with one of the five people to significantly interact with him, and she had no idea, feels like a bit much to Gerard, and based on their expressions Gertrude and Jonah as well, but it doesn’t seem to have occurred to Sasha. She hasn’t stopped crying since realizing what the Stokers have done, even if she was quickly able to limit it to a pair of constant streams down her cheeks.

“I don’t know why they would do this,” she says again, wiping her face. “I swear, if I knew anything else-”

“Thank you, Miss James,” Jonah says, verging on annoyance. He turns to go back to planning their search, but doesn’t dismiss her. Gerard awkwardly puts a hand on her shoulder, guiding her out of the Archivist’s office.

“We’ll find them,” he says with confidence he doesn’t feel. It must fall equally flat to Sasha, who says nothing until they reach the stairs.

“I can help. There has to be something, I need to do something!” She wrings her hands instead of ascending.

“You... should go help them get started with the CCTV. There’s a lot of London to search.”

She’s shaking her head before he even finishes speaking. “There has to be something more I can do, I know Tim and Danny, there must be something!”

Gerard wracks his brain, wary of how the tears are welling again. How did he end up as the one in charge of this? “Er… you… you could…. You could work from one of the Archives computers? And come get us if they find anything on the cameras!” From what he caught of Jonah and Gertrude’s plans, they don’t want anyone not generally allowed outside going into the tunnels- would be searching alone if the system didn’t expand so far and contain so many potential dangers- but Sasha is an… in-between sort of person. With knowing Jon, and their thieves. And she’s already seen the open trapdoor on the way in- didn’t seem to notice it, or at least didn’t point it out with everything else going on, but she definitely saw it. If the Eye can’t reach the tunnels, someone will need to let them know if Jon shows up out in London proper, so they can stop wasting time down there. Which is an in between sort of job.

At least, he can probably convince Jonah and Gertrude of as much. And it seems to work at quelling the waterworks, at least for now.

-

They end up with nearly everyone allowed outside on the regular gathered in a hallway of the Archives, peering down into a pit and connected to each other by a tangle of string. In theory, anyone who finds Jon can pull on their string, ringing a bell to alert Sasha, who will start tugging on all of the lines to call everyone back if there's any sign of him from either the bell or the people upstairs, and in the meantime sits with a monitor pulled out into the middle of the hallway so she can intercept people before anyone else sees the open trapdoor.

It's a plan that leaves a lot to be desired in Gerard’s opinion, not least of all because there have, at least at some point, been everything from the homeless to a full-fledged Avatar of the Buried living in various parts of the tunnels. Plenty of reason to hurry and find Jon before anything else does, sure, but also plenty of room for Gerard to distrust a method as easy to sabotage as string.

So he slips down ahead of everyone else. He already knows the plan, and has a better idea of the tunnels thanks to Jonah, and if he's already searching he can’t be tempted into snarking and getting yelled at for lowering morale.

And they can’t assign him a set search perimeter. Dividing the tunnels into the closest thing to a grid you can manage with something that twists and changes that much is all well and good, but Gerry likes to think he knows Jon, at least a bit. If he made it down here, he probably isn’t wandering around, lost and waiting to be rescued the way they’d been pitching it to their search party; he is, if not directly en route to an exit, actively searching for one. So it makes sense for at least one person to start at the nearest exits and work back, rather than the other way around.

He suspects Jonah and Gertrude are planning to do the same themselves, but they have to organize the rabble first, and Jon is on the move now.

Slipping down into the tunnels is a lot like slipping into cool water, all of the frantic prickling over his tattoos subsiding almost immediately. That proves that Beholding can’t see down here, then. He assumed as much, with the panic over Jon vanishing and Jonah’s inability to just find him, but it's good to know for himself.

Besides, he doesn’t have much else to think about as he hurries through darkened halls, only his torch for company. Turning it over, without the fervor and energy of a crowd to distract him, the whole thing feels increasingly strange.

Jon can’t stay in the tunnels. It isn’t safe. But if he made it out into London, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. Gerry himself has thought that if he had seen Jon first he would have let him be, before the Watcher could grow so possessive over keeping him inside the Institute.

Since when is he so loyal to the Institute, the Eye, anyway? They get their little prodigal son parable and his skin, he gets food and shelter and enough safety from other Entities to make it, maybe help some people or cause some trouble as he goes. That's it, that was the deal. When was the last time he left the Institute? He used to rarely go a day between his little vacations from the madhouse, but he’s hardly left at all since Jon.

He’s been too busy with Jon. Taking care of Jon. Trying to insulate Jon from the emotional damage of captivity and Jonah’s approach to… whatever the thing with Jon is. Induction, courtship, worship?

It isn’t good for Jon. His steps slow.

Neither are the tunnels. Now that he knows they’re here, where the entrances are, they’ll be hard-pressed to keep him out permanently. He can come down and figure this all out with a clear head any time. Later. If nothing else, he’s sure he likes Jon, genuinely, as himself. If Jon falls down a hole or gets eaten by a lurking Avatar, there won’t be any going back from that.

Gerry hurries on, eyes peeled for any sign of passerby now that he’s far enough from the Institute he might have a chance at having caught up to them. The first two exits he checks are busts, obviously not opened in months if not years. His route to the third is starting to feel a little aimless when he thinks he hears something.

He presses himself into the wall, flicking off his torch. Rather than complete black, incredibly faint shadows light the walls, growing stronger. He holds his breath.

“-got turned around for a second doesn’t mean we’re lost, alright!”

They’re being entirely too loud for the tunnels, particularly when they must know people are in pursuit by now, but it’s Gerard’s gain. He presses harder into the wall, tucking as much of himself as possible behind a crag in the stone as the light turns a corner.

They look none the worse for wear, though he doesn’t know the Stoker brothers well enough to really say for sure. Jon looks a bit winded and a lot scared, but unharmed. Gerard stays tucked into his hollowed-out piece of wall until they pass him. If Jon bolts, who knows where he could end up?

The noise he lets out when Gerard grabs him from behind is like a small animal dying, body going stiff but already resigned to its attacker’s superior strength. The Stokers, to their credit, turn immediately, the younger one latching onto Jon’s arm like he intends to tug of war over him. The older one curses.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” the younger brother- he sucks at names, even these, even though he swears he was paying attention- lies. “Let go of him!”

The older one squares his shoulders and steps forward as though preparing for a fight- not the wisest choice, in Gerard’s opinion, given he’s the one with their torch. “Let him go, Keay.”

The use of his mother’s name is an obvious ploy, but that doesn’t make it sound less like a stone in his shoe. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is down here?” He holds Jon a bit closer to his chest just at the thought.

“Do you?” The older brother challenges. Before Gerard can answer, Jon gasps and jerks in his arms, and he realizes that with his back to Gerard, Jon couldn’t have known who held him without hearing his voice. He never gave him either of his surnames.

“Gerry.” It comes out as a pant, a thin whine, a dying gasp. “Gerry, please. Please just let us go.” Jon sounds like he’s already given up.

“Go where? London? Where there are more surveillance cameras than practically anywhere else in the world and they’re upstairs using them all to look for you? ”

“You kidnapped me,” Jon’s struggling gets a little stronger, the reminder galvanizing him as it always does. “The police-”

“Work for Jonah, as far as you’re concerned. He’s already got them on the lookout. I mean,” he laughs, though the emotion behind it isn’t humor or anything else he can properly name, “you don’t even have any money! So not Oxford, either.”

“We have money,” the older Stoker growls, a bit defensively, which is interesting, but it can’t be much. Gerry spins Jon around, jerking his arm out of the younger brother’s grip and pressing him to the wall so he can’t worm away, standing back about as far as he can without losing his grip so Jon doesn’t feel crowded.

Jon’s crying, nasty heaving things with a wheeze behind them Gerry hasn’t heard from him before.

The younger Stoker latches onto Gerry’s shoulder, tugging at him without sufficient force, getting his attention more than anything. “Gerard. Come on. He doesn’t want to stay here, we can’t just keep him! Jon has a life!”

“Gerry, please.” Jon wraps his fingers around Gerry’s wrists.

“Do you even have a plan? If I let you out onto the street, what would you even do?”

“Like we’d tell you!” gets shouted a little too close to Gerry’s ear a little too fast to come off as genuine. He grits his teeth, but keeps his attention on Jon.

“There aren’t places like this all over! Once you’re out of these tunnels, you’re fair game to the Eye as soon as anyone or anything remotely affiliated with it spots you, wherever you go." He draws in a slow breath. "The only place that’s even close, as far as I know, is where I grew up. It’s not a total blind spot like here, but it doesn’t get noticed. Pinhole Books. In Morden.” He tries to hold Jon’s gaze, but he’s looking around frantically for any escape. “I still keep the lights on. Key on the underside of the left side windowsill.”

Finally, Jon jerks to attention, and Gerry moves so that only one hand holds him against the wall. He not in the habit of keeping cash in his pajamas, but he has his coat and boots and he does try to keep extra there.

Jon is his friend.

“Pretty sure I cleared all the Leitners out, but I still wouldn’t linger on the ground floor.”

(It’s one Leitner, in particular, that he’s concerned about, but that explanation would take more time than it’s worth.)

“But no one usually bothers the upstairs, if you went straight up as quick as you can. Stayed away from windows.”

His first and only friend.

He presses the money into Jon’s hands and his hands back into his chest as Jon stares wide-eyed. Half turns, to look at the Stokers. “Kept Jon inside until you knew what you were going to do.”

Neither brother looks quite sure what to make of him, or of what he’s saying. Jon decides for them, surging against Gerry’s loosened hold to bury a snotty face in his shoulder; he startles at the swing of arms around his neck.

“Thank you thank you thank you,” Jon murmurs, so quickly and quietly Gerry isn’t sure he even knows he’s doing it. He brings awkward arms up to try to return the hug.

“Try to stay away from cameras. You’re headed in the right direction for an exit, nearly there.” He withdraws his grip, and Jon takes the cue to lean back from the hug, too torn between anxiety and fear and joyous gratitude to properly return Gerry’s solemness. “No second chances.”

Jon sniffles and nods. “Thank you, Gerry!”

Then they’re gone, just the fading sound of scuffling footsteps and the spots left by an extra torch streaking across Gerry’s vision. He starts to wind his string carefully, going back the way he came. No harm if he searches a bit slower, when he has such a head start on everyone else.

Chapter Text

Tim doesn’t actually see much of his first foray through London, too occupied with the unbearable weight that hammers down on his skull the moment they step out of the tunnels. It feels like his neurons are tearing each other apart, torn between Jon is here and we stole him and wrong wrong wrong, alien impulse pushing up against the more human shock of the cool night air and lights and the noise of London. Without Danny’s nails tearing into the flesh of his forearm and Jon’s confident navigation he would probably turn around and walk straight back in the Institute’s front doors.

He tries to focus on the real feelings over the false, but still only manages a vague impression of the change to the chilly shelter of a phone booth, crammed in alongside Jon and Danny, and then to the warmer, hushed inside of a cab; focus on the feelings that convinced him to help Danny’s scheme, protectiveness and love and the worming doubt he’s felt since Jon arrived, too quiet to acknowledge; the point of his Signing as a teenager was that he was joining willingly, that they were all there willingly, serving the Watcher because they love knowledge and its pursuit, love secrets and scandal and collecting whispers. Sure, Jon isn’t like him, but- what was the point of that, if they can bind Jon to them with chains and locked doors despite his obvious desire to leave?

Tim’s never felt the Eye like this.

He’s never felt the Eye like this. It’s a thought he’s had a lot in the past weeks, with the rush and intensity of Jon’s arrival, but that was exhilarating. It felt like he was present at the birth of something new and great, like he was closer to everyone in the Institute than ever before. This is awful, something distinctly outside himself and other trying to wrest control of his thoughts and movements away, and the cold curling knowledge that he let it in.

Everything feels wrong, the feeling of failing in front of a crowd multiplied a hundred times over, the feeling that he’s acting against some integral part of himself, until Jon manages to pull him and Danny out of the cab and through the front door of Pinhole Books.

The pressure doesn’t go away, but it feels like there’s finally oxygen in the air again and he can breathe. He almost collapses in relief, but Jon’s hand is on his shoulder again and he knows that Jon is important, even if he’s too overwhelmed to sort out why. He lets Jon hurry him up a narrow, steep set of stairs and stands silent, hands at his sides and swaying slightly on his feet, when he moves away.

Jon isn’t looking at him- and that stings with disappointment- but is staring up at Danny with wide eyes. “Is- is that better?” He rubs his arms like he’s trying to banish a chill, and his hands tremble.

Danny has a hand fisted in his hair, the other rubbing at his forehead. “Y-yes. Better. I need-”

That sentence could end with a lot of things: a minute to think, rest, a plan; Tim could go on, but Danny just lets it trail off into the stale air.

One of the doors on this floor is ajar, and Tim can see a bedroom through it, black comforter gone gray under layers of dust and posters on the walls. It has to belong to Gerard, and Gerard is a traitor would know what he’s doing is Jon’s favorite helped them.

It’s his job to take care of Danny; that much is immutable, a burden he took on the moment he saw his baby brother's dark eyes staring up at him for the first time like he was the most fascinating puzzle in the world and hasn’t put down since, only holding it tighter once their parents died. The way he’s always joked and played with and worried about Danny is the closest comparison he can think of to the pulsing push of emotion he feels toward Jon. He needs to take care of Danny, so he must need to take care of Jon as well. He can almost think past the way his brain feels like mush when he puts it in simple directives like that.

It is the middle of the night, none of them have slept, and there’s a bed he’s at least moderately confident is safe, dusty as it may be. He needs to take care of them.

Danny leans into Tim’s hand on his shoulder, while Jon flinches and freezes at the touch. Tim tries to ignore how quietly devastating that feels and pushes them toward the bedroom. “Sleep. We can worry about it in the morning.”

He’s not quite sure what “it” is, sleep and confusion and that pressure mixing things up, but this is easy, letting himself go through the motions of shaking out the bed as best he can- taking the blankets into another room when the first shake of the comforter threatens to send Jon into a coughing fit- and poking through the other doorways in search of more bedding. He finds another bedroom, tosses its larger quilt aside in favor of the other blankets it’s played dust cover for, and leaves as quickly as he can. They would fit better on the larger bed, but something there feels off, wrong somehow. It’s such a simple instinct, in a night filled with stranger and more forceful desires, that he follows it without question, returning to Gerard’s room. He can puzzle it out in the morning if he needs to. Right now, he needs to take care of Jon and Danny.

When he gets back, they’ve pulled everything off the bed frame, piling it into a sort of nest on the floor. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever slept on a floor. Or anywhere other than his bunk in the barracks, or the nursery before that, Danny’s breath whistling above him. He adds his load to the pile, wavering on his feet as the other two curl into the blankets.

“Come on, Tim,” Danny says, voice rough with exhaustion, all the adrenaline of before finally crashing. He pats the blankets next to him with a tired, lazy wave of his hand.

He doesn’t lie down next to Danny. It’s his job to protect them, and Jon is the smallest and weakest. Danny can take care of himself, even if Tim doesn’t like it.

Jon looks uncomfortable at being in the center of their group, clutching at his arms, but he doesn’t say anything. Tim keeps his eyes open until he’s sure both of the others have fallen asleep.

-

Tim wakes up first, the watery light that comes through the window making the abandoned bedroom feel like an alien world. He feels better, less out of sorts if not entirely himself. Pulling himself free of the blankets, kneeling over the others, he feels like a tangle of string in his chest has just pulled straight and smooth, heart humming at the sight of the two of them curled up together. Jon shivers and curls closer to Danny’s chest, ear jammed against his heart, when Tim sits up and removes the arm he had slung over both of them. He pulls a blanket up to make up for the lost warmth, watching as they shift in their sleep, Danny tucking Jon’s head even tighter under his chin so that the only part of him visible above the blanket is where his fingers tangle tightly in the collar of Danny’s shirt. Whatever else is happening, he has to believe things will be okay, in any world where his brother and (what is Jon to him they barely know each other Jon was scared of him) friend can sleep so peacefully. Things have to be okay.

His mind still feels hazy, the journey from the Institute a blur. Coming out of the tunnels and back into the Watcher’s view has never felt like that before, never been so overwhelming. Normally, the feeling of being Watched settles around his shoulders like a scarf, barely noticeable.

Normally, he hasn’t stolen his God’s beloved out from under everyone’s noses.

It’s different here, just the faint awareness of something that could be there; he’s more aware of the sound of morning traffic outside the window, technically. But he has to pay attention to that whisper of a distant observer.

Last night, he thought Jon was just as important as Danny. Part of him, rested and aware of the influence on his mind, thinks it’s absurd, snarls in insult at the implication that anything could matter as much as keeping Danny safe. He barely even knows Jon. Most of their interactions to this point have been Tim watching him or handing him things. The rest feels like Jon has sunk his fingers into his heart, playing with the tender meat like clay.

And Jon should be the safest, of the three of them, in the Outside world. He’s lived there (lived here they’re Outside what are they doing) his whole life, navigated the city with confidence even having to lead Tim and Danny. There’s no reason for him to feel like Jon in particular needs to be wrapped up in blankets and kept far, far away from the world, as though he’ll trip and break his neck at the first crack in the pavement (and the mere thought sets Tim’s heart racing terribly). But a large part of Tim- a loud part of him- thinks that he’d much rather send Danny out alone, into a world he’s barely been able to so much as research, than Jon.

The idea of resenting Jon for all this flits across his mind, but it’s squeezed out of him before he can consider it.

Chapter Text

Gerard’s house doesn’t exactly contradict everything Tim’s been told about Outside, that it’s loud and dirty and dangerous, jammed full of unnecessary things and unnecessary people. The tunnels were less dusty, and parts of the walls look like they’re actually falling apart. You can see exactly where Danny and he have paced, footprints clear in the dust, flashes of darker wood under the blanket of grime.

This might be all he ever gets to see of Outside. It sits bitter in his throat. His God is supposed to be distant, uncaring, not trying to wrest control of his body and mind from him. Even Gertrude in the midst of a Statement is herself, not so dizzied by the feeling of an invading force trying to take over he could hardly set one foot in front of the other. If Jon wasn’t there to steer them…

If Jon wasn’t there it might not have been an issue. The Eye might have let them leave peacefully. He isn’t here for Jon, he's here for Danny, here to keep his little brother out of trouble and forcing himself to ignore the fact that stealing Jon was the worst trouble Danny 's ever gotten in. Jon is an unwanted tag along, and if Tim had his way he never would have left his room.

He was annoyed (was he really?) at the others who had acted like Jon was flawless (isn't he?), like they couldn’t see the self-absorbed, snobby part of him that had him rejecting the Eye so entirely. Even if he learns eventually, grows out of it, it's still a flaw, a tiny perplexity that made Tim wonder what Beholding saw in him, anyway. But last night…

He understands, now, why Jon is so afraid. It isn’t just a misplaced desire to return to a place that has nothing to offer him, it's that Jon sees, in a way Tim didn’t, the creeping ugliness at the heart of the Cult. The Watcher is hardly benevolent, or even the impassive observer he was taught It was; It’s evil. Wrong. Dangerous, above and beyond how he's been taught.

Even the thought feels treasonous. True to Gerard’s word, the house doesn’t completely eliminate the strangling pressure the way the tunnels did, just lessens it enough that Tim is fairly certain his thoughts are his own. Just not his own enough that he hasn’t made himself nauseous considering the whole mess.

Or he's just hungry. The bags he packed for their escape had plenty of water, a bit of money, odds and ends that might come in handy- a lighter, some twine he’d saved, the torch- but the mess doesn’t really stock much in the way of nonperishables for him to stow away.

Which means they’re all teetering on the threshold of the house’s front room, on edge about whatever Gerard warned them about on this floor and trying to gather up the courage to open the door and go outside.

Danny thinks that, as long as Jon isn’t with them, they can probably stay themselves enough for a grocery run. They can test it first: Tim goes outside, Danny stands at the ready to pull him back in if he loses himself, with Jon tucked in a corner, observing out of sight of the door. He’s got his shoulders pulled up to his ears and his arms wrapped around himself; he agreed to stay behind (if only after giving them an exhaustive explanation of what to expect, increasingly bewildered at each thing they didn’t know, so that they can hopefully get through a Tesco’s run without sticking out enough to bring down the wrong kind of attention) but put his foot down at the idea of waiting upstairs alone to find out if they came back with breakfast or with Jonah.

The only thing they’re waiting on is Tim, trying to banish the memory of realizing his mind isn’t entirely his own.

“I can do it,” Danny offers for the dozenth time.

“Absolutely not.” He says it almost before Danny’s finished speaking. If anyone loses themselves, he’s not going to let it be his baby brother. He takes a deep breath and grasps the doorknob.

He yanks it open and steps out before he can think about it any more, standing perched on the top step as though waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike him down.

It doesn’t- his awareness of the Eye is barely more than it was inside, and lighter than it is most days at home. He walks experimentally down the rest of the steps, turning around once he reaches the pavement and meeting Danny’s worried gaze. There’s something a little bit wrong about being here, but that could be from completely natural causes, everything he’s been taught keeping him primed to be caught somehow now that he’s really stepped out of line. He doesn’t feel any need to drag Jon out behind him and back to the Institute, or to run there and return with the cavalry. He smiles hesitantly. “I think it’s fine.”

Danny grins, but follows just as cautiously, head tipped up and hands loose at his sides, ready to bound in either direction. His smile only gets wider as he joins Tim, both of them trying not to gawk too much at the street. He hears the door creak shut behind them- Jon, and the thought of him feels a bit like a pit in his stomach but lacks the overwhelming need to take him back from last night- and he and Danny are on their own in an unfamiliar world.

Chapter Text

It might just be the echo of Gerry’s warning combining with the adrenaline crash and the building’s general state of disrepair, but Pinhole Books and the flat above it feel suffocatingly uncanny. They may not be as bad as the Institute, but they’re still awful. After seeing the Stokers out, silently praying to he-doesn’t-know-what that they’re really themselves and the next time he sees them won’t be to drag him out kicking and screaming (because he will, they may have caught him by surprise before but he won’t go back to the Institute without a fight), he hustles back upstairs, the back of his neck prickling the whole way.

He should have asked them to bring him back cigarettes. He thought about it when he saw the lighter among their supplies, but dismissed it as an unnecessary expense when they still don’t know how they’ll get to Oxford. He should have asked anyway. If there’s ever been a time when he deserves a cigarette, surely it’s now.

He sits on the floor of Gerry’s old bedroom, knees to his chest, and tries to angle his head to catch a glimpse out the window, onto the street. He could close the curtains- heavy, blackout ones that make him smile just a little at the thought of the kind of teenager Gerry must have been- and pace around instead, but he likes the faint glow of light through a window after so long without. He stares at the posters on the walls, jabs at cracks between floorboards with the toe of his shoe, huffs hair out of his face where it’s grown too long. Jonah wouldn’t let him cut it. (The weight of gold braided into what he does have tells him why; Jonah probably has more where that came from, just waiting for Jon to have enough hair, and it makes him sick.) He considers getting up and digging through the drawers and cupboards for a pair of scissors, but decides against it. He can get a real haircut once he’s home.

Once he thinks it, he can’t draw himself away from the thought. Home. Georgie, and the animal shelter that lets students come in to play with the cats, and classes and bad takeout and missing the bus and having to walk home in the pouring rain. His own bed. Real privacy. He just has to get there.

Cr r k

He startles at the sound. Tim and Danny aren’t back yet, it’s too soon, he would have heard the door. Wouldn’t he? It can’t be Jonah and the rest, it can’t . They would have come in the night and taken him in his sleep if they knew where they went, Gerry can’t have told, they can’t know where he is. Some animal part of his brain urges him to run, while another says to freeze, hold his breath and hope they don’t find him. He gets stuck between the two, legs sprawled and body oriented stiffly in the direction of the door when the not-quite-shut latch is pushed open.

Jon sits, eyes silently caught by the woman who steps around the door to peer down at him, breath half-caught and feeling like he’s been found doing something he ought not to.

She’d be incongruous, maybe, if the building was in the same respectable state of repair as its neighbors, but she fits right in with the dust and peeling paint. And the general recent trajectory of Jon’s life, for that matter. Incredibly old, heavily tattooed woman in the house that’s supposed to be empty? Sure, why not!

“Did my Gerard invite you over, then?” She crosses her arms, and something in her eyes makes Jon shiver.

“Your- I’m Gerry’s- Gerard’s, friend, yes.” He thought Gerry said his mum was dead. Or at least not living in the home he sent Jon to. Unless this is a different relative? He hadn’t seemed like he had many…

The woman presses her lips together, but says, “You should have said hello. Why don’t you come downstairs, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Something about her makes Jon uneasy, something other than the possibility that she’s caught him arguably trespassing in her home. “That sounds- wonderful. Thank you…?”

She tilts her head at him as he scrambles to his feet, ducking awkwardly through the door to stay out of the window’s line of sight. “You may call me Mary.”

“Thank you, Mary.”

The kitchen might actually be in worse shape than the rest of the place, but Mary successfully digs a box of tea out from the back of a cupboard. It’s so old Jon can’t make out what the label says, but the kettle and mugs seem mostly clean. Mary makes the tea with her back to him, though he gets the uneasy feeling she’s still watching him, maybe through the reflection on the kettle. It’s the kind of situation that would usually merit his efforts at small talk but- something’s wrong . Surely she can’t actually live here?

“How is Gerard?”

Jon startles at the sound of her voice, even though her tone remains soft and mild. He swallows. “He’s- he’s fine? He’s doing fine. Healthy, all that.”

She hums, passing him a mug of tea but leaning against the counter instead of sitting at the table across from him. He takes a cautious sip and is glad it was a small one- he was right, the contents of the mug taste like dust more than anything and the texture is gritty.

Mary sets her mug to the side without touching it. “Surely you can give an old woman more detail than that? It’s shameful, my Gerard hasn’t called me, hasn’t written, in I don’t know how long! I don’t even know where he’s living, couldn’t reach out if I tried! He just up and left. Practically abandoned me.”

Her voice is dramatic, emotional, but Mary’s face is still. Her eyes glint.

“He’s- well, you know, he’s. Around. He’s been- he’s keeping busy.”

Mary just stares. The part of Jon that’s always been hyperaware of awkwardness curdles but Gerry cut off contact with his mother, whether that was because she died or for other reasons. There’s no way Jon is telling her the truth about where he is, he needs to change the subject.

“You- your tattoos are- really interesting, um. What language is that?”

For a long moment he doesn’t think she’ll take the bait, but then she squints at him down the bridge of her nose, wets her lips slightly. “Sanskrit. Would you like to see why I learned?”

He wouldn’t, particularly, and it’s a strange direction to take things. “Sure!”

Mary leads him into the rest of the house, the part he only caught a glimpse of as they darted upstairs. Pinhole Books must have been the kind of bookshop Jon usually likes, judging by the tightly packed shelves and marks where towers of books leaned against the wall for so long the wallpaper faded around them, though the few volumes remaining on the shelves look like they’d be out of his price range. Mary must notice his attention lingering on the bare shelves, or perhaps she was only looking for an opportunity to complain, as she says, “Gerard sold off most of our stock, the last time I saw him.” She clicks her tongue, letting her disapproval make itself clear.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a too-long pause, trying to fill the dead air as she leads him even further back, weaving expertly through the maze that small rooms and copious shelves work together to create.

He’s lucky that Mary takes a bit to turn around when they reach their destination, going further in while Jon lingers in the doorway, or she’d see him startle. The space has a small desk, some sort of workspace with pens and razors and fishhooks littered about, some glinting dangerously from where they dangle on lines from the ceiling. The entire area is liberally splashed with suspiciously rust-colored stains, including on the razors and the tips of some of the hooks. He can see the corner of what might be a police evidence marker around the desk.

Jon steels himself; Mary seems unfazed by the… mess, and he gets the sense that if he reacts, breaks the fiction of whatever game they’re playing, he'll lose. She kneels to open a safe resting on the floor, and by the time she rises and turns to face him again, his face is as expressionless as he can manage.

His stomach flips when she sets the two books down on the desk. Gerry said there were Leitners here.

Mary tips the first toward him, beckoning him closer to look. She flips the pages open, revealing more of the same lettering that covers her skin. He nods. The question is out of his mouth before he can think it through, “Is that a Leitner?” He needs to know, needs to (run hide escape) be prepared. In case something happens.

Mary grins. “You could call it that. Though it was never part of his collection. You’re familiar?”

Her eyes are too piercing. He can feel goosebumps on his arms. “I am.”

She lets the silence linger a beat to see if he’ll expound, but when he doesn’t, she half-turns- never breaks eye contact- and sets the book aside. “Then you’ll find this one really interesting.”

She gestures again for him to lean closer, which he tries to do while still staying as far away from the book as he can, tea still held close to his chest. The second book appears to be in Sanskrit as well, but the pages aren’t paper. He went to look at some books written on vellum in the university library for a course once- it looks a bit like that, but rougher, with more variation in tone between the pages.

“Is that- skin? ” The idea makes him queasy, but he can’t look away, either. How often is he going to see a book made of human skin?

“Yes, it is.”

He startles, unsure when Mary walked behind him.

Chapter Text

Mary’s lip curls at the little man making himself at home in her house, hiding away as though he might escape her notice. He dresses like the clients she sold ancient nonsense to, who fancied themselves admirers of the occult and took pride in the way their clothing blended in with the rabble- until you looked closely enough to realize its quality. Who thought they were modest for not flaunting their wealth and thought they were wise for collecting books older than their grandfathers, who never understood enough to see that they knew nothing. Who she sometimes entrapped and tormented when she had something real to test and their patronage was running dry. Who were always so surprised when the things they studied with knowing sneers, telling each other and themselves that none of it was real, just fantasy and superstition, came to suck them dry.

How many years did she spend trying to instill in her Gerard that he was better than people like this, that they were above the petty avatars and victims of the Powers? And here he is, still taking in strays. So much like his father, that way; she’s always regretted not freeing him of Eric’s influence sooner.

Her Gerard is lucky that his mother is a resourceful woman who knows how to deal with his pets.

He’s obviously Marked, but the dumb little thing clearly doesn’t realize what she is. His loss; if he’d realized and told her what she wanted to know about her Gerard she might have let him leave Pinhole Books alive. As it is, he follows her into her office as sweet as a lamb, trying valiantly to hide his fear. He looks at the books like they might bite, whatever bravado got him mixed up enough with the Fears to earn Gerard’s interest in the first place gone in the face of real power, but still drawn in by sick fascination. Taking advantage of his distraction is laughably easy.

The sound he makes when he realizes she’s come up behind him with a razor isn’t even a scream- more a squeak, fitting for the foolish little mouse who willingly stepped into her trap at the slightest incentive. He ducks her first swing and throws his tea mug at her.

The impact makes her flicker, but it doesn’t take long to reform with the book so close. He must have tried to use those moments to flee the room, but forgot to look out for the hooks dangling from the ceiling. When she’s herself again, he’s drawn up short by one snagged into him somewhere, his fear of her wavering in the face of the pain holding him still. He might as well flay himself for her.

He startles back when she appears between him and the exit, whimpers at the hook pulling at his skin. His eyes dart around the room, looking for something to defend himself and coming up short. He raises his hands, as if she doesn’t know they’re empty, and says in a wavering voice, “Whatever it is, I’m sorry! Can we please talk about this?!”

She scoffs. He had his chance to talk, and refused to say where her Gerard has been hiding away all these years; he’ll give more honest answers bound to the book than he will with her blade to his throat. People never hold to a lie for long when they have nothing else to think of but the pain of being held to existence past their End.

He jerks, taking a stuttering step back and running into the table as she stalks forward. He’s faster than he looks, dodges so that the swipe that should cut his throat lands against his cheekbone, leaving a stark line of red, and throws himself backward over the table.

He gasps as the line tied to the hook already latched into him goes taut and snaps, a second point of pain to match the blood running down his face and staining his posh shirt. There are more hooks behind the desk, placed more densely where she had done the bulk of the work of tying herself to immortality, and he jerks and starts like a fish on a line as they pierce and hold him.

“Please!” He’s shaking, in the way they all do when they realize how out of their depth they are. People like him never realize they aren’t meant to meddle with the affairs of people like her until it’s too late.

Mary huffs in frustration and makes to go around the desk and finish off her pinned prey when his eyes land on the book. He snatches it up before she can react, producing a lighter from his pocket and clicking it to life. “P-put the razor down or I’ll- I’ll burn it!”

His hands are shaking and his eyes are wide, but the tiny flame of the lighter stands dangerously close to her painstakingly inscribed skin.

Mary sees red. No pathetic, grasping academic fooling around with powers he doesn’t understand or deserve is going to threaten her like this.

She lunges without thinking of anything but retrieving the book.

The man’s hand jerks, and the book goes up like it’s made of tissue, the sudden inferno making him cry out and drop it. It keeps burning on the floor, furious and bright and the last thing she sees.

He stands back and watches as she matches the burning of her pride and anger and life.

And so Mary Keay Ended.

Chapter Text

Mary bursts into flames with her blade mere inches from meeting Jon's flesh. He's unashamed of the shriek he lets out at the sight, the razor falling from where her hand had been moments before to land on the floor a few inches from his feet. He doesn't have enough time to feel relieved before he's conscious of the uncomfortable heat of the burning book in his hands, going up much more quickly than he anticipated and dangerously close to burning him.

He jumps, tossing it away to burn out into a black circle of ash on the floor, but he's too slow. The sleeve of his shirt is already aflame, and he bats at it frantically with the other hand.

It's mostly out when his rapid movement turns on him, his hand catching on another of the dangling fishhooks. He pats the last embers out against his torso, then teeters painfully in place.

He has at least two hooks in him that are still connected to the ceiling, the webbing of his hand and the shell of his ear pulling whenever he moves, and more that were torn loose from their moorings in his desperate flight from Mary's razor. One hand is held in place by a hook, and the other is rapidly deepening in color, the side of his arm already raising blisters where the fire caught him. He has no way to free himself without making another injury worse, so he just stands still, blood from the cut on his face slowly dripping onto the floor.

He tries not to think about where the razor and hooks have been. It would be just his luck to get some terrible disease from them, on top of everything else.

When he finally hears the front door open, he tenses in a mix of fear and preparation, ready to call out to the Stokers or hold his breath and hope the newcomer doesn't find him. Whoever it is doesn't say anything as they hurry up the stairs, but they're thundering back down almost immediately.

"Jon?" Danny's voice calls, sounding on the verge of panic, Tim echoing him half a beat later.

"I'm back here!" he yells before they can start catastrophizing, thinking he's been kidnapped again or worse. "Here! Back here!"

When they tumble through the last doorway almost on top of each other, they just stare at him in horror.

"I'm, er. Stuck," Jon says by way of explanation, waving his burned hand at the hook still holding his other hand up as though he's being sworn into court.

"What the hell happened?" Danny asks, eyeing the remaining hooks warily as he picks his way around the desk.

"Who was here?" Tim asks, still positioned protectively in the doorway.

"I- I think I met Gerry's mum?" Jon says, unsure of how to describe the encounter.

It comes out in halting fragments as they free him and patch up his injuries. Tim comes over to help as soon as it's clear there's no attacker still in the house to be concerned about. He's the one who thinks to use one of the bloodstained razors- though not the one still stained with Jon's blood- to cut the lines loose from the ceiling so they can move to the shabby kitchen and work the hooks out of his skin there, where he can't make things worse by flinching.

They can't get the old sink to run water at the right temperature for burns, one tap providing scalding hot water and the other icy cold and turning both of them evidently confusing the faucet into sputtering but releasing no liquid, so Jon stands at the sink with his hand under water so cold it almost feels like being burned again while the Stokers pick away at his injuries.

Tim spends what feels like hours tending to the injuries, tearing up the cleanest sheet when they fail to turn up anything better to use as bandages. Danny hovers half an inch away the entire time, both of them radiating concern. Jon wants to be more appreciative, but he's too tired from the fight and the adrenaline crash and trying to process whether or not he's just killed Gerry's mum to be anything but silently compliant at best.

When his injuries are treated, Jon feels exhausted and cold. He wants to crawl back into bed, ideally with Danny lending his body heat again, but he knows he can't. They need to focus on getting to Oxford; he can lick his wounds once he's home.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Danny asks him for the twentieth time.

"Yes!" He doesn't mean to snap, but he feels poorly and his hands hurt and he just wants to go home.

"Sorry," Danny says, subdued. The hand that was reaching for Jon's shoulder drops to his side.

Jon sighs. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault I don't feel well. How was Tesco?"

Chapter Text

Gerry doesn't know if it's the closeness of his connection with Beholding because of his tattoos, his closeness with Jon, or what he did, but by the time Jon has been gone a week he feels ill with it. The constant pounding urgency with nowhere to go, the worry about what might happen to Jon out in the world, the loneliness of missing him, all seem to combine in a way that feels like the flu.

"Still nothing?" he asks Sasha. She's become the main point of contact between the horde of researchers combing through every CCTV recording and database they can find and the cult's management types, which Gerry bewilderingly finds himself accounted one of. He thinks her relationship with the Stokers is what pushes her to pull all-nighters and take risks that could lead to her back doors being noticed. (She hasn't been caught yet, but Gerry doesn't know enough about hacking to know if that's down to skill, the Eye's influence, or pure luck.)

Though, going off her file, that might just be the kind of person she is all the time.

(Nowhere has a rumor mill like a temple of the Eye has a rumor mill, and within hours of Jon's disappearance Sasha's simple friendship with his accomplices had been twisted into a lurid variety of farfetched and traitorous entanglements. Gerry isn't sure there's anyone else willing to talk to her without strict formality at the moment, but he's sure she's hoping that being the one to find Jon might restore her standing in the eyes of their peers.)

Sasha grunts, not turning away from her screen. Gerry takes that as a "no," sure she would bring anything promising to his attention the moment she found it. He has to ask, for the sake of thoroughness. At least his repetitive administrative holding pattern is better than Jonah's; Gerry would much rather field updates from the various researchers and boots on the ground searching for Jon than the onslaught of calls from other strongholds of Beholding.

So far, the intoxicating drug of Jon's presence has been fairly proximity-limited; no one has really believed in what he is without being in the same building, and that meant that Jonah, greedy bastard that he is, was able to keep him a secret. The wave of panic and greedy desperation they were all hit with when Jon vanished from view was nowhere near as localized. Confused acolytes of the Watcher across the world started bouncing speculation back and forth. He doesn't know what Jonah's been telling them, but it looks exhausting and probably isn't enough to satisfy them. Gerry estimates that that will work for a month at most before they need to either have Jon in hand, come up with another excuse, or start readying guest rooms.

The topic of whether the Institute is a suitable home for Jon once he's found has already been raised, as well, by Gertrude if no one else yet. If they lost him, how can they be trusted to keep him once he's found, to protect him? He knows she wants to keep Jon with them as much as anyone, that she's right and it's her job to think of these things for a reason, but it makes Gerry's stomach twist with anxiety. He knows that Jonah will fight any attempt to remove Jon with all his might, far too proud and selfish to accept an easy relocation, but that doesn't mean he'll win. If enough of the other temples agree on an alternate placement, or if they give up on diplomacy and just steal him from the Institute, there will be nothing they can do. The idea of Jon all alone, in a foreign country- likely one where he doesn't even speak the language, as there's no way the Usher Foundation can reasonably be argued to be the best place for him unless the Americans resort to subterfuge- makes Gerry sick. No temple of the Eye would dare mistreat him, but that doesn't mean he would be happy.

He works on the project Gertrude had given him with more focus than ever, whenever he finds a free moment. If they get Jon back- when they get him back- it's their best hope of demonstrating that the errors that allowed this escape won't be repeated, that they can keep him safe without any outside interference. The thought of how betrayed Jon would feel if he saw it, if he found out that Gerry was the one to create it, lurks at the back of his mind, but he crushes it down.

He has so many things demanding his attention, so many fires to put out at any given moment, that he doesn't have time to think about anything else. He doesn't have time to think about how he felt Beholding's feelings toward Jon leech away in the tunnels, or  the desire to discover how much of his affection for his friend was his own (though he doesn't doubt that much of it is, not after- what happened), and he doesn't have time to think about what Jon might be doing, where he might be going. He doesn't have time to entertain the hope that Jon will make it out of London, to somewhere that will keep him safe from any of Beholding's temple's, so that he can live out his life the way he had been before Jonah found him. Thinking something like that would be traitorous, anyway. And no one is more loyal than Gerry, these days.

Ask anyone.

Chapter Text

With safe access to the entirety of Pinhole Books and the supplies to see them through at least a couple days, their plans stall. Danny's brief time on the streets of London was overwhelming, the trip to Tesco dazzling, and the peek at what a normal home (though Jon insists it was abnormal in many respects) looks like that their hideaway offered was intriguing, but Danny never quite articulated what he would do if he ever left the Institute. He always assumed that eventually he would somehow convince Jonah to allow him to take sanctioned trips Outside, and then his trajectory and goals would all be determined for him. He doesn't feel he has much to contribute, even with all the details he tucked away from years of absorbing any fact about the Outside world he could get his hands on.

Tim is in much the same boat. He was always the better, of the two of them, at planning ahead- he'd even planned Danny's own secret escape better than him- but he can't do that without information. Their brief venture out of Pinhole Books made it clear to both of them just how ill informed they are; within the first block of their walk, Danny had already made note of more than a dozen things to ask Jon about when they returned.

Jon has the knowledge of the Outside world, but he doesn't know how the Cult operates. Whatever Tim and Danny tell him only seems to overwhelm him. He asks over and over if they're sure that what Gerard had said about CCTV was true, double checking and then shaking his head, more worried with each repetition.

"I just don't see how we can make it to the train station without being spotted. The two of you alone, perhaps, but not me," he says during one such conversation.

"We could try disguising you," Tim suggests- they've already considered that idea, only for it to be rejected as too easily noticed.

"The two of you with a third person is more likely to trip whatever they have looking for us than the two of you alone," Jon repeats. "And that's if we managed to concoct a disguise that hid all my identifying characteristics."

A thought itches at the back of Danny's mind. "What about- what about that person we saw on our way back, Tim?"

"What person?" His voice is tense. "Was someone following us?"

"Wha- Oh. No, the person in the big black... outfit. With only their eyes showing!"

Tim shakes his head, evidently not remembering, but Jon's brow creases. "You saw... a woman wearing a niqab?"

"I guess?"

Jon's turn to shake his head. "Right. What about her?"

"You could wear one of those! Sasha says that her computer... thing... identifies people by facial features, and sometimes things like tattoos or body language. None of that would show on the cameras if you were wearing a... niqab." Danny hesitates on the last word, unsure if he's pronouncing it correctly, but Jon doesn't correct his pronunciation.

"We don't have a niqab, Danny."

"Couldn't we make one? With the blankets and things?"

Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's not- it's made a certain way. Out of specific material. It isn't just throwing a blanket over your head like a Halloween ghost."

"Oh." Danny swallows, cheeks hot.

Jon sighs again. "I'm sorry, I'm just-"

"It's fine!" Danny rushes to cut in. He doesn't need to be told that being trapped in the house is wearing on Jon, especially since Tim keeps limiting his activities even more, trying to keep his injuries from getting worse. His mother henning has been worse than Danny has seen in years, ever since Jon was hurt.

"Let's take a break!" Tim suggests, voice falsely bright. "We can come back to it in a bit. We'll come up with something."

Danny nods, squeezing Jon's shoulder, but he's starting to worry.

-

Constantly avoiding anything that might get them caught gets more exhausting by the day. At least, that's what Danny attributes the way he feels more tired in the mornings than he didd going to sleep to. Tim is feeling it as well, while Jon only gets more jittery with every hour spent inside.

It isn't until the morning he and Tim both wake up shivery and feverish that it occurs to him to be worried.

"Here, drink this," Jon says, arm behind Danny's head as he brings a glass of water to his lips.

Danny sips at it before clearing his throat roughly. "Thanks."

"Of course. Here, finish it off so I can bring some to Tim. Do you feel any more like eating anything that you did earlier?"

"What?" Danny furrows his brow. He doesn't remember talking about that.

"Are you hungry?" Jon asks again.

Danny shakes his head, grateful to sink down into the relative comfort of his pillow and let his eyes flutter shut.

Chapter Text

Working with the Magnus Institute always makes Daisy's skin crawl. The money is good, but she's never sure that it's worth the slimy feeling the building gives her, like it takes weeks to fully wash the judgemental stare of its Head off her skin.

This job has her even more on edge. Usually, the Magnus Institute wants to hush up some bizarre incident, or the protection or retrieval of some artifact; once or twice they've even found a monster to send her after. They've never set her on the trail of a person and asked her to bring them back alive before.

Based on the photos she's been given, none of her targets look like much, but they have to be into something big for Bouchard to shell out the considerable daily retainer just to keep her looking, plus a fee if she manages to bring any of them back.

Timothy and Daniel Stoker don't show up in any database, which isn't unusual for the people the Magnus Institute deals with. Daisy's seen more mysteriously empty official records and unfortunate records fires working with them than she ever cared to. Apparently these two are brothers, similar enough by their photos, and they've stolen something from the Institute. Whatever it is is important enough for Bouchard to pay through the nose over, but nothing's been said about Daisy finding and returning any object.

Jonathan Sims is easier to trace. She was careful to erase as many traces of her search as she could, after finding the missing persons notice from Oxford (Basira could have done it better, but she never involves Basira when she deals with the Institute), but other than that he seems painfully average. No reason was given for why Bouchard wants him so badly, or why such stress was placed on him being alive and unharmed, but Daisy doesn't get paid to ask questions.

She doesn't bother with a trip to Oxford. She knows Bouchard knows she doesn't have any updates for him (even if she doesn't know how he knows), but he insists on calling her every day to ask, regardless. Between that, the fee he agreed to pay without argument, and the escalating stress in his voice with every phone call, Daisy's sure she's not the only one he has looking. If she wants to actually collect the payday Bouchard dangled in front of her so smugly, she needs to think outside the box, not just retread the same beats whoever else is out there must have checked.

There's more about the Magnus Institute in police records than Bouchard knows- she's sure he would have found some way to destroy the scattered collage of notes kept and passed between Sectioned officers for decades if he did. Put together, they give a scattered constellation of known associates, people involved in the sort of stuff that gets you Sectioned. People whose networks lead to the kind of monsters Daisy takes out to her spot in the woods, even if they passed inspection themselves. She figures interviewing anyone from that list she can get a hold of is as good a start as any.

Most are a bust, but she doesn't mind. This is what she loves, what she's good at, pursuing a goal with single-minded determination until she has it in hand. The fact that more than a few genuinely seem to have never heard of the men she's looking for, but reacted with intense interest when the Magnus Institute was mentioned, is just a bonus. If she lets a few extra details slip to anyone who contributed a few bills to her wallet, well- if Bouchard likes gathering gossip and dirty secrets so much, it only seems fair for him to find himself on the other end from time to time. His known associates give off similarly unnerving auras, but Daisy considers her business lunch with Peter Lukas one of her better ones, regardless of the chill. Mr. Lukas, as it happens, is evidently a great fan of police charities, and it only seemi fair to let a few details slip in return for such generous donations.

Pinhole Books doesn't seem so promising. After her first drive past, she went back to the station and checked every record she could to make sure it isn't abandoned. The paperwork is all in the same name- a Gerard rather than Mary, but given he was still a Keay he was presumably her heir- but the business is clearly shuttered, and the place doesn't exactly look inhabited. She approaches the front door and knocks anyway.

After receiving no response, she knocks harder, calling out, "Police!"

She's too seasoned to startle at the unexpected voice that calls, "You won't have much luck there, dearie. Mary's Gerard moved out years ago, the place has been empty ever since!"

She goes through all the motions of the perfectly proper police officer with the little old lady who lives two doors down from Pinhole Books, asking if the Keays left a forwarding address and reacting with appropriate somber shock at the news of Mary's grisly death. The woman tells it in sensational tones, but Daisy can sense the holes in her story where the details had been withheld from the public. There are lots of reasons to do so, of course, but in this context Daisy considers it a telltale sign of Sectioned business. All the while, she keeps the thud from upstairs she heard between announcing herself and being distracted tucked in the back of her mind .

-

The street where Pinhole Books is located is a quiet one. From her position watching over the building the next day, Daisy can watch every person coming and going from its neighbors. The door of Pinhole Books doesn't open once, but a couple times she thinks she sees a flicker or a shadow at one of the upstairs windows.

She doesn't know what she'll find inside; maybe Gerard Keay is just hiding out in an apparently-abandoned house because of an entirely unrelated crime or conflict, and her time will be wasted. But her gut says differently. She can practically smell that, whoever's in there, they have information about her targets.

She tops her day of surveillance off with a trip home to check everything she'll need to make a quick and quiet entrance. After dark she heads back, parking her squad car a street over and walking the rest of the way. It might come in handy, but it's also recognizable.

As she hefts herself over the hedge to slip around the back of the house and pick the lock on the back door, she can almost taste victory.

The ground floor proves unremarkable. Exactly what she'd expect from an uninhabited, closed down bookshop: rows of cleared shelves with a handful of volumes gathering dust, cramped kitchen, a room that looks like an office with a concerning array of sharp implements, bloodstains, and ash which she presumed to be the site of Mrs. Keay's demise, a toilet, and a drawing of an eye that makes her skin crawl in the same way Bouchard does. The kitchen looks like it might've been used recently, but nothing so definitive as recently abandoned bits of food or a living inhabitant.

She makes her way upstairs slowly, careful of the old boards and with a hand on her gun. Never know what you might find in a place like this.

The upper floor offers her four doors. Two are cracked open, allowing her to peer into the empty bathroom and a bedroom. One is crammed into an odd corner, most likely a linen closet. She makes a quit circuit of the master bedroom and its attached facilities for the sake of thoroughness, but she knew as soon as she made it to the landing that her prey is behind the fourth door.

She kicks it in, careless of the noise now that her quarry has no chance of escaping or reacting faster than she can pin them.

There are pillows and blankets scattered over the floor, their unexpected sprawl nearly tripping her up, but they do nothing to stop her from planting herself in the doorway, gun aimed at a mass under the bedding.

She expected to find Gerard Keay, or at an outside chance some associate of his. The three forms she can make out under the blankets, curled and twined about each other in a way that makes it impossible for any of them to react quickly, make her heart quicken with excitement.

"Police, hands where I can see them!" Eyes darting around the room for any other occupants, she elbows at where she thinks the light switch is. The sleeping figures are still squirming to consciousness when it it clicks on.

Sims is nestled in the middle, but reacts the quickest, rolling over one of the others and probably delivering a nasty kick to his midsection in his haste to scramble out of bed. (It's satisfying in one way to see her victims disable each other through sheer incompetence, but in another it's disappointing to have the challenge snatched away.) He eventually freezes crouched against the side of the pillaged bed frame, hands raised timidly to his shoulders as his eyes fix on her gun.

The Stokers react more slowly, clearly struggling to open their eyes. She doesn't envy Sims the cold he has coming on, based on his bedmates' red noses and pale faces. She kicks at them to get them to move faster.

Sims' mouth works, eyes darting as he tries to figure out how she got here, what to say to defend himself. He seemed like the law-abiding type by her research, the kind of person who might buy into the idea that this is an officially sanctioned operation just as easily as the neighbors will.

"You're all under arrest," she adds for his benefit.

"W-what for?" Sims stutters, just as she expected. She considers not answering, but giving him something means he's less likely to start shouting on the way out.

"Suspicion of murder." That's always a good one. Vague enough to be difficult to directly refute, serious enough to shock most people into silence, easy enough to spin a justification for if someone official asks for one. Easier still in this case, with more than enough blood downstairs to provide cause if she were to conveniently forget about the property's history.

Just as she expected, the words shock Sims into gaping like a fish, whatever protests he'd been lining up knocked clean out of his head.

She prods them into lining up against the bed frame, kneeling with their backs to her as she cuffs them. Sims is in rough shape, with bandages on his face and hand- she hopes that won't count against her when it comes to having delivered him alive and well, but expects that Bouchard will be thrilled to have an excuse to dock her payout. He'll probably count whatever virus the brothers are carrying against her, too.

Her handcuffs go to Sims, since he looks like the only one in any state to actually try and make a run for it. The Stokers get zipties, pulled maybe a bit tighter than they need to be. She's about to leave them long enough to retrieve her car when she reconsiders the amount of money Bouchard is offering for them and pulls out three more zipties for their ankles.

She leaves via the front door, so any neighbors watching her march the men out won't have to wonder why they're all climbing the hedges. When she makes it back up to the bedroom she's displeased to see one of the Stokers wormed halfway across the room. She grabs him by the hair, holding him up and shaking him. "What do you think you're doing?"

It takes a long moment for him to regain his muddled senses before he looks back at her with an absurdly pleading expression and whines, "Jon's glasses!"

What the hell does Bouchard want with these idiots? She follows a jerk of the man's chin, as much as he can manage with her still holding him by the hair, to see exactly what he said, a thick-framed pair of black glasses, nothing abnormal immediately evident and bearing a definite resemblance to the ones Sims had in his picture. Her sigh sounds more like a growl, but she uses the edge of her shirt to pick them up and tuck them into her pocket. She isn't about to risk being wrong about them, but Bouchard might want them.

She rather enjoyed the way Sims had paled when she wrapped the zipties around his ankles, eyes wide with the knowledge that he was entirely at her mercy, but she cuts them all loose regardless. It was hardly gratifying enough to make her carry them out to the car.

Chapter Text

Jon is losing feeling in his extremities, fingertips going cold as his stomach flips and his head spins with conflicting instincts about what to do in a regular interaction with police, mixed with his desperation for anyone to help, mixed with Gerry's ironclad confidence that any police in London should be presumed to be working for Jonah. He has no idea if she was telling the truth about the murder (murder!), and all his imagined speeches to helpful officers about how he'd been kidnapped and needs their help have vanished from his head completely.

Part of him- that worked so hard to get and stay free, that has barely seen the real world again- wants to try to make a break for it. He knows it's impossible, with his shoes left behind (another thing that makes a pit in his stomach, abandoning Tim's gift, maybe the most thoughtful thing anyone had given him over weeks of being assailed by offerings), his hands cuffed, and his glasses in the officer's pocket, even if he could leave Tim and Danny.

Because they wouldn't be running with him. Not as sick as they are, not with the way they've started to forget what's said between the beginning of a conversation and the end of it. He doesn't know what's wrong with them, he doesn't know how to save them (or himself), he's a burden and an obstacle in their lives. They sway on either side of him in the back of the police car, eyes still hazy. Maybe they're glad. They haven't been acting like themselves as they get sicker, to the point of Danny starting to beg to go back to the Institute, insisting that being away "feels wrong." Or maybe they're as terrified as Jon is; he can hardly ask them at the moment. There's nothing he can do.

Eventually, he works up his courage. The image of the woman shaking Tim by his hair is imprinted on the backs of his eyelids and his guts are tied into one awful knot, but at least one of them needs an idea of where they're being taken, what's going to happen to them. "Miss? Miss please, who are we meant to have murdered?"

It sounds pathetic, childish even, and the policewoman flicks him a glare over her shoulder. "Shut it. I'm sure I have something in the boot I could use as a gag, if you'd like."

Jon shakes his head frantically, but her attention is already elsewhere, dialing on her mobile as the car idles at a light. He strains his ears, trying to catch any hint of their fate.

The person on the other end answers with a tone hovering dangerously close to annoyance, but the woman steamrolls over that. "I've got them. What do you want done with them?"

Another wave of ice runs over Jon's skin. He's certain that those aren't the words of a police officer to a superior. The woman catches his eye in the rearview mirror and grins, thumb shifting to turn up the volume on the call. Her teeth look sharp even in the fuzziness of the world without his glasses, the light glinting off them from the streetlights the only point of light in the car.

"-side door you usually use to my office," he makes out, and it punches the breath out of him, more sure of the speaker with every word. Jon shakes his head in limp denial. "Bring them up there. Jonathan first, if you don't mind."

"Got it," the woman says, hanging up on Jonah without a farewell.

"Please." The word surprises Jon even as it makes her eyes flick to him. He swallows, barrelling on, "Please, you can't, whatever he told you- it's a lie! He kidnapped me, I barely escaped, please don't take me back there!"

Her face remains stony, unmoved by the tears threatening in his voice. "I told you to be quiet. Last warning."

Her expression twitches in annoyance at the little punched-out sound Jon makes in response to that, but his ensuing silence seems enough to satisfy her.

There's nothing he can do.

-

Danny falls to his knees when the woman- is she even really police? If not, where did she get the gun? Is it fake?- hauls him out by the shoulder in the Magnus Institute parking lot. When she lets go he wavers, threatening to collapse entirely. Jon barely has time to feel indignation at his friend's rough treatment before he's being pulled out himself, barely managing to keep his feet on the wet pavement. Cold rain trickles down his neck as their captor easily lifts Danny back up, tossing him carelessly back into the car before slamming the door behind him, perilously close to crushing his bare foot.

"Please, you don't have to do this," Jon tries one last time as she drags him toward the building. "I'll- I'll do anything. Please." He thinks he can feel the possessiveness that laid over him like a blanket, crushed his lungs in a way he hadn't realized until he was safely away, already beginning to settle over him. She doesn't even bother responding, this time, just cuffing him upside the head. Jon is dragged along in silence, nothing he can do or offer able to delay his fate.

(Is it fate? Will he always end up back here, no matter what he does?)

Immediately inside the door, things look like they would in any historic building retrofitted for modern fire safety standards, antiquated wallpaper set off by fluorescent EXIT signs, desolate for the night. As they go deeper into the Institute, things change. It still looks like Jon always thought it would when it was an interesting potential scholarly resource and nothing more, but he can feel more and more eyes on them. As they reach the building's upper floors they don't have to just feel them, as every other doorway becomes occupied by cult members watching Jon with greedy eyes. It seems to make his captor uncomfortable, but she doesn't turn around or stop to chide any of them.

He can tell which door is Jonah's as soon as they enter its hallway, the carved wood double doors ostentatiously styled and taller than any other they'd passed. They open before they reach them, and Jon is dragged into the darkness beyond.

The policewoman practically drops him as soon as they cross the threshold, turning on her heel, presumably to retrieve Tim and Danny from the car. Jonah catches Jon before he can stumble, guiding him to an overstuffed chair set in front of the desk in a way that makes him feel like he's been sent to the school principal's office. Two more ordinary chairs are set slightly behind it on its right side. The only light is the desk lamp, the yellow gleam harsh to Jon's still sleep-crusted eyes.

Jon doesn't realize he's crying until Jonah leans forward to wipe his cheek with a thumb. Water drips down onto his face from his hair a moment later regardless of the continuing tears, and Jonah looks up briefly from his rapturous observation of Jon to bark at someone near the doors, "Get him a blanket!"

Jon shakes his head weakly, unable to even push Jonah away with his hands still cuffed behind him, nothing he can do. Jonah takes advantage, leaning in closer to ghost his thumb over the bandage on Jon's cheek, persisting even after Jon flinches away. "Who did this?"

"It- it- there-" he doesn't know how to explain his encounter with Mary Keay, if he even wants to. What if it implicates Gerry? What if it enrages Jonah and he hurts him? True, he hasn't done any such thing yet, but Jon is feeling particularly vulnerable, dragged back after an escape with his hands bound.

"Jon," Gertrude steps out from the shadows, startling him; he didn't even notice her. "Who hurt you?"

You, right now he wants to spit defiantly, but instead feels another answer being pulled from his lips, mouth moving without his input. He has to answer; there's nothing else he can do. "Mary Keay."

Both of the shadowed faces leaning over him crease in confused consideration, but any further questioning is forestalled by someone bursting through the doors and hurrying over with the promised blanket, followed by the policewoman with Tim and Danny.

Jonah tucks the heavy duvet in around Jon in the chair, even nudging one edge of it under his bare feet, before turning to the policewoman. "Keys." He holds out his hand expectantly and she hands them over, though she looks disgruntled at the demand.

The blanket is tucked back around him the moment his hands are free, though Jon takes note of the way Jonah's fingers linger over the bandages on his hands before withdrawing. The hole from the fishhook in his right hand has nearly closed, but the burn on his left is still red and angry and blistered.

No such comfort is offered to the Stokers, though they are looking notably better than they had before bed, or even what little Jon had been able to make out in the car.

"Bouchard," the woman snaps when Jonah fails to immediately return the key and his attention to her.

"In due time, Detective Tonner," he says as though he has all the time in the world. Jon wonders if he does it on purpose, just to be irritating.

Gertrude pulls the woman to the side, initiating an interrogation in low voices. Jon can make out questions about whether she had been the one to hurt him, where she had found them and how, before Jonah pulls his focus back again with a hand to his cheek. Jon takes advantage of his newly-freed hands to bat it away, withdrawing deeper into the high-backed chair and glaring. Jonah looks infuriatingly tolerant, like a parent watching a toddler fumble delivering food to their mouth.

"Do it again and I'll bite you," he says spitefully. He wants to take the smug look off of Jonah's face, and there isn't exactly much point in playing nice any more. Gerry's warning about no second chances probably applies to more than his help in their escape.

Jon tries to push thoughts of Gerry to the back of his mind, far, far away from anywhere they might get his friend into trouble. His stomach flips at the question of what will happen to the Stokers for helping him.

Detective Tonner is released from her conversation with Gertrude and looks to Jonah expectantly. He reluctantly draws away from Jon, retreating behind the desk to pull open a drawer. He withdraws a thick paper packet, passing it to the Detective. In the brief moment she pries it open before resealing the metal tabs, Jon catches sight of a large amount of cash. He feels sick, dirty. Just an object, delivered and sold with nothing he could do to stop it.

He's still marinating in the skin-crawling feeling of being bought when the detective exits, the doors shutting portentously behind her. Jonah slinks over and locks them before returning his attention to the three fugitives.

Chapter Text

Tim's thoughts are clear for the first time in days. It's like whatever has been weighing him and Danny down and delaying their flight to Oxford has been cured by entering the Institute, symptoms quickly dissipating. It mostly means that instead of feeling overheated and woozy and afraid he gets to feel wet and uncomfortable and afraid.

He never really considered what would happen if they were caught. He tried to work out what might happen to Danny in the scenario Tim has been picturing since their teens, but leaving for a trip around the Outside world and eventually returning of one's own accord is leagues away from this.

Danny shivers a seat away from him, while Jon is bundled in a blanket in the middle. Both look identically miserable. Tim's mind races; he needs to convince Jonah and Gertrude that this was all his fault, needs to spare the other two as much punishment as he can manage. He can take, will take, anything they care to dish out, and happily, if it spares the others.

(He doesn't have the presence of mind to return to thoughts of how much of his affection for Jon is manipulated by the Eye, but he thinks much of it developed in the long hours spent cooped up in the Keay home with nothing to entertain them but each other. He's earnest and kind to Danny and clever and even funny sometimes, always patient with their questions about things he regards as quotidian. He's worth protecting alongside Danny.)

Jonah and Gertrude both come around to the front of the desk, looking down on the three of them, the picture of stern and disappointed authority with their faces set in harsh shadow by the limited lighting. Tim's mind runs circles around the things he needs to keep secret, things he needs to cover over and hide from the Archivist's prying words.

"Jon," Gertrude begins, and Tim's stomach sinks. He won't be able to cut in before Jon answers; with the Question directed to him specifically, he has no choice but to Watch and Listen in rapt silence until he's finished, and Jon has no idea what to expect of a Question from the Archivist. "How did you acquire your injuries?"

"Tim and Danny left to go and get food and things. I was alone in the house," Jon starts, his face showing his unease with the words coming out of his mouth. "I wasn't supposed to go downstairs, or near the windows, so I wasn't doing anything when Mary Keay came into the room.

"I was alarmed, because we were supposed to be alone in the house and because of how she looked. She was old, and bald, and tiny, and covered in tattoos- I realized later they were in Sanskrit..."

Tim has no choice but to listen in open-mouthed horror as Jon gives a much more complete description of how he ended up injured than he and Danny received (though he notes helplessly that it isn't quite to the standard of a proper Statement. Another thing for them to pry out of Jon). At any given moment, he's torn between sick shock at what Jon went through, how close he came to dying (how close he and Danny came to coming home to find him lying dead on the floor, already flayed and bound into the book), and twisted dread that he'll say something too revealing.

Tim was never fond of Gerard Keay, always regarding him with the same suspicion most of his peers shared, but he finds himself wanting to protect him. If for no other reason than that, without him, Jon will be left entirely without allies- Tim doesn't expect himself or Danny to be allowed to see him again any time this century.

He's impressed, though; for someone with no warning of the Archivist's abilities he does remarkably well at dodging the parts of the story that would be too revealing, talking around incriminating details. Tim didn't get anything resembling a handle on that skill until well into adulthood.

When Jon's words run out they hang in silence as his audience digests the horror he spooled out. Gertrude is the first to speak. "Why did you decide to go to Pinhole Books?"

Tim cuts in before the others have a chance, taking advantage of the more general nature of the Question. "I didn't know anywhere else Outside to go. I heard Gerard Keay say he still owned his mother's house in Morden, and that he kept the lights there on. Once we got there, we managed to find a hidden spare key to get in." All technically true and, he hopes, enough to get Gertrude to move on to other Questions. Enough to draw her attention away from the others.

"Why did you aid Jon in leaving the Institute?"

Tim keeps the same stiff attitude as Danny stumbles his way into an answer; half the key to getting past the Archivist's radar is not looking too relieved when she moves on from the topic you were trying to avoid. It worked when they were teenagers clumsily hiding harmless mischief, and he really, really needs it to work now. Being caught lying- omission is as bad as outright falsehood, to the Watcher- will only make things worse for them.

As the questioning progresses it has all three of them in tears, Gertrude's Power pulling all their most intense and revealing emotions to the surface; Tim goes red-faced choking out a confession of the lengths he would go to to protect Danny, while Danny is pale as paper admitting how long he had been entertaining the idea of leaving and Jon is ruddy with outrage at his confinement.

Tim continues to be impressed with Jon; he speaks around the things he absolutely can't afford to confess as adeptly as anyone, and even manages to shout out anger and resentment instead of being dominated by the fear and uncertainty that Beholding prefers, that Tim knows he feels. He doesn't know if it's the Entity's affection for him or something about Jon himself that lets him dance around Gertrude's ability to pull the most negative and vulnerable things from her subjects, but with his Patron's influence resting on his shoulders again Tim feels himself falling a little more in love.

When most of the story has been spilled, the three of them left teary and wrung out, Jonah leans back against his desk, tapping his fingers against his lips in consideration. Before Tim can brace himself for the next Question, Jon speaks up.

"Why did Tim and Danny get sick?" He glares up at Jonah and Gertrude defiantly, blazing with righteous outrage even tear stained and bundled in a fluffy blanket.

Jonah's face drops slack, confused and open, just a little too practiced. "You're an educated man, Jon. I'm sure you're aware of the germ theory of disease-"

"That's not what happened." Tim sees Danny flinch at someone daring to interrupt Jonah and has to suppress the same urge himself. "Whatever was wrong with them, it wasn't just a cold. And it got better as soon as they were back here."

"Jon, listen to what you're saying. Do you think a building has power over their health?" Jonah asks. Tim's heart beats wildly; Gertrude is glaring at Jonah, as though by entertaining Jon's question he's erring too close to something they want to keep to themselves.

"You did something to them," Jon insists.

"Why would I? Tim and Danny have been part of us their whole lives, and if we had been given reason to suspect their... failings... before now, they would never have been allowed to get close to you. And if I could strike them down with illness from a distance, I should have been able to locate them, which would have much more utility."

It... makes sense. More sense than the alternative. But then, Tim hasn't really been aware, the last couple of days, while Jon's watched them decline. And it didn't feel like a natural illness. Even now, feeling almost like himself again physically, it's like there's some deeper part of him missing, eroded away. He doesn't know what to think, whether to believe his gut and his friend or his lifelong habit of listening to Jonah.

"Gerry..." Jon starts. Tim's heart leaps at the mention, terrified of where this is going, but he tries not to show it. "Gerry said his dad had to do something... drastic. In order to leave to be with his mum. You did something to keep him here. To keep everyone here. I know it. Danny couldn't stand outside, and when they got up here he was walking on his own."

"An interesting theory," Jonah says, and Tim knows he won't give anything more away. This is what he always does, and suddenly Tim can't understand why he's always seen him as a wise leader, more connected to the Ceaseless Watcher than almost anyone else. He's standing right there, feet away from Tim, and he's been unable to find them for days, with all the resources at his beck and call, because of protections put in place by a woman who hadn't even been an Avatar. He's withholding information for the sake of doing it, and in this moment Tim can't stand it.

"The Signing," he says, almost unaware of speaking, his mind moving barely faster than his mouth. He sees sick realization dawn on Danny's face, but keeps going for Jon's sake. Hadn't he thought something was off about the Signing, if Jon could be held here against his will without anyone batting an eye? "Everyone does it when they're 14 or so. A permanent record of our devotion to Beholding. But no one actually reads the contract. He put something in there. That's how. It must be."

Jon's face lights up with fierce vindication. Tim can feel it again, the weight of being Watched, comforting at the time, that he'd felt at his own Signing; the dreadful knowledge that the force trying to keep him from seeing Jon to safety was one he let in. It makes sense, and it makes him fume. "You bastard," he spits, again without thinking. He feels wild, out of control, like if he weren't restrained he might take a swing at this man he's looked up to all his life. He thinks of the kids in the Cult now, around the right age for their own Signings. He felt so grown up, performing the action that made him adult in the eyes of his peers, poured hours of practice into making his signature look real instead of childish. But they're just kids. "You bastard."

Jonah's eyes flash, and Tim knows he's in for it, but he's too angry to care.

"Jon, I think you've given plenty of perspective to tonight's events already. You need to have your injuries seen to, and you need... rest. I'm sure with some contemplation, you'll understand why we do what we do. That it's for your benefit. We care about you."

Jon jerks, snapped out of his anger about Tim and Danny into confusion. "What?"

The doors swing open at a thought from Jonah. He gives Jon that fake-compassionate look so many of them fall for, that Tim has fallen for all his life. "We'll speak more later. You've been through an ordeal."

Michael appears beside Jon's chair, pulling at his arm and urging him to get up. Jon shakes his head.

"No, what are you doing? What are you going to do to them?" Michael pulls him to standing, blanket falling to the floor. Jon leans toward Jonah, the arm that Michael isn't holding swiping toward him with fingers curled like claws. "Stop! You can't- leave them alone! I'm not going without them!"

He looks desperately to Tim, to Danny. He looks terrified, and Tim's insides twist to know it's on their account. Michael starts steering Jon toward the door, still managing to look fretful and apologetic.

"No! Leave them alone, don't- don't hurt them!" Twisting in his seat, Tim can see the white all the way around Jon's irises, and the realization that he can't fight the strong hands pulling him away. "Danny! Jonah, don't hurt them, please! Tim! Please!"

The door shuts and locks behind the pair, Jon's shouts quickly muffled by the thick wood. Tim turns back to face Jonah and Gertrude and whatever they intend to do out of Jon's sight.

Chapter Text

Jon was always prepared to lie, if they were caught and taken back to the Institute. He was absolutely, unconditionally unwilling to implicate Gerry, and the less that Jonah and Gertrude knew about his escape the better; it increased his chances of a repeat performance.

But the second Gertrude asked a question, he found he couldn't.

He's always been quick with excuses, as long as it's a situation he's had time to think about ahead of time. As long as he doesn't have to improvise, he's good at talking over and around things without his audience realizing anything is being left out. He figures that's the only thing that saved Gerry when Gertrude started asking questions, and even then his instinct to be brief so he didn't have a chance to raise suspicion was thwarted by the words tumbling from his lips seemingly without end.

It reminds him of Mr. Spider: his hands unable to do anything but turn the page, his tongue unable to tell anything but the truth. The same uncanny loss of control, driving him toward destruction. He talked, and talked, and talked, and still Gertrude had more questions. He was so grateful he could have wept when Tim or Danny cut in and answered for him. If that was what the Eye is, broken down to pure power and tangible effect, he thinks he might hate it even more than before.

It's always easier for Jon to lie if, paradoxically, he isn't paying attention to what he's saying. If he pays attention, he overthinks things and comes out with absurd reasonings; if he tucks a specific detail he wanted to avoid into the back of his mind and lets his mouth run unattended, he's much more likely to succeed. So instead, he thought about Tim and Danny.

He thought about how much better they seemed. He'd been afraid they were dying at Gerry's house. It was like watching someone suffer through the flu and dementia at the same time, all their emotional barriers broken down and their thoughts twisted around, bodies wracked with shivering pain. By the time Gertrude began questioning them they were perfectly lucid. Impossibly lucid compared to how they were before, at least by any conventional standard.

Jonah's eyes glowed down at him, giving the impression that he saw right through Jon's face, through the skin to the bones beneath and through that into the meat of his brain, electrical impulses laid bare for him to interpret. Gertrude watched from her position slightly offset from the rest of them, pinning Jon to his seat with her eyes.

Danny said he wanted to go back to the Institute. He was the one who came up with the escape plan, and he cried to Jon about needing to return.

When Gertrude's questions petered out, confronting Jonah felt triumphant. Finally, here was something that had wronged someone else- someone Jon cares about- as proof that he isn't just delusional, isn't just misinterpreting normal actions of affection through a sinister lens the way everyone here seems to think. They did something to keep people from leaving, and Tim and Danny hadn't known about it. He isn't the only prisoner here, even if the others are captive unknowingly.

The triumph wore off into anger, knowing that it happened when they were still children. That Jonah and Gertrude used their trust to manipulate them into permanently altering their futures.

Anger froze in a moment like an agitated water bottle snapping from liquid to ice when Tim agreed with him, and Jonah all but confirmed it by having him removed from the room. It's cold comfort as the doors slam shut between him and where Tim and Danny twisted in their seats to meet his eyes for a final moment.

Michael is as solicitous as ever, overjoyed to see Jon again, but Jon can't stop thinking about what's going on behind those locked doors. What they're doing to the Stokers, who he knew would take the fall for his actions, would suffer more than him, and had taken advantage of regardless. Michael practically has to carry him to wherever they're going, visions of blood and glazed eyes flashing through his head.

Jon is absent and dazed all through the attentive medical care of someone he doesn't bother to register, Michael acting as their assistant while still trying to insist Jon eat something, drink something, eventually giving up and fetching a towel to dry his still rain-damp hair and clothes while he sits rigid and anxious. They seem perfectly pleased to handle him like a doll.

They always do.

His heart swoops when Jonah and Gertrude come into the sterile little room where he's being seen to as pressed and pristine as ever. There are several other beds, all empty, and they bring with them no Stoker brothers to fill them in bloody heaps. He doesn't know whether to take that as a good sign or a bad one.  

Jonah's eyes soften in that way that Jon can never decide is genuine or just down to him having very, very well-controlled facial muscles. "Jon."

Jon wants to jerk his face away, break their eye contact, but the woman attending to his injuries while Jonah and Gertrude did whatever they did to the Stokers is in the midst of stitching the cut on his face shut, and he doesn't want to take a needle to the eye. Coming back to himself a bit, he realizes that that entire side of his face is numb; he doesn't remember agreeing to a local anesthetic. He doesn't think the cut needs stitches in the first place, since it had been doing just fine without, but he doesn't expect his opinion to be taken into consideration.

He swallows as the woman withdraws, trying to hold back the terrified tears the distance from the Stokers and relative quiet of the moment are trying to summon to his eyes. He wants to say something snappy and scathing, but instead when he opens his mouth what comes out is a very shaky, "I want Gerry." He clenches his fists and squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment.

"You'll see him soon enough," Jonah says. "We just have a few more questions, first."

"No..." he whines miserably. A very distant, fuzzy part of him wonders if anesthetic is the only thing he's been given without consent.

"Where did you intend to go after Pinhole Books?" Gertrude asks, ignoring his protests.

"We were going to go to Oxford. Gerry said you were close with the police in London, so we didn't want to risk it," and how right he'd been, if Detective Tonner was anything to go by, "but we thought we'd have a better chance in Oxford."

"Why Oxford?"

The questions seems ridiculous, obvious, but he supposes Gertrude is just that thorough. "I wanted to go home. I miss... I miss everything. I miss Georgie."

"Georgie?"

"Georgina Barker. My roommate. She's my best friend, she must be so worried about me." To his horror, he feels the tears making their escape, sobs threatening to clog his throat. "I miss her so much, I want to go back to her, and our flat, and the animal shelter with the cats-" He can't stop the words now that he's started. In the corner of his eye he can see Michael starting to tear up alongside him.

"Jon," Jonah cuts in before he can really get going. Jon refuses to see it as a mercy. "Why don't you tell us about the first time you encountered something paranormal, and then why you decided to confront Mary Keay on your own?"

"Well?"

Cold horror coils in his gut. He claps his hands over his mouth, tries to keep his lips shut, but it spills out all the same, everything about his troubled childhood and Mr. Spider and Leitners and all. He's horrifyingly aware of Michael and the woman even now tending to his burned hand still in the room, and of Michael's tendency to rattle out a story at the slightest provocation. He prays that that's a habit he only has when Jon is the one asking, but he still has the terrible certainty that the story will all be common knowledge by morning.

By the time it finishes, Jon feels like a shaky, wrung out mess, and he knows in his heart that they haven't even begun. Jonah and Gertrude watch him, unmoved, before Jonah snaps into movement. "Thank you, Lesere, Michael. You may go."

He clenches the half of his jaw he still has feeling in in angry frustration; they deliberately had him tell his story before dismissing the others, when they didn't need to. To embarrass him? To add to the body of gossip he knows the entire Institute is constantly collating about him?

The sound of their reluctant footsteps leaving him alone with the two primary orchestrators of his suffering doesn't fade from his ears for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Jon can't hide his terror, staring at Jonah and Gertrude with his legs dangling loosely off the infirmary bed. He's still damp from the rain, though no longer dripping, and wearing a t shirt and no trousers; Detective Tonner clearly pulled him from bed. It hurts Jonah's heart to do this (especially after hearing his encounter with the Web, when he was so young, so helpless), but he knows it to be for Jon's own good. He discussed it with Gertrude, on the walk from his office, and it's the best thing. Jon needs to learn he can depend on them, on the Institute, and he needs to be contained until he's properly Bound to Beholding.

(That promises to be a more difficult task now that he has seen such a bond's effects. They need Jon's consent, for it to be an action on his part, and with how furious he was...)

It isn't too difficult to release his misgivings, with his connection to the Eye still buzzing with glee now that Jon is safe in the Institute, nothing but curiosity at anything that might happen so long as he remains alive and whole and here. It loves his fear just as much as his laughter, after all. Maybe it even longs to See it outside the replicated, stale context of a Statement.

"Jon," he starts, filling his voice with all the paternal disappointment he knows Jon half-craved as a child, growing up wild and near-neglected, "your actions recently were dangerous. You could have been hurt, badly, while none of us were near enough to help you. While none of use even knew where you were." Beholding quivers in his heart at the reminder.

"That's life," Jon says, flat and working himself back toward anger. It just confirms Jonah's conviction that their plan is a necessary step.

"And you want to suffer?" he baits. "There are so many things in the world that you can't even begin to imagine, that you don't even know to be afraid of. You need help, protection."

"You don't seem too interested in extending your protection to the rest of the world. You're not the- the Justice League. You spread that suffering!"

"So you need to throw yourself into danger?"

"I'm not- I didn't-" Jon's eyes widen as he stutters without a Compulsion smoothing the way.

"You need to go up against monsters without a scrap of a plan, to risk your life? Not every situation will resolve as neatly as Mr. Spider or Mary Keay, Jon. Next time there could be permanent consequences." Jonah knows exactly what "the next situation" will hold and what its risks are, has deemed them acceptable, but Jon doesn't need to know that quite yet.

"It's my life!"

"Jon, are you suicidal?"

Jon splutters, half outrage and half surprise. "What?"

"We simply want you to value your life as much as we do," Jonah says, going in for the kill. "If you don't understand yet how dangerous the outside world is, how dangerous the Entities can be... that knowledge can be taught."

Peering into Jon's mind, it races with sentence fragments about seeing a boy eaten in front of him as a child, about knowing damn well how dangerous the world is, about Jonah representing part of that danger, but what he says is, "I'm not a child. The consequences of my decisions are my own business, not yours."

"I would say your recent actions, and their consequences, are very much my business." Jonah grins. 

"There's something we think you would benefit from seeing," Gertrude adds, startling Jon, who half forgot she was there with his attention on arguing with Jonah. He glares at her.

Together, they coax Jon to his feet and lead him, still padding barefoot and on the verge of shivering, through the Institute, one of them on either side.

It takes a few moments after arriving at the door to undo all of the locks. As Jonah hasn't felt the need to turn on the hall lights or return Jon's glasses, the odd vulnerability the blurry and dim hallways instills in Jon part of the buildup for his lesson, Jon doesn't realize where they are until he's already past the threshold.

He stalls just inside the door, though it's already shut behind them. The only light is from the streetlights and moonlight falling through the long, narrow windows, casting eerie shadows over the eclectic array of objects lining the shelves. Jon's feet squeak a bit against the linoleum as he tries to throw himself backward, Jonah and Gertrude's grip on either shoulder preventing it. "Is- This is Artefact Storage."

Jonah shifts his hand to the small of Jon's back, steering him forward with a bit of force where Jon doesn't know to resist until he's ceded more ground. "Very astute."

Jon pulls in on himself when he realizes he can't get back to the doors unless they allow it, holding his hands close to his chest and bowing his shoulders, though he has Jonah and Gertrude to either side between him and any stray artifacts. He glances around as though anticipating an attack. His breath gets shallower and shallower as they walk on. When they finally stop in front of a line of objects arranged against a wall, he glances up and down the wardrobes and grandfather clocks and so on like he thinks one might jump up and bite.

Jonah sighs, playing up his regret. "All actions have consequences, Jon, and as you so astutely put, yours fall on your shoulders alone. We need to know you won't be slipping away in the night, and that you know better than to put yourself in unnecessary danger. In pursuit of that goal, we've decided it would be best to give you an example of how unpleasant the world's dangers can be."

Jon shuffles his feet, trying to back away, again too focused on Jonah to see Gertrude slipping a ring of keys from her pocket. "Jonah, please can we go. I'm sorry, I won't- please let's leave!"

"Your consequences are your own business, Jon," he says as his hand tightens in Jon's shirt and he half-pushes him the final few steps to their destination. "It's not my place to interfere."

When Gertrude slips the little golden key into the lock of the ornate sarcophagus, Jon actually starts fighting, jerking against Jonah's iron grip on his arm. "I won't do it again, I'm sorry, please!"

Jonah's grip is reinforced when Gertrude steps back from the cracked lid, grabbing Jon's other side and slowly, inexorably pulling him forward as he screams.

"Jonah, please. I'll do anything- Gertrude, please!"

He lets out a final wordless shriek as Gertrude's foot catches his ankle and sends him tumbling into the formless dark of the sarcophagus. The lid slams shut and the lock clicks now that is has an occupant. They stand there, watching over it, as Jon's screaming and pleading, still audible through the lid, eventually fades into horrified weeping.

Chapter Text

It takes Jon a while to sort out his disorientation, to recognize the pounding racket as his own screams. He was sure he was falling forward, but then landed with a thud on his back, knocking the wind out of him. As he pounds and claws at the darkness to gauge his surroundings, those made little sense, either. The sound of his own voice makes his ears ring but the panic welling in his chest won't allow him to stop while there is any chance of changing his captors' minds.

He saw the sarcophagus; it looked like a photo from a textbook or, less charitably, a horror prop, gleaming gold inlaid with precious stones, in the slightly domed shape of a human outline, impassive face glinting sinister in the moonlight. Its lid should be slightly concave on the inside and, if the craftsmanship of the outside was anything to go by, smooth metal.

The box he lays in is narrower, and maybe shallower. When he runs his fingers against the lid, rough wood meets them. All he can tell for sure is that he is still, undeniably, in some sort of coffin.

At the same moment he comes to this conclusion, something thuds on the outside, making Jon flinch back. He wonders if it was Jonah or Gertrude, mocking or trying to frighten him. Part of him hopes that whatever Jonah had meant by consequences, this is just... a prank, hazing. Throwing him in a spooky box to scare himself pantsless before letting him out to reveal there was nothing supernatural about the thing at all and have a good laugh at his expense.

Something thuds onto the lid again, less focused on a single spot, a series of smaller impacts scattered over the area. His stomach sinks; by the fourth impact he's sure that what he's hearing is shovelfuls of dirt being dropped onto the coffin.

He's being buried alive.

His screams take on a new fervor, trying to eke out as many as he can before he runs out of air. Maybe, if that happens quickly enough and he faints, they'll realize this was a mistake and let him out.

Would they kill him, after all the effort and to-do about capturing and keeping him?

-

After what he thinks are hours, the sounds from above long-faded and his eyes raw from crying, fingers bloody from trying to claw his way out, Jon accepts that at the very least he won't suffocate. Whatever the thing they've thrown him into is, it's at least supernatural enough to ensure that.

Which leaves the question of how long they plan to leave him here, with no natural deadline threatening permanent effects if they don't free him.

He continues making a ruckus for as long as he can for both their benefit and his own, even when his demands and pleas fade to wordless shouts and when the shouts fade to sobs. His throat is utterly wrecked when he can finally no longer force out any noise, left with nothing but the sound of his own panicked, uneven breathing.

Straining his ears, he can hear no movement from outside- above? The direction of his fall made no sense, in that context but, blowing at bits of his own hair to check, that seems to be the direction of gravity in the coffin. He supposes the thing is in Artefact Storage for a reason.

Strands of his voice are just starting to come back to him in fits and starts on panting exhales, allowing him to exchange in self-indulgent whimpering in place of his earlier dramatic hysterics, and he feels almost used to the small space, close to dozing off, when the rain starts.

It is rain, he feels sure. The noises from above, muffled as they are by the layer of soil, make no sense otherwise, too light and widely scattered to be any person or animal. And if he can hear rain he can't be buried that deeply!

The box - the coffin- is roughly constructed. He can feel the tip of a nail jutting in with his right foot, and the wood is rough and splintery. He doesn't think all of the corners form proper right angles, even.

So it shouldn't come as a surprise when he starts to feel water seeping into his meager shelter. Shouldn't, but does. He opens his mouth, even the gritty droplets that filtered down to him here welcome after hours of crying himself out. He can feel moisture seeping its way up from below, as well, but the rain will stop soon. Hopefully before he's hypothermic; he rubs his arms, trying to generate even the slightest warmth in the cramped space.

The rain doesn't stop. Instead, it seems to combine with the grave dirt to create a sticky, soupy mess of mud that encroaches on Jon's space more and more.

He starts to call for help again when he feels a rising waterline to the mud in the coffin. It comes out distorted, with more mud constantly dripping into his mouth and choking him and his teeth chattering incessantly.

"Pleas-se! A-anyone! P-ple-ease help-p me! I'm t-trapped! Ple-ase! J-jonah! Gert-trude! Sasha-a! M-michael! Ger-ry-y!"

No one comes. The water rises, now too thick with dirt to even give him the slight relief of quenching his thirst. Jon props himself up on his elbows as best he can, desperate to keep his mouth and nose above water.

"Pl-lease hel-lp me-e! I'll-l-l d-do anyth-thing-g!"

His neck and back ache, and the water continues to rise. His clothes- where he's lucky enough to be dressed at all, his bare legs approaching numbness- are soaked; he feels filthy, grit infiltrating every space it can. The water continues to rise.

The tip of his nose bumps into the rough wood of the coffin's lid. The water continues to rise.

-

By the time the rain mercifully ends, he's reliant on tiny sips of oxygen from an air bubble formed where the wood of the lid is slightly warped. He lays propped on trembling arms and waits for the water to begin seeping out of the casket and back into the cold earth.

The temperature rises. It's hot- he's sweating, surely the water in the soil must be evaporating on a sunny day- but the coffin remains full of muck.

He doesn't realize what's happened until he tries to shift one of his legs to a more comfortable position and can't.

In the baking heat that now engulfs the coffin, rather than evaporating and freeing up some space for Jon to breathe the muddy soup has hardened into an immovable shell. Heart spiking again, he tries to flail, tries to move at all, and can't. It's like he's encased in rock, just enough ease for his lungs to expand and contract the slightest bit and for his sweating skin to create a slippery, chafing layer of loose grit closest to his skin.

He strains against his prison until he can't anymore, muscles shaking with the exertion even when he falls limp in defeat. His cries are thready and weak, and even he isn't sure if they contain words or just a keening expression of fear and grief.

At least a day has passed. It must have. Jonah scolded him about wasting his life, surely they don't mean to leave him in here to die? Jon has never been claustrophobic, but he feels viscerally sure that he will die if he can't move his limbs, sit up, even just see the sky sometime soon. He needs it almost as much as he needs the thin stream of stale air that makes it into his prison.

His voice returns just enough for him to scream his despair when it starts to rain again.

Chapter Text

Artefact Storage is a darkened ghost town, none of the usual bustle and chatter, no one weaving between the shelves with items to categorize or contain or use. Its single occupant- single willing occupant- left the lights off. Gerry wonders if it was out of some strange sense of respect or if Sasha didn't want to see what she was doing clearly, if the light would make it all too real.

The sounds coming from the sarcophagus are plenty real. Gerry clenches his fists, pressing down the urge to run toward it and start tearing at the lid, trying to free his friend.

If Jon even wants to be his friend, after this.

(Jon must have somehow hidden Gerry's involvement in his escape. Jonah might have let him do this as some twisted test if he thought Gerry was a traitor, but Gertrude wouldn't. Another thing he owes Jon and can never properly pay back.)

Sasha smiles weakly at the sight of him, the expression trembling off her lips after a moment. "You're early."

Gerry shrugs. "Thought you might want to talk. With someone who gets what it's like in here, not just the official line."

Most of the cult aren't allowed in Artefact Storage while Jon is imprisoned here. It would be chaos- the Eye feels satisfied with his presence, as far as Gerry can tell, and doesn't particularly want him released yet, but that doesn't mean that would translate to the rank and file if they heard the noises he makes. The promises he makes. The only key is safe and sound with Gertrude, but that doesn't mean no one would do something reckless, if they made it into Artefact Storage undetected.

Sasha shrugs back. "It's an honor. And a big responsibility. It's the kind of thing I've been working toward almost my whole life."

Gerry has somehow graduated onto the list of people Jonah most trusts to obey orders and keep to the party line on this. Maybe he just thinks Gerry is too sensible to do something he knows is futile. Maybe it's a test. Maybe he is submitting to Jon's wretched begging, in his own twisted way.

"Is it what you hoped it would be?"

(He's only had one shift watching over Jon, so far, and hearing his name croaked out with that kind of desperate hope, completely unable to respond, ruined something inside him he doesn't think he can ever get back.)

"I always imagined..." her eyes go blank for a second before snapping back to herself, "Well, I always thought being trusted with responsibility would mean being trusted with information, as well."

Gerry grins ruefully. "This not the play you would've made, if it were up to you?"

Sasha fixes him with a look that makes him think of a bird of prey, trying to decide whether or not he's worth eating. "I'm sure our leadership has a good reason for their decisions."

"But you don't see why this is the decision they went with?" Gerry prods.

He suspects the most likely answer to the question of his own involvement was that Jonah is trying to encourage him to speed up work on Binding Jon properly. That was when he said Jon would be released; Gerry doesn't usually trust Jonah's official statements to be wholly true, but this one seems credible. They'll have a couple days of Jon recovering, when he'll be too weak to run, to convince him (and Jonah seems sure they will convince him) to let them do the Binding. After that, it won't matter where Jon wants to go, because he'll be drawn back to the Eye whether he likes it or not.

She purses her lips. "No."

If they were in a more private setting- if their conversation wasn't backed by Jon's screams- Gerry might've clapped her on the shoulder with pride. He's been working with her more since Jon ran and he likes Sasha. She's brilliant, even if she isn't usually up for voicing a dissenting opinion yet. "What would you have done?"

Sasha hugs her arms around herself, drawing back a bit. "I would have shown Jon we're the better option right off. I don't like this. How is he supposed to trust us after this?"

Personally, Gerry thinks they breezed past that line months ago, and any shred of trust or friendship Jon offers them now is a miracle. "Jonah's good at getting people to do what he wants. He probably thinks he needs to set up an obvious alternative, the kind of thing that might happen to Jon on his own. And without someone else providing a convenient attack on the Institute..."

Jon's screams drop back into sobs. He scratches weakly against the lid.

"Hm. Is that necessary, though? He came in injured, I heard. Fairly seriously. Something happened to him out there."

Michael has been proving surprisingly adept at keeping that particular secret; Gerry suspects Jonah was relying on his loose lips getting everyone up in arms against the idea of Jon going anywhere on his own, based on the constipated expression he gets whenever he sees Michael refusing to tell someone the story.

(If Michael is keeping it to himself it must have been bad. If he's this carefully discreet Jon must have said something horrible, horribly personal, or both, while Michael was with him in the infirmary.)

"Have you heard him saying our names?" Sasha asks, taking advantage of Gerry's worried silence to switch topics with all the abruptness of a roller coaster rounding a turn. Gerry nods, unsure where she's taking this. "I didn't- He likes you, you've spent loads of time with him. And he talked to Michael a lot, and everyone likes Michael. And he yells for Jonah and Gertrude, too, sometimes, and that makes sense, but-" She looks down at her shoes.

"You don't know why he asks for you, too?" Gerry guesses, hoping he isn't about to make her angry.

Sasha nods. "I didn't think- he must know it's out of my hands."

"I think..." Gerry chews his lip, wondering how to phrase what he wants to tell her. "I think Jon isn't used to reaching for people, when things go bad. But he hasn't had any choice, here; he can't do anything for himself."

"So, what, he's reaching out for any person he can think of as a last resort?"

"He hasn't asked for the Stokers, that I've heard."

Sasha's face twists at the mention. "And?"

"People give him things, he knows their names. But he hasn't called for any of them. Jonah and Gertrude are the ones who decide to let him out or not, and Jon probably realizes that, but..." Saying the rest of the thought out loud feels like jinxing it; feels presumptuous and disloyal, when he stands in place instead of clawing his hands bloody trying to free Jon, even while he listens to him weep.

"You think he knows me well enough to think of me as...?" Sasha blushes, and Gerry remembers that she isn't used to thinking through the haze of their Patron, has only had to flex that skill since Jon's arrival. She wasn't one of the people piling candy hearts outside his door, but she's still as affected as any of them.

"He asked for me all the time after deciding we were friends." Gerry is mortified to realize he's blushing, too. "Um, apparently he- he asked for me. While he was in the Infirmary. Lesere told me."

Sasha raises her eyebrows. "Lesere did?"

No one has even tried pestering Lesere Saraki for details of whatever Jon said and did, then. She takes the idea of doctor-patient confidentiality seriously, even after signing herself over to the Watcher.

Gerry's face gets even hotter. "I guess she thought it was. Important. I don't know. Relevant. For me to know. Anyway, that's not the point. I just wanted to say that I think he latches on, once he decides someone's in his circle, even if he doesn't like them much. If you tried, he'd probably want to be friends. After, y'know."

Sasha looks a bit shell-shocked, turning her gaze to the sarcophagus, mouth tugging into a frown.

"Um, Sasha!" Gerry says, feeling a sudden jolt of brilliance. "I don't know that Jon's going to like me, much, after-"

After Gerry betrays his trust and everything he knows Jon to want from life for his own entirely selfish reasons.

Sasha's face softens, "Gerard, I'm sure he'll come around. He'll understand-"

"Anyway!" Gerry cuts her off, waving his hands like he's dismissing a mist, "I just wanted to ask you to. Y'know. Use that." He cringes, that sounded awful, sounded like exactly the sort of manipulative monster Jon will think he is when all is said and done. "I mean. He already thinks of you as a friend, sort of. And he's going to need someone. And if he won't talk to me..."

Sasha blushes more furiously than before. "I'll... do my best. If he lets me."

Gerry nods. "I'll convince Jonah to let you have my meal shifts, if it comes to it. He likes to talk then. He likes it if you bring him a book, and then you can discuss it together later. And he likes hearing about what life is like, here. How it's... different."

Sasha nods. "Got it. If it's necessary. I'll take care of him, Gerard."

Gerry ducks his head. Jon wants to take care of himself, he knows, wants to be able to, but if he's allowed to stew in despair and betrayal all on his own... "Thanks. I'll let you go. Shouldn't have kept you past the end of your shift like this."

Sasha starts, glancing at the wall clock, caged with at least three different kinds of metal and some sort of crystal to allow it to continue to keep accurate time amongst all of Artefact Storage's strangeness. "Oh. Thanks, yeah. See you." 

She goes to the sarcophagus before leaving, trailing her fingers over its surface. Jon keeps crying, voice starting to fade from overuse and completely unaware of her presence.

Gerry sighs and sits down at one of the non-artifact desks to continue his work. The faster he finishes, the faster Jon will be released. Even if he rejects Gerry afterward, he can do this one final thing for him.

Chapter Text

Jon starts to lose track of how many times he's been forced through the cycle of freezing muck, loose enough to move through but only just, slowing his limbs like syrup, and baking clay, keeping him frozen in place no matter how he strains against it. It's still awful, every time, but just routine enough for him to start to notice other things about his confinement.

Like how dark it is. He thinks that the lid of the coffin is just above him, but how can he be sure? Is it really wood? Maybe his confinement is something conjured by a desperate mind, and the box is an illusion. Maybe he's caged in plain earth, no lid to be removed and no way for anyone on the surface to know where he is. Maybe he's sinking deeper every time it rains. When he has enough space to open his eyes, when little bubbles of empty air form as the muck shifts and sloshes, it's too dark to see anything.

He feels terribly alone, here in the dark. Maybe they've abandoned him entirely.

Maybe they'll keep him in the sarcophagus, the knowledge of his presence enough to satisfy their god. There's no reason to think it wants him mobile or active; is a coffin so much different from the room he was confined to before? There's no one to trick or evade here. No way for him to escape unless he is allowed to.

Maybe he isn't in the sarcophagus anymore. Maybe he's been transported far away, and this is Jonah and Gertrude's way of disposing of him.

He's never going to see Georgie again. It pounds like an irrefutable fact in his heart. They are never going to let him go, and he is never going to see her again. Is she even looking? Maybe she's moved on. Maybe someone else is already sleeping in his room, sitting next to her for Friday movie nights and coaching her through the anxiety of finals. It wouldn't be the first time he realized he was more invested in a friendship than the other person.

Maybe Gerry hates him, too, for squandering the terrible risks he took to let Jon escape in the first place. Did they really do their best to figure out how to evade detection on their way to Oxford? Could they have done more? Maybe he wanted this; maybe he's too much of a coward to destroy his life the conventional way, so he sat around Pinhole Books waiting to be taken again. Maybe Gerry figured that out before Jon did, and he's disgusted.

He's never going to see Tim and Danny again, either. They're almost certainly dead already. He doubts Jonah listened to his pleas for mercy- no one is listening now, after all- and he seemed outraged that they would betray the cult like that. Jon saw his face, when Gertrude turned her questions on the Stokers; he was furious. At the betrayal, at having failed to see it coming, whatever. He certainly seemed angry enough to kill them. Or maybe they're elsewhere in Artefact Storage, screaming in their own artifacts, even more terrible than the one Jon has been fed to. If they're alive, they hate him, too. He ruined their lives, they could have gone their whole lives in the false comfort of their god, thinking they were doing right. It isn't the life Jon wants, but that doesn't mean the Stokers wouldn't have been content; he took that from them.

He saw Tim's outrage, realizing that being away from the Institute was what had made them ill; it probably wouldn't be long before its focus shifted to Jon. Tim loves Danny more than he loves his own life. If Jon is responsible for Danny suffering, it won't be long before the camaraderie and care cultivated between the two of them evaporates.

But they're probably dead.

Sasha- he took her two best friends away. She seems like the kind of person to reason her way through the Eye's forced adoration, and then she'll hate Jon for that as well.

Michael probably feels bad for him. He's too softhearted to properly hate Jon, maybe. He teared up when Gertrude forced Jon to tell his stories, but he can't do anything to help.

Jon's going to be alone like this, in the dark, forever.

He's never going to be comfortable again. He's never going to feel the warmth of a human body next to him. Maybe he even deserves it. It makes more sense than the idea that he had somehow earned the love of an entity beyond human comprehension by doing nothing at all. He's let people suffer and die on his behalf since he was a child, and this is his punishment.

Miserable, and always afraid that this time, the cycle will end differently, the temperature will rise or drop beyond his ability to endure, or the watery mud will fill his lungs and drown him at last, or the constant change of temperature will just make his heart give out.

Blind, a wretched screaming thing in the dark.

Alone. Hated.

Chapter Text

Jonah can't deny that he's looking forward to releasing Jon from his punishment.

It was beginning to wear on everyone, knowing he is in their grasp but tucked away where they can't See him. Even without being allowed in Artefact Storage, without hearing the way Jon has continued to cry for release even as his voice gets weaker and weaker (so perserverant, so determined...), they see the way the handful of people allowed to guard him look increasingly drawn. They see the way Gerard is furiously occupied with preparations for Jon's Binding, bringing his materials with him wherever he goes, sketching out designs between bites at meals and ducking out of the barracks at night for a few more hours of work.

And on a more personal level, Jonah misses seeing the man. Their meetings after Jon's return were far too brief, and fraught with anger and Jon's injuries and the Questions that had to be asked. This, now, is the first step to making him realize that he has a home here, that he can be happy with them.

Jonah stands before the sarcophagus, twirling the key around a finger, until he can hear Jon begin to weakly pound- more like tapping, at this point- against the inside of the lid. It wouldn't do to have to chip him out, as happened a few times when they  first received the thing and tested it.

At the sound of faint impacts and weak moaning, Jonah leaps into action, unlocking the lid with an excited flourish and pushing it open all the way.

The figure that tumbles forward is almost unrecognizable as human, caked in muck as he is. Jonah catches him, having been prepared for this.

He expected that Jon would be weak, after the coffin. He didn't quite expect the wild look in his eyes as he clings onto Jonah's arm like a vine, staring at his face like he barely remembered that other people existed.

"I've got you," Jonah hums. The wild light in Jon's eyes dims, and he presses his face against Jonah's arm.

As the lid swings shut again, lock clicking of its own accord, Jonah allows himself to feel pleasantly surprised.

It's a bit difficult to bundle Jon up into his arms, with the grip he has on one of them. He doesn't have the strength to resist Jonah carefully prying his fingers loose, but he lets out a pitiful cry that tears at Jonah's heartstrings. Nevertheless, Jon is eventually situated in Jonah's arms, quickly wrapping his arms around his neck instead, and they're able to move to the next phase of things.

Jonah left blankets and a thermos next to the chemical shower in preparation, out of the way of the water. He braces himself as he pulls the chain; it isn't quite freezing, but it isn't warm. Which is alright, too much heat might be too much of a shock to Jon's system just now, but it is unpleasant for Jonah regardless.

He sits down in the shower's heavy stream, hair flopping in front of his face and water getting into his eyes. Jon splutters slightly but makes no move to shift from where he's latched onto Jonah. His cold nose burrows into Jonah's neck, and Jonah doesn't fight the urge to find it adorable. If he starts cooing soothing nonsense into Jon's hair, there is no one but the Eye to watch them. "There you are, I've got you. Shh, let me fix it. You're okay."

Working without shifting Jon too much at first, Jonah sets to running his fingers through the other man's hair, down his back, working the sludge of the Buried away to swirl thickly down the drain set into the floor. When he's looking at a shape that more closely resembles a human back, he gently works his hands around Jon's wrists, pulling them from his neck. "Shh, you're alright."

Jon's muddy face is the picture of brokenhearted betrayal, and half the reason Jonah moves him to sit with his back to Jonah's front. He can't stand to see those brown eyes filling with tears.

The other half is a bit of a strain to catch hold of without leaving Jon, forcing Jonah to stretch as far as he can to catch hold of the thermos. He can feel the heat through the treated plastic, the tea inside still warm.

"Here, here you go." Jonah brings the thermos to Jon's lips, pouring the barest trickle of tea toward them. Jon clumsily catches hold as soon as he realizes what it is, arms trembling as he sloshes tea into his mouth and down his front. Jonah catches the thermos before Jon can drop it, setting it to the side. "I've got you."

They stay there until the shower finishes its cycle. Jon is still covered in muck, but he looks more like he's fallen in a particularly messy puddle and less like he was formed out of it, which is a vast improvement. "There you are, isn't that better? Here you go, let me help."

Jon squirms and whines as Jonah works him out of his soaked clothes, but goes limp when it becomes clear he's fighting a losing battle, instead opting to loop his arms back around Jonah's neck, pressing his face to his chest. Jonah pulls the blankets over to them and wraps Jon in them without changing position, awkwardly juggling him so that he could have most of Jon's body wrapped in soft, warm, dry material before finagling his arms beneath the covers as well.

"Pl-ease," Jon croaks. Jonah strokes his hair.

"I'm not going anywhere, here, isn't that better? Nice and warm. I've got you." He scoops Jon up, ignoring for now his own drenched state but for sweeping his dripping bangs out of his face so the water can't hit Jon. Jon nuzzles his nose back into Jonah's neck, breath hitching, as there is no other way for him to maintain physical contact with his arms bound beneath the blankets.

The door to Jon's room is unlocked and swung wide; Jonah waited until after lights out to avoid a scene, and no one would dare interrupt this, no matter how much they want to see Jon again. Through the bedroom into the en suite, Michael is waiting, twiddling his thumbs beside a steaming tub. He leaps to his feet at the sight of Jon's slight figure, made bulkier by the blankets, and lifts him gently from Jonah's arms.

"Ooooh, poor thing," he coos, carrying Jon into the bathroom and unwrapping the blankets, easing him into the bath so that he won't be too surprised or upset by the sudden heat. Jonah turns to go care for his own soaked state, confident that Michael will take excellent care of Jon. Their Patron would allow nothing less.

Chapter Text

Michael isn't sure he approves of what's been done to Jon. He looked so devastated giving Gertrude the Statement about what happened when he was a child (and the Statement itself was awful enough on its own terms!) and he was so hurt when he got back to the Institute. The stitches and bandaging from then are still clinging to his body, ragged and dirty; Michael wishes he had someone with him to send to wake Lesere so she could make sure they don't get infected. He's sure Jonah has a plan for that, but did he realize how terrible they look? It just seems so harsh, and Jon looks so pitiful, weak as a kitten and covered in dirt.

He strained desperately toward Jonah when he was handed to Michael, latched on as soon as Michael freed his arms from the blankets, and now doesn't want to let go of Michael so he can go into the bath. His face stays slack through all Michael's reassurances and promises; he has to silently compromise by juggling Jon around so he can hold his hand constantly. Michael can feel the raggedness of his fingernails even if he can't see the full extent of the damage yet.

Jon shudders when Michael lowers him into the tub, and then almost slides under the water when Michael takes his hands away expecting him to be able to support his own weight. It takes some frantic maneuvering to figure out how to free up his hands without Jon going under before he settles on folding a towel into a makeshift pillow, setting it on the rim of the tub, and propping Jon's head there. He stares out with apathetic eyes as Michael starts to scrub the filth from his body, so different to his miserable awkwardness the last time they did this.

Jonah reappears around the time Michael is considering draining the tub and starting over, the water nearly black and Jon only upgraded to grubby rather than clean. And Michael hasn't even been able to do more than run a washcloth over his face and hair, still debating how best to deal with Jon from the neck up when his muscles seem to have turned to taffy. He brings a stack of towels and a thermos with a straw poking out the top. He places the towels on the counter and hands the thermos to Michael, who holds it to Jon's lips.

Once he realizes what it is Jon drinks enthusiastically, the fluid bringing a bit of color back to the parts of his cheeks that are visible under the grime. Michael is soon handing it back to Jonah, who departs to refill it.

And, Michael thinks less charitably, because he doesn't want to help Michael shift Jon around. Jon still won't let go of his hand and seems to want to touch Michael as much as he can, starved for human contact.

He ends up hoisting Jon out of the tub, wrapping him in some of the towels while the tub drains, and then as he scrubs it out, dirt stubbornly clinging to the porcelain. Jon drinks another thermos of tea while he waits, propped against the cupboards with a hand tight around Michael's ankle, but when Jonah departs with the empty vessel he says that Jon can't have any more for a bit and Jon looks like he wants to cry.

So as Jonah leaves Michael is distracted from his task by stroking Jon's hair and reassuring him that it's only for a bit, and once he's clean they'll get him something nice and warm to eat.

Michael shucks his trousers so he can sit on the edge of the tub, feet in the water, and wash Jon's face and hair first this time. It's almost enough to make him write the entire tub of water off as a loss right here, and Jon still doesn't quite look like himself.

It takes four tubs of water and five towel pillows before Michael runs a final bath and pours in all the nice-smelling oils and salts they had used before Jon's debut, scrubbing moisture back into Jon's skin as gently as he can. He can finally get a decent look at Jon's injuries without the obscuring layer of dirt. It was difficult to unwrap the bandage from his burned hand, but it seems no worse for wear, still pink and tender but not obviously infected; his face seems to have healed well.

The new injuries Jon acquired in the sarcophagus are another matter.

His hands are the worst. There are scratches on his feet, knees, and elbows, but those are superficial; his hands look like they've been put through a meat grinder. The nails are ripped and jagged, torn up from their beds in places from Jon scratching at the lid of his prison. As Michael gently trims the jagged edges and swabs ointment around the open wounds his movements jar one loose, and he watches in horror as the fingernail falls to the tiled floor.

When at last Jon's nails are taken care of to the best of Michael's abilities he wants to skip the lotions, since Jon seemed so uncomfortable last time. But now that Jon is finally, by any metric, clean, and for all Michael's efforts with the oils, his skin is rubbed red and raw, dried into white flakes of dead skin in some places and close to bleeding in others. So now Michael has to get Jon to lie still while he rubs more ointments and lotions over the affected areas, which is basically everywhere, and rolls bandages around limbs where necessary. Lacking Lesere he carefully dresses Jon's injured hand with the burn cream she left for him, resigned to leaving the rest until morning. Jon can't close his hands into fists for all the bandages Michael ends up wrapping them in, afraid he might do more damage on accident.

Jon seems slightly more himself now that he's clean and dry- the undertaking resulting in a pile of soiled towels that reaches nearly to Michael's waist- and is moving enough to make himself an adorable nuisance. When Michael steps away to fetch him clean pajamas he whines, reaching out. Once he's dressed, Jon seems determined to grab onto any part of Michael he can reach, bandaged fingers twining around his braid and face pressed against his chest, practically crawling into Michael's lap.

Jonah reappears when all the difficult work is done with some porridge for Michael to slowly spoon-feed Jon while Jonah holds him before he can finally be put to bed.

Chapter Text

He's falling and something catches him and they are a person and they are warm and alive and real and Jon wants to cling to them for all he's worth. Then they're tearing him away and it's awful until he is swung into strong arms, his stomach swooping as he makes the trip still blinded by the muck in his eyes. He can hear the click of the lock on the sarcophagus and he flinches. He's dirty he's cold is he inside or outside, outside he must be outside because there's someone with him and he can feel the heat of their skin against his own they have to be real, is he free he must be free.

Then they're taking him somewhere and all he can do is hang on. He feels sure that if they put him down he'll be stuck just where they set him, muscles atrophied and weakened with chill. Helpless and alone he's always helpless they always hurt him he can't do anything without being hurt or stopped or punished he wants to go home, he wants Georgie. Georgie is warm and safe and nice to him, she helped him and cheered him on instead of always always locking him up and stopping him.

The person holding him is talking, nonsense phrases in a soothing tone, and the voice is familiar, one he isn't meant to trust, but he can't bring himself to care. They aren't Georgie, but they are warm and alive and they took him out of that place, and nothing else matters for now.

The stream of chilly water that comes a moment after a creaking metal sound shocks him back into the coffin, he almost believes the last couple minutes were some kind of incredibly vivid hallucination but then he's moving again, far more than its cramped space would have allowed. His stomach flips as the person holding him moves downward, sitting are they sitting? It feels like a foreign concept, after so long held rigid and flat with his legs straight and his back to the ground.

Hands start running down his back, digging into his hair and pulling out clods of dirt, hypnotic movements that dizzy his mind as he tries to trace the paths where he's touched by something true and human, until he almost feels human-shaped again himself. The person holding him keeps murmuring all the while, and Jon keeps his face pressed tight to their neck where he can feel their pulse beating close to the skin, slow and steady.

Jonah, he realizes eventually. The voice belongs to Jonah.

He's split between wondering what did it, how he finally convinced Jonah to let him out, and shuddering at the realization. He should pull away, should put as much space as he can between himself and his captor, but he can't bear to. If he squirms out of Jonah's arms- if he even can- then he'll be alone and unmoored again, no evidence against his skin that he isn't the last person in existence. What if Jonah leaves him, alone and trapped in the freezing spray? He has to hold on, even if Jonah hurt him before, and pray that this time he'll be safe. He can't forgive, but he can forget, at least for now, while there are warm hands caressing his lonely skin and a soft voice ringing in his numb ears.

He wishes that he didn't cry when Jonah pulls him away from his place burrowed into his neck. Jon likes to think he still has his pride, all evidence to the contrary.

He's resituated in Jonah's lap, Jonah's arms still wrapped around his waist, which is some comfort. When Jonah leans in close to him again it's to press something into Jon's hands- something warm, not hot, just pleasantly warm- and help him bring it to his lips.

Jon sloshes tea down his front- even that feels heavenly, when he's too dirty to care about mess and still so cold- but what he gets into his mouth is enough to further delay any objections to Jonah's closeness. He can remember what Jonah did to him when he's warmer, less thirsty, cleaner if he's lucky; for now he'll just enjoy the feeling of another human being in his space. The tea is gone too soon, but Jon stays in place after Jonah takes the thermos away and puts it wherever it came from, outside Jon's blurry vision.

The moment between the spray cutting off and Jonah starting to pry at his clothes feels exactly like the moment between the end of the rain in the coffin and the beginning of the heat, a moment where Jon is foolish enough to think that this time, he might not be made more miserable. He was always wrong there, just as he is wrong here. He may be willing to allow Jonah in his space for the moment, but this is too in his space.

It's a losing battle, as most of Jon's seem to be these days. At least he's quickly wrapped in blankets, that awful feeling of vulnerability as the cool air blew over bare skin hidden under clean cotton which feels wonderfully soft after the scratch of dirt against his skin.

He nearly dozes off as Jonah carries him wherever they're going. He's vaguely aware of being passed into another person's arms, resisting for a moment before deciding to curl into them, instead, even warmer than Jonah's damp skin- they can only be an improvement. He doesn't bother trying to decipher what they're saying to him; it seems like the same kind of soothing nonsense as Jonah.

He barely has time to be disgruntled over the loss of the blankets, and his dignity with them, and then the hands prying away his grasp, scrambling to regain the human touch only to fail again, before he's lowered into something warm, warm, warm. It takes a long moment to realize that it's water, so alien does this substance seem to his recent experiences with it. He sinks deeper for just a moment before being pulled higher again, and shifted around for a bit before his head is laid on something soft. The person with him now holds his hand as they run something soft over his skin, and after a little while they set a straw to his lips, which turns out to offer more tea.

He comes back to himself enough as he's lifted out of the bath and wrapped in towels to recognize the person with him as Michael. That makes sense, a detached part of his brain says, though it neglects to remind him why. Regardless, it isn't too objectionable. He'll take cleanliness over modesty, now that the prospect of getting all the dirt off his skin seems within reach. He even tries not to react when Jonah appears with more tea, but he does. Jonah says he can't have any more tea, the only thing warming him on the inside, and Jon comes close to tears. His heart is just as raw as his skin.

He lets Michael do what he wants, only moving on instinct. Michael didn't hurt him before; he seems like the best bet he has for help with this when, even without exhaustion dogging his muscles, the warm air and water would make Jon too dizzy to do it safely on his own. He makes sure Jon is always touching some part of him, even when he can't hold his hand. The idea of something being done just for Jon's comfort, without an ulterior motive, seems impossible, but Michael has none in evidence. Jon barely even notices being drawn from the tub for the last time, except for the shift onto something soft- a bed, maybe. He's starting to shiver in the cool air by the time Michael is done rubbing at his skin and wrapping it in things, but he's enjoying the human contact too much to complain much.

The clothes Michael helps him into are soft, and the food he offers- Jonah came back at some point, when did that happen?- is warm and sweet and filling, and Jon is feeling rather rosy with the world as he's tucked into bed like a child. There are things battering at the edges of his consciousness that will have to be dealt with, but for now his tired mind just wants to enjoy what he has.

"Jon. Jon!" The change in Michael's tone catches his attention enough to widen his eyelids and look in the direction of the blonde blob. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"Wan' G'y," his mouth says. It sounds like a stranger's voice, after so long only hearing it when he was sobbing or screaming. His throat still feels a bit sore, but that's an issue for tomorrow. Then Michael's hand is gone, and when Jon slits his eyes open he's in a dark room and he can't see anyone. Silent tears track down his face as he realizes he's alone again.

He's almost asleep, not really having processed that answering a question might generate a response, when he hears a new voice. "Jon?"

A dark shape is hovering at his bedside, recognizable by the mop of black at the top. Jon reaches out, he'd jump and lunge if he had the strength, anything to prove someone else is there and he isn't alone, and Gerry takes his hand. Jon grips it tightly, unwilling to give up the reminder that other people exist. He pulls; he wants to feel more of Gerry, wants to know that he is real and solid and here.

He's already asleep by the time Gerry gives in to his clinging and slips beneath the sheets beside him, letting Jon cuddle him like a man-sized teddy bear.

Chapter Text

Gerry spends much of his morning stiffly lying in Jon's bed, trying not to disturb him as he dozes late into the day.

Jon looks awful. His eyes are shadowed even after a full night's sleep, and his hands are swathed in bandages. When Gerry asked about them, Michael just paled and shook his head. They're going to have Lesere look at whatever lies beneath, but that has to wait until Jon wakes.

Gerry had few misgivings about waving Michael off to lock him inside Jon's room with him after Jon latched on. Even if he wasn't willing to do much, much more outrageous things to make Jon comfortable, Gerry also has more selfish motivations: As of now, Jon doesn't know what lies ahead of him, what Gerry helped Gertrude plan. His hours with a Jon who doesn't hate him are limited, and Gerry wants to take as much advantage of this time as he can.

Gerry's hands ache in their own way, cramped and sore from spending untold hours clenched around his art supplies. His neck and back are no better, and he gave up more than a little sleep of his own trying to finish his designs as quickly as possible. Jon's bed is soft and warm, as much a balm for his aching body as its occupant is for his heart.

He doesn't know how Jonah plans to make Jon agree to the Binding, but at least now he's out of the sarcophagus. The normal crowds are already filling Artefact Storage again, all evidence of Jon's imprisonment cleared neatly away to be forgotten as quickly as possible.

As though they actually expect Jon himself to forget. Gerry may not have known him long, but he seems like the kind of man to hold a grudge. He might not look it at the moment, face lax and sweet in sleep, but Gerry likes to think he knows Jon well enough to see past appearances.

This is what they all expect of Jon, though, what they've seen at his Debut and in the glimpses and stories that have circulated to the Institute's general population. Jon when he's sweet and shy, tucking himself into Gerry's side and listening attentively to Michael, Jon delighted at the feeling of grass against his skin, Jon blushing and stuttering when Jonah first met him, when he didn't know enough not to be flattered at the attention and approval of a more experience academic. They all think of him, through their lovesick haze, as a blushing, shrinking object.

It isn't fair. Jon will get over that soon enough once he's in the thick of the cult every day, and none of them will ever see him being sweet or shy again. Jon will bring up all the sarcasm and meanness he can manage as a shield, and never let himself relax enough to be kind. Gerry's heart clenches at the memory of Jon burrowing into his side at his debut, hating being looked at by so many people and so pleased to call Gerry a friend. The way the others expect him to act, Jon is going to lose that part of himself, too busy snapping back because he feels threatened. Lose the middling bits, too, most likely, the curiosity, the way he gets homesick talking about his old flatmate. They're going to try to press Jon into acting the way they want, and they are going to be wrong.

The Eye won't let them be angry with Jon if- when- they realize that isn't really him, but Gerry still worries. The Eye let them lock him in a box, after all.

Even Jonah and Gertrude, who ought to know better, seem to expect the sweet and submissive Jon. To expect that by giving him a bit of a scare they can bend Jon to their will and carry out the Binding without complaint.

Gerry doesn't see how the sarcophagus will have done anything but set Jon against them. Hiding it, trying to forget, will probably just make him resent them more. Just like lying to him about working on the Binding will only make him resent Gerry more.

Jon shifts in his sleep and Gerry mirrors the motion to accommodate him. Jon settles, and Gerry leans closer, resting his lips against the crown of his head, tucking Jon under his chin where he can feel like he's keeping him safe, at least for now.

Chapter Text

Jon wakes slowly, and spends the hazy moments between sleep and wakefulness planning how he'll wriggle out of Danny's grip without waking him. It's been a persistent problem since coming to Pinhole Books. Maybe Danny is just a cuddly person, or maybe they're both lonely and unsettled by the risks they're taking, but Jon and Danny have been waking up tangled up with each other every morning. Tim's less of a cuddler, but he still finds himself buried in their pile of limbs anyway, some mornings. It's been getting worse as he and Danny get sicker.

Something itches at the back of Jon's brain, something about the Stokers' illness. He chases the thought; they need any hint they can get, as it seems more and more likely that this isn't just a cold. 

It was the Institute, he remembers. They came back to the Institute and they got better almost instantly.

Came back to the Institute?

It isn't Danny in Jon's bed.

As adrenaline tingles down his limbs Jon tries to keep his breathing even. It's obvious, now that he's paying attention; this bed is softer than their sorry heap of mattress and duvets, the bedding in better order. His companion is taller than Danny, and broader, and their heartbeat is slower. Danny's always seemed rabbit-fast, like even his body wanted to trip along at the same excited pace as his mind.

Jonah was holding him, when, why, is this-?!

"Jon," a voice says softly, their breath blowing at Jon's hair.

Jon goes limp, releasing tension he didn't realize he was holding. Gerry, it's just Gerry. Gerry isn't going to hurt him, all he needs to worry about from Gerry without the influence of Gertrude and Jonah is...

Jon ducks his head, half burying his face in the pillow. "Noooo."

"Come on, you've slept all day." Gerry's voice is gentle, but still forceful. Jon whines.

"A little longer." The bed is soft, the weight of the blankets feels safe instead of confining, and Gerry next to him confirms it's all real, he's not dreaming. He wants to stay in this bubble of peace, this moment of stopped time where none of his normal concerns press in at every side, each facet a new reflection of terror.

Gerry is quiet for a long moment, and Jon knows he's won. "Fine. Just a bit."

The peace gradually trickles away on its own, though, now that he's aware. The more he tries to focus on the feeling of sheets and pillows, the more he's reminded that the texture is wrong, incredibly comfortable but entirely different to what he has at home and what he had in their nest at Pinhole Books. The more he tries to hide under the pillow the less it feels like blank, serene quiet and the more like hiding his head in the sand, base cowardice, failing people who need him. Eventually he groans, rolling into Gerry and hiding his face in his chest instead. The groan is dangerously close to trailing off not to silence but a sob, or some kind of screaming nervous breakdown.

Gerry seems to sense this, or maybe the Eye lets him know, because he chooses practically the perfect moment to intercept, smoothing Jon's hair with his hand and keeping continual contact, never disappearing from Jon's awareness but drawing back all the same. "If you keep thinking about it you'll only make yourself more anxious."

Jon swallows, curls back, then opens his eyes- immediately squints against a world that seems impossibly bright, even though he can tell that the lights are all off. (A darkened, windowless room still can't compare to the utter dark of the grave.) Gerry gives him an awkward smile. Jon rubs his eyes furiously, trying to sweep away the ache of too much light so he can look around properly. "Fine."

Sitting up is a painfully slow process, his muscles protesting organized movement. He doesn't comment on Gerry silently assuming he'll need help getting dressed, helping Jon to maneuver his arms through his shirt sleeves and letting him sit on the bed trying to get used to being vertical instead of pulling on his own socks. Gerry can see the bandages as well as Jon can, probably knows more about the kind of horrors hidden in Artefact Storage than Jon could ever imagine (than he ever wants to know).

They hear the lock almost the instant they're finished and Jon freezes. Maybe Jonah will have sent Michael, or Sasha, anyone else (He knows Jonah is too selfish to actually do so.)

(How is he supposed to face him after everything? The sarcophagus, how Jon acted afterward?)

Jonah frowns at Jon's soft band t-shirt (and what gives him the right, when he's the reason Jon can't abide one of his awful button-ups, with his hands bandaged and his limbs turned to jelly?) but hands over the tray of breakfast all the same. He might say something, but Jon doesn't hear it; with Gerry next to him, he feels safe enough to relax enough to eat, and after so long without (and weeks before living off ready to eat meals and his and the Stokers' dubious cooking skills) it's nearly overwhelming.

There's an enormous amount of food and, reasoning that he must have been with Jon for hours for Jon to wake up practically on top of him, he starts nudging parts of it Gerry's direction. He probably hasn't had breakfast either, and Jonah probably isn't considerate enough not to have errands for Gerry scheduled soon enough that he won't have another chance to eat.

Jon finds his idea of what lengths Jonah might go to to avoid harm to his followers is even narrower than before, which is impressive. The thought of what that might mean for Tim and Danny pushes at the edge of his mind, but he shoves it aside. He can worry about them in a moment, as soon as he doesn't feel ready to faint, ravenous as soon as his attention was drawn to the idea of hunger.

Hunger that outpaces his common sense enough that by the time he's finished he feels stuffed enough to be faintly dizzy with it and tired all over again. He pushes that aside, he has more important things to think about than his own comfort, than sleep.

Last time he slept normally they were taken in the night.

He meets Jonah's eyes as unwaveringly as he can, trying not to show how looking up to find the older man's gaze still fixed unceasingly upon him unnerves him. He leans into Gerry a bit more, but doesn't look away. "Where are Tim and Danny?"

Jonah's expression sours. "They're being dealt with appropriately."

"How? Where? By whom?"

(Jonah should expect this, he reflects grimly, Jon must have gained Beholding's interest somehow, and stubborn curiosity seems as likely a reason as any.)

Jonah's eyes are steely, sizing up how much of an evasion Jon will accept. "They're elsewhere in the Institute. Nowhere you need worry about."

Jon opens his mouth, ready to press on, but Jonah interrupts. "If you've finished eating, there are more important things to be seen to. Gerard can see to the tray, if you'll come with me-?"

Jon jerks back involuntarily at the suggestion, at the hand held out to him, hard enough to knock Gerry back slightly. All the solid determination he had for the Stokers evaporates at the idea of- "I'm not going anywhere with you!"

Jonah sighs, like he's dealing with a child refusing to put on his shoes, arguing reason in the face of willful contrarianism. "Jon, you have injuries that need to be seen to."

"I- Whose fault is that?" His voice breaks with the end of the sentence and he clenches his teeth. The dull pain and awkward clumsiness of his hands was a minor annoyance in the face of food, but with Jonah inching closer it's drawn to the front of his mind, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

"According to your own Statement, Mary Keay."

He hears Gerry suck in a breath, posture going straight and stiff against Jon's back. He hates Jonah for it, for not allowing him to tell Gerry in his own time, for doing it on purpose.

"Mary Keay didn't do anything to my hands." He waves them for emphasis, and the slight motion still seems to make all the blood rush to the ruined tips of his fingers, prickling pain. "And the only reason I met her is hiding from you."

If Jonah feels an ounce of guilt, he doesn't show it. "Regardless of whose fault it is, they need to be seen to. By a proper, trained medical professional, not just Michael."

Jon doesn't disagree, hardly interested in the type of bacteria the muck might have harbored or what they could do after being given such thorough access to a variety of open and healing wounds, and maybe he can get his hands on some painkiller. The more they talk about his hands the more he thinks he could kill for some paracetamol, but he'll die before he asks for it directly. "That's accurate." He makes no move to stand or to take Jonah's hand.

If he can help it, he never wants to be alone with Jonah (or Gertrude) again. Even if Gerry can't stop him from doing something terrible he'd at least register protest. At least consider what Jon wants, rather than what might bend him to his will.

"Jon, this is childish." Jonah's voice is still sickeningly condescending and he's still inching closer. Jon scoots back, practically sitting in Gerry's lap. Gerry is as unmoving as a statue, and Jon can picture his eyes darting back and forth between them, trying to gauge from their conversation just what Mary did.

Jon shrugs. "I suppose you'd know." He stayed up for three days straight in the immediate aftermath of Mr. Spider. Unless he's willing to revert to using force, Jonah cannot take him from this bed. He breaks their staring contest, glancing around the room as if he's wondering if it changed in his absence, fiddling with the blankets in his lap, even picking up Gerry's hand from where it rests beside him and spinning one of his rings on his finger, generally doing anything he can to give the impression that he's utterly disinterested in Jonah.

(Always keeping his legs, his shadow, his reflection in the corner of his eye, making sure he can't make a move without Jon having at least a split-second's worth of forewarning.)

Gerry coughs. "I can take Jon to the infirmary. It's... it's no trouble."

Jon turns, half meeting Gerry's eyes while keeping Jonah in his periphery. "That's very kind of you, Gerard. I would appreciate it very much."

They're all impersonal acquaintances here. No one is afraid of anyone, and no one has any preference for one of the others. If Jonah (cheeks starting to look a bit ruddy and a vein starting to stand out on his neck) wants to break the pretense, that's his call.

He sighs through his teeth. "Thank you, Gerard." He digs through an inside pocket of his suit jacket (is he even going to the business half of the Institute today, or does he just dress like that?) and passes the spare key over Jon's head, moving slightly awkwardly so Jon can't really reach for it without lunging up.

He and Gerry disentangle themselves from the bedding and limp toward the door in silence. Jon makes sure to put Gerry between himself and Jonah the moment he can no longer keep him in his vision; Gerry is blessedly helpful with this task. They don't look back at Jonah, standing in the open doorway with his eyes burning into their backs.

Chapter Text

Lesere has developed a reputation for keeping secrets, a locked vault in comparison to most of her fellows, since joining the Cult of Beholding.

She finds it alternately frustrating and funny, considering her introduction to the place was giving a Statement that violated every concept of patient-carer confidentiality ever devised, and that what drew her in was the bizarre, intoxicating feeling of giving that Statement, feeling laid utterly bare after a lifetime of fitting into the expectations others had of her.

She'd become a bit of a gossip and an oversharer at work chasing that feeling, that terrifying sense of freedom, but nothing compared until she dug a bit deeper into the Magnus Institute, its reputation and history, and decided she had to come back.

The rambling explanation she gave to Gertrude wasn't quite a Statement, but it was near enough, and the Archivist had parceled out hints for her to chase down, drawn in and repulsed in near equal measure until eventually she found herself selling her flat and moving into the Institute permanently.

(Her parents didn't take it well when Lesere told them straight out that she was abandoning her life to join a cult, but the brutal honesty felt good. They would be well taken care of with the portion of her savings she set aside to go to them rather than her new family, and they were hardly close with her before, calling on holidays and sometimes birthdays and little more since she graduated her nursing program, so she didn't see that they had much to complain about. With no forwarding address, every trace of her search and destination she could manage scrubbed from what she left behind, just a few details her old coworkers might let slip if her parents cared to interrogate them, they couldn't follow and drag her back. Not unless they were determined enough to go through the same journey of discovery she did, but she doubts they were meant for the Eye.)

Her former reputation found itself almost immediately reversed when she moved into the barracks, took over the Infirmary from her aging predecessor (she sometimes thinks the old man hung on out of sheer willpower, unwilling to leave his patients uncared-for, just long enough to see that he was leaving them in capable hands before dying less than a year after her arrival), and made the bodies of her fellow Cultists her own domain. She didn't find the thrill she was looking for gossiping, and the problems of her patients, be they embarrassing or mundane, give her far greater cachet as secrets. People are much more willing to ramble out details if they think she'll keep them close to the vest, and the idiosyncrasies and urges she learns make her Patron glow satisfied behind her heart.

But even if she was inclined to share secrets, she'd make an exception for Jon.

He seemed to glow golden and otherworldly at his Debut, a figure only spotted in the distance and relayed over whispers but, like most people, when he came to her he seemed stripped down and bare. Unlike most people, she found that didn't alter her perception of him. He seemed no less precious, no less unique, even when his face went lax with anesthetic in the exact same way everyone else's did. Seeing the injuries he was brought to her with- and then hearing his twin Statements- only made Lesere want to bundle him away, keep him in her Infirmary where she can watch him until she's sure such damage won't reoccur.

But of course she defers to Jonah, to Gertrude. It's what she signed up for, and she's well used to superiors who make calls she wouldn't. When she has unimpeachable grounds to disagree she 'll interject, but until then she only tries to steer their decisions subtly.

Gerard pulls Jon back into the Infirmary looking even worse than before. He's lost weight, badly needed padding that kept his elbows pointy instead of sharp and kept just a little bit of boyish roundness in his face beyond its years. And he's practically swaddled in bandages, to the point it almost looks like he's wearing mittens.

She smiles as soothingly as she can instead of showing her distress. "Hello, Jon. Do you remember me?"

He presses into Gerard's side even as the other man starts trying to gently prod him onto her examination table and ducks his head. "You- yes, you- I remember. You were here when-"

"I was," she says, taking pity on him. She steps forward, hand hovering near his elbow but not touching, moving along in guidance as he steps toward the table, just in case. His gait is shaky, leaning on Gerard more than she'd like, but there don't seem to be any major injuries to his feet or legs.

"Right," Jon mutters, and goes tense as she starts unwrapping the bandages he's swathed in.

"I'm not going to do anything right now," she narrates as Gerard takes up a post leaning against the wall. "I just want to get a look at what we're dealing with. Can you tell me what hurts?"

Jon sighs, remains tensed for flight, but says, "My, er, my hands are the worst. My fingers. Everything else is just sore. Or stings a bit. Both."

She nods, and keeps unwinding the bandages around his knee. "Do you mind telling me who did these?" she asks, gesturing at the growing pile beside him on the table, trying to relax him with a bit of a joke.

"Er- Michael. I think."

"Ah. Makes sense."

Jon's face goes through a transformation that seems to indicate he isn't sure whether to laugh along with her or jump to Michael's defense. In the end, he remains silent.

Gerard is the one who breaks the half-calm, half-nervous silence, with, "Jon, what Jonah said-" 

She can tell that, whatever Jonah said, Jon didn't like it from the way all the tension that leaked from his muscles by millimeters as she worked comes back in such force his body jerks.

"-about my mum. She- what did she- I mean, if you don't want to say, but-"

"What did she do?" Jon asks, voice subdued.

"Yeah."

"She just- she didn't ambush me, really, but. I- I'm sorry, Gerry." His voice quavers at the end.

Gerard looks like he's been hit by a truck, face knocked flat with bafflement. "Sorry?"

"I- I think I. Killed her."

"You- oh. What?"

Jon's shoulders are creeping up towards his ears, but it doesn't get in Lesere's way, so she doesn't comment as she moves onto the bandages around his hands and arms, nothing yet uncovered warranting immediate attention.

"She- there was. She showed me a book. And then- she attacked me! And trying to, to get her to stop, I said- I had a lighter in my pocket, I said I'd burn it. And-"

"You got the book?" Gerard asks.

Lesere starts cleaning the wounds on Jon's hands- they didn't look like this last time she treated him. She interjects with a question of her own before Jon can answer Gerard. "Who trimmed your nails?"

Jon's head swings toward her like it's on a string, eyes wide and bloodshot. "I- Michael did. They were all ripped up, I don't think he would have been able to do anything with them if he didn't."

She nods, and he takes a shaky breath before addressing Gerard again. She knows how this story goes, and she thinks she was right in her guess that Jon would appreciate a moment's respite before diving back into the heart of it.

"She got two books out of a safe. I burned the- the bigger one."

Gerard... laughs. It's a thick, rusty sound, one Lesere has never heard from him before. He bends down, resting his arms on his knees and letting his head hang down, the ends of his hair brushing the floor, and he laughs. When he swings upright again, face flushed and hair wild, he squeezes his arms around his middle, still slightly bent at the waist. "You- that's incredible. How- how? If I could've gotten into that safe..." He trails off, maybe hesitating at the idea of disposing of his mother himself. Lesere has no doubt that the story there is deeper than the popular gossip implies.

"She- ah!- she asked, she asked if I wanted to see why she learned Sanskrit." Jon barely winces as she cleans his ruined nail beds with saline, only gasping when she has to address the missing nail. Some slight probing shows there's nothing left, nothing hiding under the cuticle. The rest will heal on their own, in time, but she doesn't want poor Jon to have to go through life without a right index fingernail. "You're- I thought you would be angry."

"I mean- she's really gone? You're sure?" He may not be laughing anymore, but Gerard's voice is still giddy.

"Yes," Jon says solemnly. "We didn't see any sign of her the- the rest of the time we were there. I think she would have gotten revenge, if she could have managed it."

Another bark of a laugh. "Yeah, she was vindictive like that. She's gone!"

Jon's attention is momentarily torn from the conversation when Lesere tells him to hold his hand flat on the table and slides a bit of foil cut and folded to fit the empty space under his cuticle, brushing on a bit of liquid bandage to hold it in place. "Sorry," she murmurs as he pants a bit at the pain and pressure, but then it's over and she can start wrapping plasters around his fingertips.

Jon looks bad at Gerard reluctantly. "You're not angry?"

Gerard shakes his head wildly. "No. Never! I- I hated my mum. And she hated me."

"Oh." Jon still looks wide-eyed and out of it, but he leans back and holds still, staring at Gerard like he can't believe his luck.

"Did- did she hurt you, though?" All the giddy energy rushes out of Gerard in an instant.

"Er-" Jon bites his lip. "She- I think she wanted to- to add me to the book? It was all human skin! She attacked me- I said that already. But there were. Hooks. All over, and she cut me once. And... and the fire got my sleeve, a bit. But I'm fine! T- Tim and Danny already..." He trails off, gazing morosely at the floor.

Gerard's forehead creases in concern, and they're silent as Lesere finishes patching Jon up, except for the punched-out sound Gerard makes when she goes to remove Jon's stitches and uncovers the cut over his cheekbone.

Gerard's arm seems to wrap particularly protectively around Jon's shoulders when she allows them to leave the Infirmary, with strict instructions for Jon to get lots of food and rest and come back immediately if anything changes. She tucks their conversation into the back of her memories, just confirmation of things she already knew.

She wonders if Jon will ever think to tell Gerard about the other Statement she heard. Or if Michael will finally crack.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Jon wants to run far, far away from here and hide somewhere those dead gray eyes will never find him. Just the thought of Jonah makes his heart race, and being in the same room as him sets adrenaline roiling under his skin, so much of it, he has no idea what to do with it all when he's trapped, sitting with Gerry and nowhere else to go.

(Gerry would hold him back if he tried attacking Jonah; he's a good friend. He knows it wouldn't actually do Jon any good, just as Jon does when his mind isn't racing away away away go away get away.)

"We can't have you leaving again, Jon," Jonah says, as though it's a basic fact of the universe, gravity and E=mc² and Jon can never breathe free air.

"If you say so," he says, hiding the anxiety and anger beneath the words poorly even for him. But maybe if he refuses to engage Jonah will lose interest and go away; blandly agree to everything and the conversation will be over and Jonah will leave him alone.

Jonah purses his lips. "The Eye does not pair well with uncertainty. The eternal drive for more Knowledge that draws us to it is a drive to eliminate uncertainty. We need to be certain," he manages to catch Jon's eyes despite Jon's best efforts and it stings like an arrow through the shoulder, "that you won't endeavor to leave us again."

Jon bites his tongue hard, holding back everything he wants to throw in Jonah's face. He knows, they tortured him over it already. He doesn't care about their uncertainty, he's never going to stop trying to escape.

(Maybe his anger is what keeps him from hearing the words beneath the words, the can't Jonah means when he says won't.)

Jonah lets things linger for a long moment, but Jon doesn't give him any response. "Is living here so awful, Jon? Is being loved so terrible? Would you really rather live in a natty student flat eating cup noodles than be kept in luxury?"

Jon glowers down at a nothing located somewhere in the vicinity of Gerry's elbow, pressing tight to his side. Gerry is watching Jonah for him, and he doesn't want to look at the same old condescension and lust on his face.

"There's something that keeps you wanting to leave us. Whatever you may think of me and my efforts to keep you comfortable, I am aware that there are things beyond material possessions that we cling to throughout life. The things you run toward."

"Get to the point," Jon says between gritted teeth. He doesn't want to listen to Jonah wander off on philosophical tangents. He wants him to leave.

"My point," and he can practically taste Jonah's sugary-kind smile, "is that you don't always have to run toward the things you want. If it would keep you here in happiness, it could be brought to you instead." Jon doesn't see how that's different from bringing him material possessions, but he doesn't get the chance to snarl as much; Jonah's on a roll now, not interested in letting his audience participate anymore, closing in. "You're loyal to your friends. It's a commendable trait, even if occasionally misplaced."

(Is Jonah responsible for the images of the Stokers, smiling and running and sick and in every horrible state he's imagined for them? Can he ever be sure his thoughts are really his own, now that he knows Jonah can insert whatever he pleases?)

"If you consider our custody so dreadful, you wouldn't leave a friend behind to face it."

Oh. He wants to use Gerry against him. Just as Jon considered what feels like eons ago, at the beginning of this nightmare.

Gerry knew what he was getting into, more or less. Jon will leave him behind if he has to; he has before, and supposes he will again.

(He's met Gerry's mum, knows Gerry never had a chance at a normal life- wishes he didn't have to leave him, wants to show him everything he's missed out on.)

"That won't be an issue once you've built a proper network here, of course. Anyone here would jump at the chance to befriend you, you won't find it difficult." (He catches that implication, the not like you always have, as if what he's talking about is so different from being allowed at lunch tables because sitting with the weird kid is the thing you ought to do.) "In the meantime, though, having a friend here will ensure you don't want to leave us, particularly if we have no reason to care for them in your absence. And it will help your psychological adjustment."

He thought he asked Jonah to get to the point. Jon will play his game for now, but he already decided what he'll do, if it comes down to saving Gerry or himself. He doesn't think Jonah will offer him the Stokers back (he was so furious, and Jon has learned the hard way that Jonah Magnus is not a forgiving sort of man), but Jon is already grasping at any straw he can find to loose the Institute's hold on them. If Gerry's dad could do it, Jon will figure it out eventually. He wants this conversation to be over.

"Even if things didn't work out between you, you must have remained close, for her to be the first person you'd turn to upon leaving us."

(Her?)

"I'm sure having her here would be... a great comfort to you, in addition to an incentive." Jonah smiles, like he has Jon in his trap. Jon can feel the jaws closing around him, but it doesn't make sense, he can't see the shape of what Jonah is threatening yet. "Your Georgie. Georgina Barker. She's only marginally better connected than you were; how many people do you think will assume you simply repaired your relationship and eloped, when she goes missing?"

No.

They can't.

Not Georgie.

(They know where she lives. They took him with no trouble at all.)

"No." The word tears his throat, his mind working in fits and starts, racing and utterly blank. "No!"

He's shaking, leaning into Gerry, shaking his head in denial, but none of that matters to Jonah.

(They could put Georgie in the coffin, only let her out when Jon's been especially well-behaved. If he ran without her, she could be dead before he could return with the authorities.)

(They'll tear her life apart just for knowing him.)

He looks up, forcing himself to meet Jonah's eyes; his vision isn't clear when he does. When did he start tearing up? "Leave her alone." He says it as firmly as he can, but they all know he has no power here. He signed Georgie's death warrant the first time he timidly asked if he could join her study group. "Please. Georgie- Georgie doesn't have anything to do with this, leave her alone! Please, Jonah!"

Jonah's face is a perfect mask of not mad just disappointed and Jon wants to smash it into pieces. "It's my duty to do what's best for you, Jon. Paramount to that is ensuring that you remain here, where you're safe. This is for your own good, however much you may try to frame it otherwise."

"Please." Georgie's the only really good thing in his life, the only person who's ever looked at him without the obligation of family and seen something worthwhile. He can't let this ruin her life. "I won't- I won't try to escape again. I promise. Just leave her alone."

Jonah sighs. "I wish I could believe that, Jon, but you've lied to me before. You've considered how best to convince me of that very lie during this conversation, even."

His heart is pounding in his ears and his fingers feel like ice. "I'll do anything. Please. Just don't touch her." He swallows around what feels like a throatful of gravel. "You- you have other ways of keeping people here. Don't act like you don't, I saw what you did- what you did to Danny and Tim."

"A means you've been plotting to overthrow since the moment you learned of it," Jonah says, and he's in Jon's head, he's in all their heads. Jon hates it, hates him. Jonah's eyes ripple like fast-moving water, deceptively clear over hard, slippery pebbles. Jon's missing something.

"Please. Not Georgie." It's all he has; begging, nothing to actually bargain with, at the mercy of a man who he's increasingly sure has been stringing him along the entire time. But he has to play along. For Georgie, he has to.

"The Stoker brothers willingly bound themselves to Beholding." Jonah gives Jon a gentle smile. "Their lives are tied to its will, and they are Known to it wherever they are. The same is true for every person here. The vow you're so eager to revoke is a serious one, undertaken with something beyond humanity. A promise, not a burden."

Jon jerks his head down, and tears drop to make little wet circles in his lap. His hold on Gerry has gone lax. "And if- if I-"

"If the pitfalls that have been exploited in the past were ameliorated, a similar contract could be a suitable arrangement. It would allow the Eye to see you wherever you go. It would never lose you again."

"And you want me-" He can't say it. Doesn't want to. Doesn't want any of this.

"Yes." There's a strange lilt to Jonah's voice, and it makes Jon shudder. Wanting Jon, not just the things he can't bring himself to say. "Willingly undertaken. You would truly belong to Beholding, body and soul."

Jon hiccups, sniffles, despite his best efforts to hide his tears.

Jonah's voice softens. "It isn't the dreadful thing you imagine, Jon. It loves you; all this is is a way of facilitating that love, Binding you to it. It's beautiful. I'm sure you'll agree; your Gerard was very helpful with the designs. If I have your consent then... yes, those arrangements could be made. And others dismissed." Jonah's voice is dreamy and self-satisfied. It makes Jon's stomach turn.

"Fine. Fine. Just leave Georgie alone. Don't- never threaten her again."

"Deal." And suddenly Jonah is in Jon's space, tilting his chin up and brushing tears and strands of hair from his face, looking down at him with an expression that can only be described as fond.

Jon freezes, fear and conflicting impulses keeping him from enacting any plan to attack or run or scream, and then Jonah is gone, the door closing behind him with finality.

Jon sways back toward Gerry, who looks up from the determined study of his cuffs he's been focused on throughout. His eyes, Jon is surprised to notice, are wet as well. "I'm- I'm sorry, Jon."

And then he's tearing out of the room, out of Jon's grasp.

And he's alone.

Chapter Text

From: The Guardians of Knowledge

To: The Library, The Usher Foundation, The Magnus Institute, Archivo de Santiago, The Pu Songling Research Centre, and 12 others

Subj: Mass Event?

Body:

Esteemed Colleagues:

At approximately 04:37 AM, local time, an event occurred related to our mutual Patron in which a feeling of panic, anxiety, and loss was experienced by every person connected to said Patron we have yet contacted. This missive is intended to inquire as to whether a similar event occurred elsewhere, or if it was localized to Athens. Additionally, any information on a person by the name of "Jonathan Sims" would be appreciated.

Regards,

Dr. Aliki Laskari

Head of Communications

The Guardians of Knowledge

Athens, Greece

From: The Library

To: The Usher Foundation, The Magnus Institute, Archivo de Santiago, The Pu Songling Research Centre, West African Culture & History Association, and 12 others

Subj: re: Mass Event?

Body:

To whom it may concern:

A similar phenomenon has been observed beginning simultaneously and still ongoing. Our organization would also appreciate any information on "Jonathan Sims"

Respectfully,

Kerolos Farouk

The Library

Cairo, Egypt

From: The Usher Foundation

To: The Library, The Magnus Institute, Archivo de Santiago, The Pu Songling Research Centre, West African Culture & History Association, and 12 others

Subj: re: re: re: Mass Event?

Body:

I haven't done all the math, but seems like you experienced your event at the same time we experienced ours. It affected everyone we've contacted, with the intensity seemingly varying depending on how closely connected they are- many of those employees who are connected to the Eye only through their employment at the Usher Foundation mentioned having panic attacks at roughly the relevant time the next morning when they came in to work, while full Avatars found themselves consumed with feelings of dread and panic- one of our senior staffers nearly booked a plane flight, though after being distracted he was uncertain where he intended to go. Preliminary research turns up a number of people named Jonathan Sims. Highlights among the currently living bearers of the name include a cardiac researcher in Quebec, a triple murderer in Australia, a missing person in Oxford, and an indie singer in New Jersey. Any insights, London or Newfoundland?

Aisha Shelley-Stine

(sent from my iPhone)

From: The Pu Songling Research Centre

To: The Library, The Usher Foundation, The Magnus Institute, Archivo de Santiago, West African Culture & History Association, and 12 others

Subj: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Mass Event?

Body:

The ongoing phenomenon of anxiety accompanied by feelings of urgency and loss was observed to stop at approximately 9:42 AM local time. Has this occurred elsewhere?

Additionally, Dakar, did you find any further information on similar events historically?

Wei Boyang

Lead Research Manager

Pu Songling Research Centre

Beijing, China

From: The Usher Foundation

To: The Library, The Magnus Institute, Archivo de Santiago, The Pu Songling Research Centre, West African Culture & History Association, and 12 others

Subj: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Mass Event?

Body:

Ditto, and the general tension in our offices has reduced noticeably.

I can't help but notice that our colleagues in London have been unusually quiet. Magnus, any news?

Aisha Stine-Shelley

(sent from my iPhone)

From: Archivo de Santiago

To: The Library, The Magnus Institute, Archivo de Santiago, The Pu Songling Research Centre, West African Culture & History Association, and 12 others

Subj: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Mass Event?

Body:

Dear Colleagues

Has anyone had luck contacting London? Has anyone heard from them since this began?

If the lack of response continues, given that several of the most promising candidates for the identity of our "Jonathan Sims" are located in the United Kingdom we intend to send a representative to investigate both potential leads and the silence from the London sect.

Yours,

Claudia Orsorio Santander

Archivo de Santiago

Santiago, Chile

From: The Magnus Institute

To: The Usher Foundation, The Pu Songling Research Centre, The Library, The Guardians of Knowledge, Archivo de Santiago, and 12 others

Subj: Jonathan Sims

Body:

Hello

Several of you have kindly expressed concern over recent difficulties in contacting our offices. Our operating hours are 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM, GMT, Monday through Saturday, British national and bank holidays excepted. If you desire to reach us outside of those hours an appointment should be made in advance. Appointment scheduling as well as regular calls can be done via the number publicly available on our website or via email. While we appreciate the interest and regret any worry caused by our recent absence, it is unnecessary for any of our sibling institutions to send representatives at this time.

On the recent feelings of anxiety and nagging concern over one Jonathan Sims, possibly replaced by relief and ease this past Thursday at approximately 1:45 AM, GMT, I believe I can elucidate.

The Jonathan Sims in question is the Oxford student identified by our colleagues at the Usher Foundation. He is currently safely in our custody at the Magnus Institute and the Watcher's interest and investment in him is being investigated. The phenomenon you all experienced was caused when he removed himself from our facility, lasting until his return. It is due to the efforts to locate and retrieve Mr. Sims that our usual lines of communication have been unresponsive. We are currently dealing with the backlog, and you may expect a reply to any inquiries shortly.

We will, of course, share our findings via the proper scholarly channels once our investigations into Mr. Sims are complete. Until then a repeat of the recent unfortunate incident is unlikely, as Mr. Sims intends to tie himself to our Patron in the coming days. I must once again thank you all for the honor of your concern and warmly refuse your offers of assistance.

Yours,

Elias Bouchard

Head of the Magnus Institute, London

From: The Magnus Institute

To: The Pu Songling Research Centre, The Usher Foundation

Subj: Jonathan Sims

Body:

Hello

Regarding Jonathan Sims and the Institute's recent unresponsiveness, everything said in the more widely circulated missive is accurate. However, I thought it proper to inform our dearer allies of other developments regarding Jonathan and Beholding.

On 25 September whilst giving a lecture at Oxford University I experienced an unusual fascination with one of the students in attendance: Jonathan Sims, age 20, previously of Bournemouth. As I continued to examine this impulse and consulted with those acolytes who had accompanied me, it became clear that this feeling was coming directly from the Eye itself.

As borne out by every interaction between Jon and any disciple of Beholding, no matter how loose their connection, I have no choice but to conclude the impossible: that our Patron, the Watcher Beyond Our Plane, Dearest of the Dread Powers, has fallen quite in love.

If you doubt me, I would encourage you to test your own subordinates' reactions to the attached photograph, or to that attached to his missing persons record. I believe you will find my conclusion substantiated.

I immediately acted to secure Jonathan- or, as he prefers, Jon- for our Patron, bringing him back to the Institute that very night, resulting in the missing persons report located via your research. Efforts to integrate Jon with our congregation have yielded mixed results. While they are universally taken with him, Jon is resistant to our overtures due to a childhood encounter with the Mother of Puppets and has repeatedly expressed his desire to return to Oxford- a desire to which, as you may have divined through the recent intensity of the Watcher's influence, our Patron is not amenable. While he is gradually adjusting, two lesser disciples of our order were blinded by both their supernatural affection for Jon and that bred of a growing friendship, and aided in an escape from our premises.

All resources were, of course, diverted to returning Jon to our walls. This effort has obviously succeeded, and the traitors will be dealt with properly. My intention is for Jon to Bind himself to our Patron in the coming days, eliminating the potential for future disappearances. Scans of the physical copies of our partial preliminary plans are attached alongside the photograph, should you desire to examine them for gaps or loopholes which might contravene their intended purpose.

While my responses may be delayed due to the preparations for Jon's Binding ceremony, I will endeavor to answer any inquiries at the earliest convenience.

Yours,

Jonah Magnus

Head of the Magnus Institute, London

Heart of the Cult of Beholding, London

From: The Usher Foundation

To: The Magnus Institute, The Pu Songling Research Centre

Subj: re: Jonathan Sims

Body:

I was ready to doubt you, but I'm afraid our researchers might start putting up Jon's missing person flyer like a boy band poster. While I would like to confirm your claims for myself in person the evidence certainly indicates that your assessment of the Eye's attachment is at least partially correct.

I am concerned about how he managed to leave your Institute- when I visited I found the place to be secured like Fort Knox, and that was before you had something really important to keep in. I don't see any obvious holes in your plans to Bind him, though. They're lovely- I didn't realize you scouted artists to recruit. How do you intend to get Jon to agree willingly to the Binding?

Aisha Stine-Shelley

Director

The Usher Foundation

Washington, DC

From: The Pu Songling Research Centre

To: The Magnus Institute, The Usher Foundation

Subj: re: re: re: Jonathan Sims

Body:

Jonah, be that as it may, I must reiterate both my concerns for Jon's safety and my request that a member of our staff be allowed to visit your facilities in order to confirm your claims. If your assessment is correct, as I believe it to be, I must also repeat my suggestion that Jon would be safer and quite possibly happier in our larger facilities. The Pu Songling Research Centre's history speaks to our resilience and security, particularly compared to your own. An escape should never have happened.

In that vein, I must also register my objection to any subtleties in Jon's Binding which tie him to your Institute, rather than our Patron. I believe our American colleagues will concur on this point.

Wei Boyang

Lead Research Manager

Pu Songling Research Centre

Beijing, China

From: The Usher Foundation

To: The Pu Songling Research Centre, The Magnus Institute

Subj: re: re: re: re: re: Jonathan Sims

Body:

Yes, Jon should be able to visit any and all facilities of Beholding at will. You can't tie him down to your little Institute forever.

I would also like to send a member of my staff to assess and get to know Jon. If you're right, this affects all of us, not just your Cult. While I'm willing to delay that request until after Jon's Binding, once he's recovered I really must insist.

To that end, we would like to know more about Jon's preferences and hobbies. We would also like to request more pictures of him.

I know you've been taking pictures, Magnus. Please send some.

Respectfully,

Aisha Shelley-Stine

Director

The Usher Foundation

Washington, DC

Chapter Text

Its Temple buzzes along in the rebuilt remains of a Universe shattered when Jon left, the Knowledge of his presence the seams of gold stitching it back together. Every mind held his image close, letting the idea of him guide their actions.

It has rarely been so integrated into the minds of Its followers, particularly so many at one time. There is something fascinating in and of itself in the way they fit together, individuals working together to form a smoothly functioning whole. In a comparison it skimmed from one mind, like a colony of ants working in silent tandem, the whims and drives of any single ant inscrutable to their Observer.

They work to provide for Jon, to Bind him and place him in comfort and splendor. It haunted the dreams of Its servant-who-was-found for many nights, urging the man's work toward completion so that Its servant-who-fears-death would judge the Binding near enough to remove Jon from his isolation. It had been reassuring having him returned to Its stronghold in any form, but the Eye is eager to have him in full; Bound to It, yes, but even before that, returned to the free air of Its Temple rather than having to feel out his presence from beyond the barrier where Its Sibling held him close and too-tight.

Peering at Jon from every Eye, It revels in the Sight of him, urging those followers meeting with him face to face to examine the minute creases and flickers of his expression, Watching him from representations of Itself when no human Eye is available. He is frail and scarred from his journeys out of Sight, precious face marred with the Mark of his End, an unwelcome reminder even as it heals and fades by the day. His clever fingers no longer tap and fiddle, bound in bandages sometimes stained bloody at the tips.

He will heal, but It croons over the Memory of Jon as he was, eyes bright with the pursuit of Knowledge and smile winking about the corners of his mouth. It Loves him in his pain and fear and sadness, but It longs for Jon to be shining and happy again. Things seem to move at an interminable pace, though the total is but a fraction of Its infinite existence, and the Watcher occupies Itself with pushing thoughts of Jon to the forefront of every mind that knows of him.

It pushes the servants of the Temple that is Jon's Home to build and arrange and decorate ever more palatial accommodations, a larger, brighter, finer set of apartments for Jon to relocate to when his Binding is finished. Additional rooms, windows, his own small library, soft cushions and plush fabrics; all this and more, It urges Its servants to prepare for Jon. Humans find happiness in comfort, and It intends to make Jon the most comfortable human alive. It hoards fresh Glimpses of that happiness.

In other Shrines across the globe, acolytes turn in their beds, the idea, the essence of a man they've never met projected into their minds. It glows the satisfaction of bursting novae to See that those Its servant-who-fears-death advised of the full Truth of Jon's being revise plots of tribute and shows of affection, schemed on making their pilgrimage to him sooner. Jon's name and face are known everywhere, in the mind of every servant devoted enough for It to touch. It is right, that he should be so Known, so adored.

Beholding presses in around the wide bed where Jon curls, knees to his chest, and lies still. His wounds healing, his heart beating, his lungs taking in oxygen and putting out carbon dioxide, the firing of synapses in that wonderful, beloved brain- It Sees all this and Loves him all the more for having been so briefly, terrifyingly deprived of him.

Chapter Text

Sasha takes a deep breath, steadying the hands that hold Jon's tray before she slips one into her pocket and withdraws the key to his room. Gerard practically threw it at her, vanishing before she could demand an explanation; she supposes their previous conversation serves, but she wishes she knew what exactly happened between him and Jon.

Will Jon be angry? Will he need comfort, a shoulder to cry on? Or has he already screamed himself out at Gerard, and he'll be too tired now to do anything but quietly accept his lunch?

As she eases the door open no scrawny bundle of limbs and spirit attempts to rush her as he once did Gerard. No shouted curses or invective meet her ears. Closing the door behind herself, Sasha steps fully into Jon's room.

She nearly coos at the sight of him, curled on top of his comforter with the shaggy ends of his hair draped across his face, peering up at her from beneath his fringe. He isn't focused enough to hide how he doesn't so much slump as collapse at the sight of her, a heap of bony angles and clothes sinking into the bed.

Sasha forces a smile. It is wonderful to see Jon, even if she longs to see him happy to see her. He looks fragile, tucked in on himself, and her eyes can't resist being drawn to the awful bandages swathing his hands. "I brought your lunch!"

Jon pulls himself upright with a movement that seems almost painful, as though the weight of a jet plane burdens his shoulders, eyes focused on his lap. "Sorry, Sasha. Thank you. I was just-"

He trails off, staring at nothing, and Sasha's heart melts. She finally makes her feet move from where she's been planted in front of the door, setting the tray on Jon's desk and trying not to startle him. She teeters at the side of the bed, not quite brave enough to sit on the edge; it feels strange, being so hesitant, but she seems to be feeling it a lot recently. Like the whole basis of her world has been slowly crumbling to so much dust since... well.

"Are you alright, Jon?"

Rather than having the effect she hoped for, the question seems to make Jon shrink even more. "I'm... fine." He wraps his arms around himself, and Sasha almost surges forward to hug him, but doesn't dare when he seems so close to shattering. "I... Have you seen Gerry?"

She's almost taken aback at the big brown eyes that peer up at her as he asks the question, so wide and glassy she wonders if he might be close to tears. "Yeah. Yeah, I came because he thought..."

"Is he angry at me?" Jon asks in a rush, the moment it becomes clear she doesn't have the words to say what Gerard thinks.

Sasha gasps at the thought, then feels bad when the sound makes Jon flinch. "No! He thought you would be angry at him. On account of him helping with your Binding."

Jon scowls at the mention of Binding. "Did you know that there's something in the contract that Jonah makes you all sign that keeps you here? It's not just tying you to your- your god, it's tying you here. To the Institute. It made Tim and Danny sick." He rocks a bit in his place on the bed, continuing more softly. "You should have seen them, Sasha. It was like Jonah was somehow stealing what made them themselves. They could barely remember what happened from one minute to the next. Danny cried. And he did it to all of you, without telling you."

Sasha swallows, doing a bit of rocking of her own, heel to toe and back again, while she tries to digest what Jon is saying.

It could be a lie. She doesn't think Jon would lie, but Tim and Danny could have been faking. They were clearly liars, traitors! Who knew what lengths they'd go to to besmirch the Cult of Beholding in Jon's eyes.

But she finds that this time the official line doesn't sit in her chest so neatly as it has all her life. Tim and Danny are traitors, yes (not just to the Institute, they betrayed her, years of friendship evaporating in the dead of night, leaving her to try to piece together their mess) but they aren't... whatever a person would have to be to lie in a sickbed, pretending to fade out of their own body.

And Jonah does things, sometimes, that are for the good of everyone even though they might not like them. Like a parent giving their child a bad-tasting medicine; he's lived so much longer than any of them, has a closer connection to the Eye and a much broader perspective. Why wouldn't he know better than her, even if she can't fathom how what he's doing is beneficial?

(Like locking Jon screaming in a sarcophagus for what felt like months to her- must have felt like years to Jon.)

"Okay," she says. "Okay. They... were they still sick, when you saw them?"

(Because some part of her was their friend, is a traitor too, and wants to know if they're ill, dying somewhere in the very building where she tries to fall asleep each night.)

"No. Outside, they couldn't walk, but by the time we were in Jonah's office they were almost themselves again. As soon as we were back in the Institute." He sneers in disgust at the last words, shaking his head mournfully.

She nods. "Come eat your lunch, Jon. You need it to heal."

He gives her another hangdog look at the change of subject, but slowly heaves himself off the bed. She can't help hovering anxiously as he makes his way from bed to desk, though he shows no sign of toppling, only a little shaky about the knees. He obligingly eats a few bites of the soup- hearty and still steaming, the best thing the cooks could concoct for a healing body- before speaking again. "Gerry really thinks I'm angry with him?"

Sasha twists her fingers together. "I mean. You don't want to be Bound- you don't understand us yet. And he designed the Binding. And you're friends. So he thought..."

Jon pulls his feet up onto the seat of his chair, resting his chin on his knees and staring contemplatively into his soup. "Sasha. What is the Binding? What- what are you going to do to me?"

"We're not going to do anything to you! No one here wants to hurt you, Jon!" He snorts derisively, but she keeps talking, "You'll be perfectly safe! Whatever awful scenario you're worried about, I promise you're wrong. They're just tattoos."

He stirs his soup. "Tattoos. Like- like Gerry's?"

"A bit!" She smiles as he takes a bite. "He designed them! He showed me some of the designs, Jon. You don't have anything to be worried about. They're beautiful."

"Okay." Jon doesn't turn from staring into his bowl, his face hidden from her. He takes a few more small bites, sips a bit at the broth, and sets his spoon down. "I'm not really hungry. Will- can you see if Gerry can come this evening?" His voice pitches up a bit, pleading. "I'd like to talk to him. Please?"

Before she can reassure him or beg him to eat just a little more, Jon pushes back from the desk, wavering on his feet, eyes still with that horrible half blank distance to them, and trips into his bathroom, closing the door behind him. She can hear him press his back to the wood before sliding down the door to the floor.

She makes a note to tell someone they should get him softer bath rugs for his new rooms. Just in case.

Chapter Text

Jon feels feverish, feels numb, feels angry and hurt and scared and sad all at once, so that the end result is just a blank nothing, half a step back from his body as it all cancels itself out.

Gerry was sure that Jon would feel betrayed that he took part in planning to keep him here forever. Does he? He's always known- notable incidents aside- that Gerry was party to his abduction from its inception. How long has he been working on this? Were they even friends when he started?

Jon doesn't think that he would call Gerry's tattoos "beautiful". Interesting, yes. But they're too simple to be beautiful, especially not a beautiful with as much sincerity as Sasha put into the word. He wants to think that it's simply whatever made everyone here think of anything remotely associated with him as the very height of creation- "paragon of pinnacles," he glimpsed before discarding the poem that had appeared in his drop box almost as soon as he was back in his room- but he suspects otherwise. That leaves a lot of ground that "tattoo," could cover, with practically no other boundaries.

He... he at least trusts Gerry not to make him look silly. Whatever their friendship means to him, it means enough that he won't outright mock Jon. Particularly using something so permanent.

He spreads his fingers, made clumsy by bandages, against the porcelain of the tub, stark in the contrast. Will he recognize them when Jonah is done?

(Because whatever part Gerry has in the scheme, it's Jonah who ordered it, Jonah who trapped him into it, Jonah who will doubtless preside over the whole affair with the same smug satisfaction he does everything with.)

He's never considered his skin, the flesh itself, to be particularly noteworthy, but now he cranes his neck to look at the unmarred expanse of his arms, the back of his legs, everything he can squirm into sight. Will it still feel like it belongs to him when it's  rededicated into the ownership of a monstrous force he still barely believes in?

Will it give the Eye some kind of control over him? Will it be able to leach into his body through the ink, travel through his bloodstream to his brain and fiddle around with his neurons until he loves it back?

He supposes it doesn't matter. He made a commitment. One he can't go back on, not if he wants to keep Georgie safe.

He lets his head fall forward onto his knees. It isn't fair. It isn't right. Why is it his responsibility to keep her safe? Why has it all been heaped on his shoulders when he never asked for it? Hasn't he suffered enough?

Maybe it's really the suffering the Eye loves. Maybe Jon is just unfortunate enough to be the vessel chosen to act out misery for the entertainment of something that already subsists on the stuff, the dessert after a filling meal of horror and ruined lives.

He should be raging, crying, doing anything to register his unhappiness with the situation. To make the lives of his captors that tiny bit less convenient, to reflect back an ounce of his own pain onto them. But he finds he just... doesn't have it in him. He's trapped. Trapped in his room, in the Institute, and in a deal he doesn't dare complain about. His future is a mystery and his past might as well have never happened.

The only Jon that exists is the one on this floor, helpless and wounded and scared and alone.

-

He has no idea how long he's been slumped on the bathroom floor when he hears someone entering the bedroom, but it was long enough to be sore and half numb. He shifts in place, not standing yet, knowing that whoever it is will probably want him to come out and talk.

Sure enough, mere moments after coming into the bedroom there's a knock on the door he leans against. "Jon?" Gerry calls, making Jon's stomach flip. "Can you come out? I, I'd like to talk. If you want to talk."

He moves faster for Gerry than he would for any other visitor, though his movements still feel sluggish and clumsy. Beyond the continued annoyance of his healing injuries, he feels like he's forgotten how to pilot his body, like it's already been taken from him before the Binding is even properly scheduled. 

He leans on the door as he unlocks it and peers out, staring up at Gerry. "H-hi."

Gerry looks everywhere but at Jon, less confident than Jon's ever seen him. "Sasha thought I should come talk with you. But I can leave, if-!"

Jon's hand acts without his input, latching onto Gerry's arm. "Please don't leave!"

"Okay!" Gerry finally looks at him, eyes wide, like he didn't expect Jon to actually want him here, whatever Sasha said. "Do you want to... sit down? First? I brought you dinner."

"Okay," Jon repeats. He heaves himself away from the door, half-stumbling toward the desk chair. Gerry's hands move as though he wants to grab him, keep him from tripping, but doesn't quite dare to touch him.

Dinner is more soup, though it comes with thick brown bread and a little pot of butter to spread on it, too. It's a different soup than he had at lunch, darker and thicker, chunks of meat and vegetables floating in the broth. More of a stew, he supposes. The difference doesn't particularly ease his annoyance at being treated like an invalid. He pokes at it with his spoon, because he knows now that he's seated Gerry will derail their conversation if it seems like Jon isn't eating. Everyone here is terribly concerned about whether he's eating enough, as if it's any of their business.

"Why did you run away?" he asks, voice still small. He doesn't think he could find more volume if he tried, and he's too tired to try.

Gerry leans against the foot of the bed, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. "I thought you would be angry with me? For helping with the Binding?" Judging by his grimace, it sounded more like a question than he meant it to. What a pair they make.

"Was it your idea?" Jon thinks he knows the answer already. He hopes he's right, suddenly mortified at having asked; what will he do if he's wrong and the Binding was all Gerry's idea? Was that why Gerry was so certain he'd be angry?

"No!" Gerry shakes his head, eyes still fixed on the toes of his scuffed boots. "Er- Gertrude asked if I would help. I don't know how she found out I draw, perils of the job I guess. But by the time it came to me I think they were already decided on what they wanted to do."

Jon nods, nibbling at a slice of bread. He assumed it all came back to Jonah's idea; Gertrude being the one to come up with it, if it wasn't a joint project between the two of them, isn't much different. "Why did you say yes?"

Gerry swallows audibly and stays silent for a long time. Jon eats his soup, just for something to do; he doesn't want to change the topic, he wants an answer.

"I... I wanted to help. I mean, they were going to do something no matter what I did." He glances at Jon, eyes desperate for understanding, "If it wasn't this, it would be something else. They were going to come up with some way to tie you to the Eye no matter what. And I'm the best choice for this."

Jon's shoulders hunch, but he nods, conceding the point.

"At least this way, I thought I could... I don't know, keep it under control? Try to make it something you wouldn't hate looking at, at least."

That's what he gets for befriending his kidnapper, he supposes. He forgot- let himself forget- since Gerry's help in the tunnels. But he promised Jon wouldn't get any second chances. Apparently he meant it.

"I... I could go get the designs? If you wanted?" Gerry offers after another long term of silence.

Jon shakes his head vigorously. "I don't want to see. I don't want to think about it."

"Right," Gerry says softly. "Whatever you want."

Jon snorts. "Except for not getting tattooed at all."

"Except for that." Gerry's voice is even softer, and part of Jon feels guilty, but Gerry knows what he did. He knows it's wrong, judging by how certain he was that Jon would be angry. He doesn't deserve Jon's, Jon's compassion or consideration. Politeness. Jon is the wronged party here, no matter how much everyone else tries to deny it.

Gerry doesn't leave, though. He stays beside the bed and watches Jon eat. He doesn't feel like eating, but he didn't have much at lunch and he's still half-starved from the coffin; whatever his mind thinks, his body is desperate for the fuel. He'll die before admitting that the stew is rich and hearty and everything a stew ought to be, in the idealized kitchen of the mind, and the bread is soft and just a bit sweet, a delicious counterpoint. Would it be better to be given gruel and water? To have his meals reflect the prisoner he knows in his heart that he is?

Gerry only ventures close when Jon sets his spoon down for the last time, coming over to take the tray. Jon looks at his back as he fumbles with the key so he can leave.

Being alone in his room felt crushing, every bit as trapped and lonely as the coffin. His hands hurt and his heart aches; he still doesn't know if Tim and Danny are alright, not really, and now he has to worry about Georgie, too. He's too tired to be angry, at least with Gerry.

"Will you come stay with me tonight?" he says in a near-whisper, "I- just until I fall asleep, maybe? I don't- I don't want to be alone."

Doesn't he deserve at least this small comfort? To forget his predicament in sleep, if nowhere else? To at least pretend he has a friend within reach?

Gerry turns from the door to look at him, something sweet in his expression. "Of course, Jon. Anything you want."

Chapter Text

From the day Jon stepped into their domain, Arun knew that his devotion to the Cult of Beholding is not only true, but is endlessly fortunate enough to happen at a time in which they are all engaged in a great Work. Centuries of toil have not yet wrought the Ritual to perfect the world, but what surer sign could they be given that they are on the right track? Jon's very presence purified their halls and lit a holy fire inside each and every member devoted to the Eye.

He has never been fortunate enough to be close to Jon, to be chosen out of the scrum to sit alongside his exalted presence, but he saw him at his Debut- and he was glorious. He seemed to glow from within, a shining golden demigod. He was so shy and demure in public, as though unaware of his own splendor, but when he relaxed it felt as though something had been set right, that their community had been able to comfortably ensconce such effulgence.

To Arun's eyes, every aspect of Jon's being, from the gleaming curl of his midnight hair to the lamplight shine of cocoa-rich Eyes set in gleaming sorrel skin to the coy posture he adopts under the vivid perlustration of their God- perfect! The apogee of human being, distilled through some miraculous instance into a single soul, the pearl of the Watcher's gaze, most precious relic of their hallowed tabernacle.

So caught up in the euphoria of a living miracle, making pilgrimage with his fellows to leave his humble trinkets of devotion at Jon's door, Arun had never dreamed that any of their number might betray such perfection. To sack their Temple in the dead of night, stealing away their sublime Sentinel's most cherished treasure, is a sin beyond imagining. It beggars belief that such despoilage would find its origin among their own number. May their names be scrubbed clean from history by the sands of time, that they be forever denied the holy communion of being Known and Seen across the ages!

Even now, with Jon blessedly restored to his Temple and his abductors awaiting their justice, Arun finds himself in doubt. Surely, some Outside force was responsible, for two of their own to have been so suborned? Some wicked interference must be at play, for any who Knew the Watcher's almighty gaze and had ingrained into their hearts the singular preciousness of Jon's person to be party to such depravity?

All know that some harm came to their idol in his odyssey Outside their protection; Jonah shared few details, but Jon had a lengthy recovery, the whole of Artefact Storage devoted to arcane ministrations for weeks on end with only those few he called bosom consorts permitted to keep him company. Even now that he has returned to his rooms, he convalesces, the few glimpses caught and disseminated when he was escorted from his chamber to the Infirmary describing him as wan and frail, leaning heavily on his companion.

Rumor also holds that something was revealed, the night of his homecoming, whilst Jon was tended to in the infirmary. Though it is no surprise that Lesere, caretaker of wounds and secrets both, refuses to share the details, they say that Michael, too, was present, yet he holds the story close to his chest. For Michael to be rendered quiet and secretive- whatever their Jon suffered at the hands of his captors, it must have been truly horrific.

Though he could do little to aid in the search while Jon remained hidden from their ransacking of the city (his talents never lying with the sort of technical skill required to scrutinize such an area), nor yet aid his recovery while he recuperates, Arun throws himself wholeheartedly into the preparations for Jon's Binding.

When he is Bound, no hands will be capable of severing him from the protective Soul of their Patron, nor of hiding him from those to whom his care is entrusted. This, to Arun, is the gravamen of Jon's captors' crimes, that this glorious union should be so delayed. Even moreso than for his Debut, all must be perfect for this event. His fellow acolytes buzz through the corridors with a festival air, all secure in the knowledge that their eidolon has returned and soon will ne'er be torn from them again.

Their halls shine, the tabernacle of the Rite prepared as it has not been in centuries in anticipation of the a momentous occasion, and all supply laid in for the following period of adjustment. In celebration, Jon is to be moved to a greater apartment of rooms, superior to that which he now occupies; though they did their best, time was so limited there, appointing a chamber appropriately that Jon mustn't spend another night on common sheets in a lifeless box of a room. Now, they have weeks to ensure that Jon will inhabit the most beautiful, palatial living space in creation, the time spend gleaning his likes and dislikes put to good use in arranging everything to his preference.

In this task, Arun flourishes, his artist's soul given a worthy errand! He devotes himself to the sink of soft carpet and the angle of fine furniture and the precise interplay of color, going to bed each night exhausted and yet alight with further plans, following the lead of Jon's apostles whenever they deign to give such direction, esoteric might it sometimes be. He treasures the thought of Jon's reaction to finally receiving his due after a life spent toiling in obscurity, not yet revealed to the Watcher's Eye. In his dreams, he finds that Jon, days or years before their Leader plucked him from that vulgar life, and himself delivers him from his oppressed usage, imagining Jon's delight at the realization he was finally to be given proper honor, finally to take up the adoration and exaltation that has been his right from birth, if only they had known to search for him!

In his wildest, blushing fantasies, some nights he imagines that Jon might condescend to lay a kiss upon his cheek, consecrating his flesh in the only sacrament Arun has ever desired.

Chapter Text

He's mortifyingly grateful that Gerry doesn't make him ask not to be left alone again. He stays the night by Jon's side, letting him cling and cry when no one but the two of them and the darkness can judge him, soothing Jon through strange repeating nightmares of Mr. Spider and Mary Keay and the Institute, and doesn't leave until Sasha or Michael comes to relieve him.

Michael fills the hours with the same aimless chatter he seems so good at, an audible sign that Jon isn't alone even when he can't see or touch him. He errs into probing at Jon occasionally, but takes being rebuffed gracefully. Sasha worries for the Stokers just as much as Jon does; he can tell, even though she's reluctant to speak of it. They worried for her while they were away; they knew what it would look like to everyone else, apparently having been joined at the hip as a trio since their teens. She seems to be coping well- better than Jon is, arguably- but he can sense some of the alienation and suspicion she must be dealing with when she speaks of other cult members.

Gerry is himself in spite of the undercurrent of awkwardness that persists between them. He's a rock, letting Jon feel what he feels without judging him or trying to redirect him toward more cheerful thoughts. He rambles about books and ideas with Jon for hours on end and manages to twist anecdotes into something that might raise Jon's spirits. He's vulnerable with Jon in a way no one else is; even with Georgie it was rare, but Gerry seems to treasure Jon's company as much as Jon treasures his.

It feels strange the first time more than one of them stays with him at a time; he's become so used to being alone or with Gerry, in this room. The only times there were more than two people present before his escape were when Jonah and Gertrude visited together and when they dolled him up for that dinner. It's cheerful, though, even if he wishes they could go elsewhere.

Gerry arrives after lunch one day with Michael and a stack of board games he got from somewhere and tells Sasha to come back when she's finished returning Jon's dishes. There's nowhere to spread out but the floor, and Jon is the only one with much of an inkling of the rules to any of the games- Sasha remembers a bit from before her family joined the Institute, but Gerry didn't have the kind of childhood that held many games, and evidently they're generally frowned on by the cult, so they're new to Michael, too.

Sasha recalls the rules to Cluedo quickly enough. She takes ruthless advantage of any distraction to lean over and peer at everyone else's cards, smiling innocently when they try to call her out. Jon ekes out a win, but Gerry and Michael don't stand a chance. They have to send Michael to fetch a dictionary when they try Scrabble; Gerry seems to know an endless list of words that no one else has ever heard. The dictionary reveals they're primarily obscure jargon related to bookbinding and collecting or the occult, which Jon supposes makes sense, though the breadth of his vocabulary remains an amazement and annoyance. Michael puts up a good show, but none of them really have a chance of beating Gerry once his words are proven valid. A Monopoly board remains in the corner for days, slowly shifting through the moves of a game they never seem to finish.

It's fun, once Jon gets over his sickening gratitude that they're actually playing rather than letting him win. He doesn't know where the idea that they might came from, but once it occurred to him it seized his heart in a vise, making him hold back for their early rounds until he was sure they won't just capitulate.

They tell stories and jokes while they play, dancing around the subjects they can't bear to speak of. It feels so normal that sometimes he finds himself turning to share a look or a laugh with Georgie, only to feel his stomach sink when he remembers she isn't there- can never be there.

Sometimes he forgets why their eyes sometimes dart to his bandages, why he's escorted to see Lesere every morning, why he dreads his future.

-

They don't tell him when the Binding is scheduled to take place- he knows it's dependent on his healing, has to stop himself from doing something to slow that healing down, but he asked Gerry not to tell him an exact date ahead of time, and that wish seems to have been disseminated to the others. He doesn't want to count down the days to his doom with a pit in his stomach; he'd rather enjoy his last days of knowing he's truly, entirely himself with the people he's surprised to find himself thinking of as friends as much as he can.

So it isn't accurate to say that the morning Sasha arrives to wake him and Gerry comes as a surprise or a betrayal. He knew it was on the horizon.

They have a few minutes to scarf down some breakfast before Michael arrives with arms full of boxes (fewer than last time this happened, Jon notes with some relief) warning that Jonah is mere minutes behind him, and Gerry has to dash off to do Jon doesn't know what, giving him a tight hug before he goes. He tries to focus on that, the feeling of Gerry trying to make him feel safe even for a moment, instead of what's coming.

He and Michael are locked in the bathroom, Jon giving token resistance to the idea of being bathed instead of bathing himself, when Jonah arrives. They can hear him through the door, speaking with Sasha, but Michael chatters away to cover that, rubbing the tension out of Jon's shoulders.

He knows that Michael and Sasha are excited for the Binding, that they view it as a good thing, but he's again meltingly grateful that they take his feelings into account in even this small way. They don't beam the way they did last time, and he knows it's on his account.

The bath is blessedly briefer than either of the previous times Michael did this for him. He thinks the number of oils and scents has been reduced, and he isn't made to suffer the lotion at all.

Michael rubs his hair half dry with a towel before Jon, protected only by a (soft, fluffy, incredible) robe, has to exit the bathroom and face Jonah.

Jonah smiles at him, eyes sparkling. "Ready for your big day, Jon?"

Jon scowls and pretends that the tremors going up and down his frame are because of the chill of air on damp skin. "You don't have to pretend I want this."

Michael guides him to sit near Sasha so she can start doing something to his hair while Michael fiddles at his nails, unable to shine them in the same way as last time in their damaged state. Neatness is the best they can hope for there, probably. It makes Jon smile vindictively inside; he listens well enough to know how ardently everyone wants this to be perfect, but they can't make his nails grow. They can't make that perfect.

"What difference is there between desire and choice, in the grand scheme of things?" Jonah asks, approaching with kohl to line Jon's eyes. He hates that there's a routine to this, that he's been through it before and will most likely be subjected to it again the next time Jonah decides that slacks and a button up aren't enough to honor him. "You have multiple options open to you, and you decided this was most desirable."

Jon can't glower much with Jonah so close to his face- he probably assigned this task to himself on purpose, knowing it would require Jon to make more or less sustained eye contact with him- but he gives it his best effort. That isn't what happened. He doesn't want this just because he wanted them to abduct Georgie even less. The manipulation rankles, but answering it with an argument is probably what Jonah wants. He stays silent, jaw clenched.

He rapidly revises his gratitude for the reduced number of boxes when he realizes that it doesn't just mean a reduction in frivolous accessories, but that they intend to have him go to the Binding- and everyone will be there, he knows no one here would miss it- in nothing but his pants and an elaborately embellished robe.

"Why can't I wear... clothes?" His voice squeaks, he thought he'd conquered every level of embarrassment being forced to let Michael bathe him, the horrible intimacy of being touched by a man who's still mostly a stranger, but apparently not. Sasha, at least, looks a touch apologetic, meeting his eyes and biting her lip.

"Anything you put on here you'll only need to take off there," Jonah explains calmly. "I thought this simplest, but if you disagree-"

"Fine," he snarls, shoulders up around his ears, even less enthused at having to remove whatever layers Jonah provides in front of an audience. He's probably got an outfit in mind that will make even the most utilitarian undressing Jon can manage look like a striptease.

Jonah smiles serenely. "I'm so glad you understand."

(Jon tries not to think of what that much exposed skin means in the context of tattooing. Maybe he should have taken Gerry up on the offer to see the designs.)

They're silent as they finish dressing Jon, carefully positioning him before a mirror so he can see what they've made of him. He doesn't look like himself; his eyes seem to glow from whatever Jonah's done, and his hair is bound up with glittering pins and looping chains. The robe is at least warm, with slippers to match.

His posture is at odds with the glimmering figure in the mirror, hunched and awkward even as Jonah taps his back, trying to get him to straighten his shoulders. He's uncomfortable; he's not interested in pretending otherwise for their comfort.

"You've built this up to be much worse than it is," Jonah says as he turns to retrieve a final box. "We've made every accommodation for your safety and comfort. You have nothing to worry about at all."

"Michael said that when you took that body it wouldn't work without the fear," Jon says, mouth running ahead of his brain at the worst possible time, per usual. "This is the same, isn't it?"

A frown twitches at the corner of Jonah's mouth, entirely eclipsed by Jon's expression when he sees what the other man is holding. "It won't be entirely painless, that's true. But we're hardly about to torture you, Jon."

He somehow forgot to expect the tiara they made him don last time. The gleaming golden ring with a jeweled eye at the center, a starburst of eyelashes splashed against his forehead, had felt gaudy. It pales in comparison to the... thing in Jonah's hands.

The jewels go all the way around this one, a repeating pattern of eyes with irises in a rainbow of colors, shining out from his brow like an all-seeing disco ball. It's heavy, and only seems to weigh his head down more as Sasha helps Jonah pin it in place.

"Lovely," Jonah breathes as he steps back. Sasha gives Jon an encouraging smile in the mirror, and Michael's eternal sunny grin outdoes itself. Jon frowns and tries not to flinch as Jonah runs a hand down his spine. He doesn't see why any Binding is necessary when he's already so decked in the Eye's symbol, looking out from the heads of hairpins and the crown and smaller, subtler eyes peering out from the patterns joining their larger brethren all over the robe. There are even eyes carefully beaded onto the toes of the slippers.

"I'm off," Jonah says after a moment, clearly savoring the sight of Jon. Jon's never thought of himself as something to be savored. He doesn't like it. "I've a few more things to prepare for the ceremony- as do you, Sasha. Michael will bring you to us when we're ready." He beams. "I'll see you soon, Jon."

Chapter Text

The first unsettling deviations from the vague outline he's constructed in his mind of what the Binding ceremony might entail were the near-nudity and the crown. They're quickly followed by Michael taking him on an entirely different route to the one he expected.

Jon holds his tongue; after all, he was hardly paying close attention when they guided him to that great domed chapel, and the Institute's halls are winding and strange. He might be misremembering, or they might be taking a different route to the same place.

But the doors they arrive at are unfamiliar, and Michael opens them to the top of the tiered ring of seats of a new room.

A hush falls as they reveal Jon. Michael gives him his arm to hold as though they're at a school dance, leading Jon with the closest thing to dignity he's ever seen the blonde manage. His head tips up in pride as he leads Jon down the long steps to the central area Jon resists the urge to label a pit.

It takes a moment to place the scene before him- he's only seen it in a single photo, from a different angle, and now the air is clouded from incense burning at every turn- but it makes his stomach cramp with anxiety. Only used for really important things, Michael said- the ropes and chains are tucked away, but they aren't entirely out of sight. A stone altar with a mat atop it to soften it is still a stone altar. This is where Jonah ties down his new bodies and takes their eyes.

He can feel every eye in the room on him, as well as the weight of something Other watching through them, dissecting every twitch of a muscle. Jonah is standing in the center of the pit, gazing out proudly at the crowded stands, with a table set up hastily behind him. Jon can spot Gerry's dyed head, his roots starting to peek through, and maybe Sasha, but the others crowded around whatever the table holds are unfamiliar to him. Lesere is there, offset from the others.

He doesn't remember most of the walk down, can't feel his legs by the time Michael sets him down beside the altar, letting him perch on the edge like it's Lesere's exam table. Everyone is dressed up, though only Jonah and Gertrude have finery approaching Jon's. They're all smiling.

"It's time," Jonah says in a booming voice. Jon didn't know he could project like that.

Lesere taps Jon's shoulder, startling him. "Here." She smiles kindly, eyes sparkling, as she and Michael help him out of the robe. At least he won't be cold, he thinks hysterically; the room is unnaturally warm, almost muggy. A rustle of excitement goes through the crowd.

Lesere fiddles with a syringe- he looks away, doesn't want to know, and finds his eyes immediately drawn to Jonah.

He's standing at the table Gerry and the others were preparing, holding a large jar. He picks it up to unscrew the lid and the contents shift, but Jon doesn't recognize them until he reaches in and withdraws the first eye. The iris is cloudy from years of preservation, but it's still recognizable.

Gerry mentioned something about Jonah keeping his host bodies' eyes, didn't he? Jon watches in horrified fascination as Jonah cuts into the eye with a scalpel, splitting it and letting the dark vitreous fluid drip down into the container before him- black ink. The ink they're going to use on him.

Lesere steps over with her syringe and an alcohol pad. She runs a hand down his back- it's meant to be soothing, he thinks, but the effect is somewhat offset by her rubber gloves. "This is going to make it so you don't have to worry about staying still," she says in an undertone that seems loud in the rapt silence. So he can't run away, Jon fills in.

Jonah is on the third eyeball when Lesere injects him, half a dozen or so remaining in the jar. The drug acts quickly, making him sway, and Lesere and Michael guide him to lie down on the alter, stomach down with his head propped on a pillow. He can do nothing as they carefully arrange his limbs; it's almost reassuring. For all Jonah's talk of this being Jon's choice, he couldn't back out now if he tried. Lesere fixes an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. "Just to be sure," she murmurs. "I'll be right here to make sure nothing goes wrong." She pets his hair.

He can tell when Jonah finishes, even though he can no longer see him, because it's like the entire room lets out a breath at once, crystal anticipation hanging in the air for a moment before erupting into sound. He'd flinch if he could, but that's been taken out of his hands.

They're chanting, Jon realizes after the shock of sound wears off. Something in Latin, he's not sure what. Things feel hazy around the edges; he's fully conscious, but feels detached from his unmoving body, mind dizzied by the smell of incense and the surreality of the entire situation.

He doesn't see Gerry and his assistants approach- it seems unfair, if he's supposed to be bound to something all about sight, that they should get to sneak up on him. His only warning is Gerry breathing, "Hi, Jon," and then there's pain.

He's had plenty of friends with tattoos, even if it never interested him much. He's sure it isn't supposed to hurt this much. He even went with Georgie to accompany one of her friends, though he ended up feeling like a third wheel, and they made it through the entire process with barely a grunt. This knocks the breath out of him, pinching, burning, vibrating pain erupting all across his body, traveling through his bones.

They've got multiple people working at once, he realizes eventually. Half a dozen people doing the work that would take- he doesn't know, days maybe, otherwise. Needles along with the skin-prickling sensation of being watched press in at his knees, his shoulders and, worst, all down his spine. Sometimes the pain stops in one location, replaced with the cool sting of some sort of disinfectant and the application of a bandage, only to start up again somewhere new.

He doesn't know how long it takes them to finish with his back. He feels half mad with the fear and the powerlessness and the noise and the smell and the pain. Their hands are gentle when they grasp his limbs, turning him to lie on his aching back, but gentleness does little for his sore skin. He stares dumbly, faintly aware of water trickling down his cheeks, as they start in again.

He wants to go home.

Chapter Text

Jon doesn't look good. They can hardly stop now, but he doesn't look good. He looks overwhelmed and hurt, the intensity of the whole mess getting to him, and there's nothing Gerry can do to help. He can't go faster- he won't make a mistake here, not with Jon and not with something so permanent. A handful of them have had to learn how to use the tattoo guns far more quickly than he would like, at least half the cult's population now bearing at least one eye taken from the larger design somewhere with varying levels of skill, all eager to help for Jon's sake.

He should mention that to Jon, maybe, when this is over. It might alleviate some of the righteous anger he's been tearing himself up with about the Signing; the people who volunteered for tattoo practice, at least, know full well what bearing their Patron's mark on their skin means, just as Gerry did when he got his.

His hands don't dare shake, but his heart pounds in time with the chanting and his breath comes quick, etching the art he's been turning over in his mind for so long onto Jon's skin. Most of his practice was done on people's limbs, and compensating for the rise and fall of Jon's chest makes him nervous. This is the part he worked hardest on, in a way, the section with all his fervent desires for Jon to be happy, not just Watched. He doesn't trust anyone else to do the lettering, Ego vigilo amica mea. Audio amica mea. Opperior amica mea, the same words pounding through his ears in a hundred voices as the entire cult chants in unison, twining on a ribbon around an anatomical heart positioned just about above his real one, its veins and arteries gradually fading into Jon's skin. An eye stares out from the center of the heart, iris a bled together rainbow of colors, and foliage is splayed out around it, heliotrope and oak leaves and aloe; rue and violets and jasmine; ivy and marigold and verbena and a single half-hidden bloom of milkweed.

The placement of most of the tattoos comes from a mixture of traditions, anything he could get his hands on that might spell power, acupuncture points and energy lines and vital arteries and chakras, mixed together so that the simpler eyes are roughly evenly spaced around Jon's body, irises in an assortment of colors on his palms, the backs of his wrists, the hollow of his throat. Knees, elbows, the arches of his feet, the hollows of his hips and collarbones.

Jon's back is the real reason Gerry's the one doing this, though. He didn't know if the old knack for imbuing his drawings with a bit of the Dread Powers would come back to him after years out of practice, but it did. Thirteen eyes march down Jon's spine, each hopefully offering some scrap of protection against its Entity, a minor claim that might cause an angry avatar to pause, at the very least. He felt like his eyes were bleeding, sketching out the drafts of amber-yellow irises with branching fractal veins, night-dark pupils, sclera with the delicate pattern of a web traced across them, but he can feel some of that power even now, he thinks.

His fingers are cramping when he finally sets his equipment down, the last to do so. He's surprised to see his hands shake, now that they're empty. The chanting shifts to English, "HE IS BOUND," echoing off the walls again and again in a jubilant roar. Jon is still held near-motionless by whatever Lesere gave him, but Gerry still spots his flinch. He sets to wiping down and bandaging the last tattoo, keeping his head down.

Michael appears over his shoulder, winding fingers through Jon's hair and murmuring, "It's done now, you were so brave." Jon makes a noise between a whine and a moan. "We're going to take you to your new rooms for a lie down, now," he continues, interrupted by a more forceful noise from Jon, closer to a whine.

"D'n' wan'," Jon mumbles. Michael bends close to hear, and Gerry feels himself shifting a bit as well. "Wan' g' home."

Gerry's stomach sinks and he's almost certain that it isn't what Jon means, but Michael's face is contorting in confusion and a bit of hurt and Jon needs to get out of here, so he says, "Okay. We'll go back to your old room for now." He catches Michael's eye. "He'll be able to appreciate the new one more when he's feeling better, anyway. Something to look forward to." He can at least keep Jon somewhere familiar, even if he can't return him to Oxford, and Michael's well-meaning argument seems to have been headed off. It'll have to do.

He derided the last part of the ceremony when Jonah outlined it, but now he wonders if the old man had realized how much Jon would hate the fuss in a way Gerry didn't quite fathom until it was in front of him. The construction and use of the silk-draped palanquin to transport Jon to bed had seemed absurdly over-the-top when Gerry could just as easily carry him there, but he sees its benefits now. It's a soft place to lay Jon down, for one, less likely to agitate his tender new tattoos than even the gentlest of holds, and it has drapes that he and Michael pull as soon as Jon is secure inside, hiding him from the view of all but the carefully-beaded eye that stares down from the inside of its roof. He tries to prod Michael into helping him with the damn thing as quickly as possible, so that they can get Jon away from the people and the noise and the smells (he'd noticed Jon's tendency to be overwhelmed by his senses but Jonah had to have his damn incense-) and back to a space that's at least mostly his own.

The halls seem ominous with everyone else held back so that Jonah and Gertrude can make whatever closing remarks they planned, empty but for the careful tread of footsteps trying not to jostle their precious cargo. At least Jonah had the sense to know Jon would balk if he wasn't allowed to walk into the Binding under his own power.

Gerry tries to ignore the way his skin feels electric, alive, more than real. He knows, knows, that this hurt Jon. Is hurting Jon. That it's a bad thing that he's trapped here now, that his life can never go back to what it was. But the Eye is almost as overwhelming as it was when Jon vanished and it jolted him out of bed, skittering joyous between his own tattoos instead of burning, now. As far as the chemical part of his brain is concerned, this feels like a victory no matter how much the rational part decries it as a crime.

Jon's room looks just as it was when Gerry left, board games still strewn over the floor, the only mess allowed to exist here for long before it's discreetly tidied when Jon isn't paying attention, the same bed and desk and cluttering of trinkets he's been given as gifts. They set the palanquin on the floor, Michael darting forward to turn down the bedclothes while Gerry goes to scoop Jon into his arms, trying to avoid hurting him. He tucks Jon under just the sheet, leaving the heavy comforter within reach. Jon curls up into a ball the moment he's in bed, movement still sluggish.

"D'you want us to stay?" he asks, preparing for an uncomfortably night finding a way to stay close enough for comfort without hurting Jon.

Jon grips his hair in tight fists, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, twitching as Michael leans in to help wipe away makeup and remove Jonah's stupid crown. The crown goes in a plush box, Jon's glasses find their way onto the nightstand, in easy reach. Gerry thinks he's going to have to ask again, but Jon draws in a shaky breath. His eyes are squeezed shut as tightly as they can be.

"Wan' be alone. Leave m' alone, go 'way!" The words are tinged with enough- anger? grief?- to set Gerry in motion before his mind processes them.

He and Michael take as much of the evidence of the Binding with them as they can, leaving only what's now engraved in Jon's skin.

Jon sobs as they close the door, and Gerry tries to ignore the selfish pit in his chest from being unwanted.

Chapter Text

There's something climbing his spine with slimy footsteps and running the whisper of fingers through his hair and searing his muscles from the inside out, and it's made no better by knowing that none of it is real, just his mind's fumbling attempt at finding a way to process the Thing sitting squat and greedy in the place where his spine meets his skull, oozing over the cortex of his brain like a poisonous fog.

The feeling of being watched has dogged him since they took him, but now he can't escape the pounding knowledge that it's here, it's here, it's here he let it in. His limbs are still weak from the drugs, but he curls in on himself to hide his face and still he knows that it can see him and it wants.

He's barely aware of where he is, that Gerry left (did he tell him to? he wants Gerry but he wants to be alone but he can't) his whole world narrowed down to the Evil living beneath his skin now. He feels devoured.

(Mr. Spider wants more.)

He doesn't understand how the others can all act so happy if this is what they feel all the time. Maybe it's less for Sasha, for Michael even, but Gerry? How twisted up inside must Jonah be, to serve this with such eager devotion? To invite its presence instead of doing everything he could to scour it from his home.

Eventually Jon's thoughts dissolve under the onslaught that started creeping in- as soon as the needles started, maybe. That he became aware of as soon as the shock of that pain wore off and became somewhat familiar. He can't think in terms of losing his home and his freedom, of protecting Georgie, of being in pain, even of wanting to be rid of the Thing that won't let him go. He rocks himself to sleep, crying, mind an endless litany of why me why me why me?

-

He could wake hours or minutes or days later, for all he knows. His eyes feel gritty and his mouth is dry, and the room looks the same as when he fell asleep. It always does, with no windows to shift the light. He can faintly see something meal-shaped on the desk, though he can't make out details without his glasses. Out long enough for someone to bring that in, but that could be seconds if they were trying not to wake him. He has no idea how long it's-

-been 3 hours, 42 minutes, and 11 seconds since he fell asleep.

He can't parse or process where the sudden surety comes from, but it sends him racing for the loo on sore feet, barely making it in time to vomit bile into the toilet.

He doesn't bother finding a glass of water to rinse the taste out of his mouth, or his glasses to take a closer look at the tattoos, or clothes to keep the chill off. He just collapses on the floor, just as he did when Sasha told him what they would be doing to him.

He rested an unblemished (not unblemished it had a scar on one knuckle from a vegetable chopping incident when he was six and a mole near his ring finger and it was beautiful) hand on the edge of this same bathtub just days ago, and now he can't bear to look beneath the careful bandaging to see what stains his skin. Exactly how it will never be the same.

He can barely string together thoughts more complicated than get out get out get out and he can feel it like a tumorous growth wrapping around his ribs, his neck, his veins, making itself at home in a way he could never hope to tear out with a sickening feeling of satisfied ownership. He wants to bang his head against the porcelain until the thoughts spill out over the floor but he knows he can't, would summon someone to stop him instantly if he tried and doesn't have the guts besides. Instead he falls asleep again, sprawled across the tiled floor.

Bound, bound, bound, ropes of barbed wire and stinging Knowledge pressing in on all his soft and vulnerable parts.

-

He's vaguely aware that at some point someone arrives (it's polite to knock) to scoop him off the floor, chivvy him into a bath and coo as they peel off the plasters, swab him over with more ointment and wrap him in real clothes, but he doesn't even know who it is, blocking out as much of the world as he can manage, trying to find a place to retreat to deep enough inside himself that the Thing won't find him. He turns his head away when they try to offer him food, rests his cheek on his pillow and pretends to be asleep while sickness roils behind his lids.

He's a work of art, he's beautiful, the tattoos only add to that beauty, he's Bound.

He's in his head and heart and he's running but it's not even chasing him, it's the ground beneath his feet, the air he breaths. He feels like he should be bleeding from the eyes and ears with the force of it, but nothing is wrong with him at all. He wants to be away, and he doesn't know if he means away from this place or the Thing or himself. He can hardly bear to move, every twitch seeming to reverberate behind his eyelids as though looking down on himself, afterimages lagging behind the motion, every second frozen for perusal.

When something tries to tell him how many days pass this way, he forgets as deliberately as he's able.

Chapter Text

People buzz in and out of his room occasionally, mostly to make sure that he's eating something and the damned tattoos are taken care of properly, but they don't stay, respecting his stated wish to be alone (but is he any more alone when they leave?) (No). He doesn't look at their faces, ignores who's there, doesn't know if it's Gerry or Michael or a doe-eyed stranger helping him into the shower and spooning broth into his mouth. He makes it go by in an indistinguishable blur.

He doesn't know whether it's grief or depression or maybe even just his new state of being, imprisoned in his own mind for the entertainment of the Thing- the Eye- and made to think it's his own choice (to turn the page to knock no bully to tear the strings). He's only roused when something breaks the monotony of his half-lit sickroom, rattling around his head in a mystery.

The drop box seems to have been getting more use than ever, though he would hardly have thought that possible. He doesn't look at the gifts, wouldn't care, but it makes a distinctive sound (that his mind still associates with Danny) so it hovers at the edge of his awareness all the same. Usually things stay on the shelf-like surface the thing makes in its default position, until the next person to come into his room tidies them away somewhere or they get bulky enough to fall to the ground.

They don't usually make noise once they've been delivered to him.

At first he thinks that the metallic click-click-click is something settling. Then a figment of his fevered mind. He only rises to investigate when it's accompanied by a sound somewhere between a squeak and a beep.

He goes back to the figment theory.

It's real.

Stepping delicately around the surface of the drop box shelf, looking deeply disgruntled, is a tiny gray kitten with an enormous bow around its neck.

He approaches it when it looks like the thing is considering leaping from its platform- can they jump down that far that young without getting hurt?- on feet far less sore than what he last remembers, his emetic dash to the bathroom. Healed, at least some.

The kitten is distracted from it's potential plunge when he lays his hand on the tray, close enough to get its attention but not to touch. It sniffs at him, sneezes, rolls its neck in a way that looks distinctly displeased with the bow that's nearly the same size as it. He cautiously strokes a single finger down its head. The kitten doesn't seem quite sure what to make of that.

Which is fair. Jon isn't quite sure what to make of it. It's supposed to be his pet.

"Would you like help getting that thing off?" he murmurs almost unconsciously. The kitten seems hesitant about his hands slowly closing in to lift it up, but seems to decide that, suspicious though they may be, they're better than the cold metal of the shelf. He carries it to his desk and sits, letting it stand on the surface with one of his hands cupped over its body to keep it mostly still- almost its whole body covered by his hand alone- so that the other can fiddle at the ribbon.

It's high quality, and clearly carefully chosen to be precisely the same shade of blue as the kitten's eyes. It's also knotted and wound in a truly ridiculous fashion. For the first time, he doesn't resent the alien knowledge that guides his hands through the knots, trying to set aside the feeling of violation to focus on the task at hand.

The task at hand purrs at being released from its satiny prison. It seems entirely happy to take revenge on its captor by lunging at the loose length of the ribbon when Jon dangles it over the desk. He laughs at its energy- it's been a long time since he played with a kitten, his usual contact with cats the less-adoptable residents of the animal shelter he went to with-

"Who put you in that big mean box?" he coos at the cat, wrenching his thoughts onto a different track. "It's not a good place for a kitten, no. All cold and clangy." The kitten heroically defeats its foe, pinning it between its little paws and tearing at it with needle teeth. Occupied with its prey, it deigns to let Jon stroke its back again.

"Nowhere here's a good place for a kitten, even a brave one like you. I bet Jonah's got lots of nice upholstery and draperies you could shred like that ribbon. Don't worry though, I'll ask Gerry to make sure you end up somewhere safe when they take you away."

The kitten collapses in a puddle, bored with the ribbon and mewing pitifully. Jon hums. "Are you hungry? I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you. I have water, though."

He rifles around the desk for a bit until he finds a tin of- lotion? probably? for all he knows it's the ointment they've been slathering him with, but the lid is shallow and sturdy. He takes it to the bathroom and gives it a thorough scrubbing with the hand soap and one of the washcloths, making sure any trace of oiliness is gone before taking it back to the desk and filling it from the pitcher sitting with his untouched meal. They always send toast with his breakfast, and he doesn't see any, so it's either lunch or dinner.

The kitten regards the new stimulus in its environment with wary, keen eyes, prowling around the edge of the makeshift bowl before carefully lapping at the surface. Compared to the kitten, the shallown lid looks more like a small pond than a dish, an impression soon underlined by the kitten stepping its front paws into the water, apparently unbothered.

Jon watches the kitten drink its fill, feeling strangely steady. When he startles, it's at the kitten's decision to pounce onto the dish, splashing in the water. He laughs when it seems shocked by the droplets that land on its nose, stumbling back. Then it goes back for another round.

Jon is surprised to feel himself smiling when the kitten empties the dish, batting at the remaining droplets sliding across the smooth metal. It wasn't done playing in the water. He reaches for the pitcher, carefully filling the dish again without splashing the cat. The kitten seems thrilled to return to its splashing.

"Funny little thing," he mutters, still smiling.

He doesn't know how long he spends watching the kitten's antics, but it's collapsed for a nap in a soggy heap and the desktop is utterly soaked, spillover dripping onto the floor, when someone taps at the door.

(It's polite-)

Gerry's eyes go to the bed first when he ducks through the door, not expecting to find Jon elsewhere. He looks overwhelmingly relieved to see him up, face less guarded than Jon's ever seen him. "Hey," he says softly, barely a breath.

"Hey," Jon answers, feeling wooden. "I- someone-" He gestures helplessly at the kitten. He knows he can't keep her, but...

Gerry's mouth quirks up in a smile, "Oh, she came."

Jon blinks. "You... knew?"

Gerry steps closer to get a better look at the kitten. "Michael's been on about it for ages. Sasha swore him to secrecy about you liking cats until they could pull this off, so he hasn't had anyone to talk to about it but the two of us."

"I-" Jon swallows, unsure how to respond. The drop box, at least, must have been Michael's idea. Sasha and Gerry definitely know better. "I can't keep it- her, though."

"Why not?" Gerry's mouth pinches in worry, like he maybe expects the answer to be "because I'm going to drop dead sixty seconds from now."

"This place- you- Jonah-"

"Won't say a word about it," Gerry says solidly. He wouldn't dare. "It's all arranged. I mean. Not here. Your new rooms, everyone pretty much followed what the three of us said you'd like, so... I can show you. Later. If you feel up to it." Gerry's eyes skitter away, like he's not sure if he's intruding. The easy physicality and closeness they had before the Binding seems lost, and Jon aches.

"Really?"

Gerry swallows. "Unless you don't want her?"

Jon shakes his head so vigorously he surprises himself. "No, I- if I can, yes, I'd like to keep her." He doesn't realize he's petting the kitten until its nose presses against his hand, an unconscious adjustment in its sleep.

"Of course you can." Gerry says it like it's obvious.

"Okay," Jon breathes when a response seems expected. "Okay."

(A pet is one more thing for Jonah and Gertrude and everyone to leverage against him, almost as bad as pulling Georgie into this, but he's so lonely it's so soft under his hands and he wants.)

(It's not of the Eye at all, he can feel it somehow, like Gerry's always been a buzzing presence in his periphery that he's noticed only now, some sense of power trickled across his skin.)

Gerry smiles. "What're you gonna name her?"

Jon smooths a thumb over the kitten's forehead. "She's the Baroness."

Chapter Text

Michael can hardly bear to be in his own skin when he's summoned to Jon's room out of schedule, buzzing with hope and excitement. Something lightened intangibly earlier, and he's sure it means Jon has come out of his fog.

He almost doesn't want to go. He's afraid Jon won't like the kitten- he tried so, so hard to find a good one, one Jon would like, but he's never actually been around a cat before. Sasha has, years ago, but only Michael is able to go out of the Institute to the parts of the world where they have cats, so he had to go off of her half-remembered tidbits and his gut. The only hard and fast rules they'd come up with were "make sure it has all its shots" and "smaller things are cuter (and thus more lovable)". He grew even more anxious about it the longer Jon stayed in his mysterious torpor, barely acknowledging you even when you touch him. The kitten was supposed to be a somewhat-belated surprise to celebrate the Binding, but when Jon sunk into his depression Michael was even more motivated to bring her to the Institute the moment the breeder said she could be separated from her mother.

He meets Sasha outside Jon's door and they knock, as has become standard practice. The door is still kept locked, but that's mostly because they don't want anyone to come in when Jon doesn't want them here. He doesn't exactly need to be locked in, anymore. The door to his new rooms locks from both sides.

Sasha shares his excited, nervous smile while they wait for Gerry to let them in.

Jon's desk is right in view of the door, so the first thing Michael notices is that for some reason it's covered in water. The tray of food there has been picked over, which is more than Jon's managed independently in days.

The next thing he notices his eyes are drawn to as though by a magnet, like the room could be on fire and he would still need to see Jon sitting on the foot of his bed, holding the kitten. She's wrapped in a towel and decidedly damp for some reason, but peering about the room curiously. Michael thought cats were supposed to hate water.

Jon doesn't look up at the sound of their entrance, but for once it isn't because he can't bring himself to move. His eyes are firmly fixed on the kitten in his hands. He looks softer, somehow, than Michael's ever seen him. When he does finally look at them (at roughly the point Sasha tries and fails to muffle a delighted coo) his eyes rise slowly, rather than the usual taut-string snap.

He looks shy about speaking to them, like he did at his Debut, but there are no crowds here, and he hasn't seemed uncomfortable with them in ages, since they started coming to keep him company all the time. Michael doesn't get it.

Jon smiles hesitantly. "Gerry says... she's from you?" His shoulders creep up around his ears, and he flinches, though it doesn't seem to be at anything they did.

Michael grins. "Yeah! We've been planning since- well, for ages! Sasha had savings and I went to go get her! Do you- d'you like her?"

Jon bites his lip, eyes drifting back down to the kitten. "I... I can really keep her?"

Michael's jaw drops a bit at the thought that anyone would dare deny him, but Sasha jumps in before he can say anything stupid. "I should hope so! We've only been planning your new rooms around the idea that you would!"

"What do you mean?" Jon's brow creases and his head tilts a bit, and the kitten tilts her head back at him.

Michael nearly dies from how sweet they are. "Do, do you want to come see?"

Jon is silent... too long. It should be simple, shouldn't it?

Eventually Gerry sets a gentle hand on his shoulder and says, "It doesn't have to be to stay, if you really don't want to. You can come back here after if you aren't ready. I think you'll like it, though."

(Michael really hopes Jon decides to stay in his new rooms. Not least because if he stays here the kitten will stay here, and they'll have to move all its essentials here. Which he'd be glad to do! Only he's not entirely clear on which items are essential, and which just mean needless extra trips back and forth.)

Jon's shoulders hunch a bit, but he stands. "Okay." His face sets into determination; the expression he shoots them isn't so much a smile or a frown as it is a slant. Michael has no idea what it means.

Luckily, Gerry has always been better at interpreting Jon than anyone, so he quickly produces a pair of hard-soled slippers from the back of Jon's wardrobe and starts ushering them all out, into the Institute's halls.

Sasha takes the lead, but they let Jon set the pace. Now that he can't leave, there's no need to hurry him from place to place; they can let him explore the hallways and examine the various knickknacks that line them as much as he wants. Jon seems mostly set on their destination, but he still gets sidetracked a couple times. Michael takes careful note of what catches his attention, and what he seems to think of it, but Gerry beats him to answering both times Jon asks a question.

(Art focused primarily on a single, looming eye: usually passed by with a shudder; vases and statuary with intricate detailing: examined until the kitten starts to squirm or mewl and reminds him of his task; the bit of Egyptian bas relief featuring what was previously Michael's primary reference for cats: reason to stop and juggle the kitten into a single hand so he can point out its carved cousin. The kitten seems disinterested, but Jon smiles.)

He's selfishly glad that they don't run into anyone else on their journey. They must know where Jon is; the halls practically buzz with it, the Eye's interest in him (possibly specifically in him with the cat? They are very cute) like a beacon that should have dozens of curious onlookers descending on them. Maybe Jonah's warned them all away.

"Have you named her yet?" Sasha asks when they're nearly to Jon's new rooms, in a weird cranny of a hallway where the separation between the public and secret parts of the Institute is less of a straight line, allowing them to build him rooms with a window that looks out on real London.

Jon glances down at the kitten affectionately. "She's the Baroness."

Michael doesn't think he's ever heard of a being with a "the" in their name before, besides the Entities. Maybe it's a good sign, one that Jon is coming to terms with the Eye and all that comes with it. Or maybe that's just how names are, for cats.

Chapter Text

Jon kind of expected that he would be able to tell, when they arrived at his new... housing. He's right, in that there's another drop box set into the wall (perish the thought of him being free of unwanted gifts... he should make it known that living things should not be put into drop boxes, shouldn't he?) and the door is carved with a needlessly numerous and elaborate relief of eyes staring in toward its center (and he doesn't know how they managed to give eyes without faces expressions, but they all manage to look uncomfortably adoring), but he's also right for an unexpected reason, an oddity he hasn't considered and doesn't recognize.

A series of little platforms is set into the wall next to the door, all the way down to the floor from a narrow hole at the top of the wall. It's far higher than he could reach without involving a ladder, but it also appears to go clear through to the other side, nothing obstructing it.

Gerry fumbles in his jacket once Jon stops, a healthy distance away from the door still, feeling as if it might bite. He can feel Sasha and Michael's stares burning a hole in the side of his face, so he looks back at the Baroness instead. She looks like she'd like to go back to her nap.

"Here!" Gerry pulls out a key ring with two identical keys. "It- Jonah and Gertrude insisted it lock from the outside, and they've got the only key for that. And that there needed to be a spare for the other lock, in case of emergency, but it does lock from the inside. And I convinced them to let you decide who has the spare. So you can keep Jonah out, if you want."

That's... it's still violating and exposing and confining and terrible, but it's better than he has now. Better than he really thought to hope for. "Can I give you the spare?"

Gerry turns beet red faster than Jon's ever seen someone blush that hard. "Um... I think they meant..." They meant for him to choose between the two of them.

Jon takes the key ring before he can finish, snapping it open to pull the second key off as decisively as he can, pressing it into Gerry's chest. It's not as smooth as he'd like, since he's still holding the Baroness, but hopefully he gets his message across. "Better to ask forgiveness than permission?" His voice squeaks.

Gerry stammers, but takes the key. Jon hopes he'll agree; he trusts Gerry to actually keep the key "in case of emergency," to actually respect his desire for privacy unless the building catches fire or he has a seizure or something. He's not sure giving it to Gertrude instead of Jonah would be more than an empty gesture. She helped toss him into that sarcophagus. She might not be as vocal, as prying, or as frequent a visitor as Jonah, but she'd probably hand it over so he could visit Jon on a whim, under the loosest interpretation of "emergency" imaginable.

Gerry swallows, holding the key like it weighs dozens of times as much as it does, but eventually tucks it into his jacket's inside pocket with shaking hands. "Okay. Yeah. Okay." He would die before giving it up.

"Great!" Sasha chirps from out of Jon's field of view, making him start. She grimaces apologetically, but steamrolls on. "Can we go inside now? We've been waiting to show it to you for ages!"

"Right." He ducks his head. He feels like every people skill he possesses has been sucked out of him, as well as the camaraderie they built up together before the ceremony. His hand shakes as he fits his key into the lock and lets himself inside.

The first thing that draws his eye is that there's a window. There's a window with a wide window seat and plush cushions in front of it, and he's kneeling on the seat with the hand not currently full of kitten pressed against the glass before he fully realizes he's moving.

It's an ugly day, low hanging clouds and fog interspersed with rain, supposed to be like that all day, and the street below is deserted. It's an average looking street of businesses, and he can tell he's a couple stories up. There isn't much to see besides wet pavement. 

His heart is in his throat, and he's glad that his back is to the others and they don't seem to expect him to speak just yet, because he thinks he might spill over into tears. The window is thick double paned glass, but he can still feel a bit of the chill from outside when he leans against it. That's the world. The real one, with uni and bars and people who would let him pass on the street without a second glance. He's not sure if it's a kindness or a cruelty to give him this, now that he's forever barred from rejoining them.

He takes a moment to gather himself. The Baroness bats a paw toward the window, claws out, and he pulls her back before she can scratch it. When he feels like he can speak without crying, he pulls himself away from the window and turns his attention to the rest of the room.

It's not as bad as he had feared. From some of the things the others said he was afraid that it would be covered in gold or look too expensive to touch, or otherwise ridiculous in a way he wouldn't think to imagine until it was too late. It's still ridiculous, but at least... almost in a good way. The kind of way he'd have designed himself if he could, just with a far bigger budget. Bookshelves built into the walls, a big, antique desk, a table big enough to play all the board games they want on. He can see doors leading to other rooms, but the first one, at least, isn't too bad.

He can see what the platforms on the outside wall were for, now. It's that that most softens his opinion, the kind of walkways and bridges and tunnels ringing the walls that make it heaven for a rambunctious cat, scratching posts and hidey holes and baskets of toys and what seems in sum to be the entire contents of a pet store's cat section scattered around. He can see more holes in the walls to other rooms, the feline jungle gym extending throughout the space.

He carries the Baroness over to the nearest cat climber, setting her into one of the beds. She squeaks a bit at losing the warmth of his hands- and the hand towel she was still wrapped in, which seems likely to go the way of the ribbon if left with her.

On second thought, he gives her the towel. It's only skin off Jonah's nose if she destroys it, and it gets her to settle down in the bed, content with her project of destruction.

"Well?" Michael asks from behind him, followed by what sounds distinctly like someone stomping on his foot. Jon works up the best smile he can manage- it's not as difficult as he thought it would be- and turns. Instead of saying anything, he hugs Michael.

"Oh!" the taller man squeaks, nearly the same tone the Baroness made moments ago, before returning the hug, a bit tentative around Jon's tattoos but strong.

Jon stays against Michael's chest until the blonde loosens his arms; it feels surprisingly nice, leaning into contact he initiated. Then he repeats the act on Sasha, and last and tightest of all Gerry.

"Thanks," he says when Gerry finally lets him go. "You said you advised a lot and- I'm sure if Jonah had been in charge it would be-" a nightmare, he doesn't say, lets the silence hang the implication for him, "-but this is. This is actually nice. Thanks."

"Of course," Sasha says warmly. The moment is allowed to last for all of two seconds before she rushes to add, "Do you want to see the rest now!?"

Chapter Text

It feels the moment Its needles sink into Jon's skin and It glows with a happiness It has never Known. He is perfect and beautiful and Beholding's and It wants to live in the spaces beneath his ribs, between his heartbeats, under his thoughts and over his flesh. In the moment of frenetic exultation nothing else matters except Knowing that finally It is a part of Jon as much as he became part of It the moment he entered the scope of Its Gaze and plunged It into alien territories of Love and emotion.

Jon's pain and discomfort and Fear are of no concern, then; all mortal beings are frightened in the face of physical pain, no matter how necessary. While It is dashing delightedly through his veins in unfamiliar but not uncharted depths of minutia, Jon is being filled with the infinite for the first time, physical and mental faculties overwhelmed.

It Knows that Jon does not return Its feelings (does not understand, even, that those feelings truly exist) and It has never paid mind to human limitations or healing before. It does not Know how long it will take for Jon to return to normal, and though It is impatient if there is one thing in existence It can find patience for it is Jon.

But the smile does not return to Jon's lips, even when those of Its servants he most favors surround and care for him. Not even the rictus of no-less-adored fear graces those precious features. Jon lies in bed and lets It course over and around and through him with little reaction. If It did not Know otherwise It would think him already Ended, so still.

He cringes from Its touch, shuddering and crying out at the faintest feeling of It. It is not used to being denied; why would It ever want to leave Jon? So instead It shapes Itself around the places he pushes back and refuses to acknowledge the Knowledge It gifts him, finding the subtle cracks in his perception that let It leave Its gifts unnoticed, settling ever-deeper into the essence of Jonathan Sims.

He is writhing, he is anguished, and this is all wrong. Jon's displeasure should be fleeting and readily remedied, but he sinks so deep into his malaise that It can hardly find him. The thrill of being part of him at last is dulled by the terror that Jon will find a way to slip from It regardless, drawn to fog or flame or End by one of Its Siblings.

It is only peripherally aware of the way Its fretting effects Its acolytes, servants rushing hushed through corridors and Its servant-who-fears-death's phone ringing off the hook. It pays little attention to the machinations of such beings to bring Jon back to happy liveliness; they are many, and they Know what It wants. They will hit upon the answer eventually (faster, sooner, now) and Its attention is (always) better spent on Jon himself.

It does not Know of the plan to bring the creature- the cat- into Jon's room until the sounds of its protests rouse Jon from his stupor. As Jon stares flabbergasted Beholding whips through the minds of Its servants like a biting wind, ferreting out answers to the questions that bubble to Jon's consciousness.

It has never had cause to pay attention to such creatures; they are far better suited to Its Sibling, stalking about on velvet paws to strike from the shadows, but It Sees the appeal in this one. It Sees the appeal in all things Jon finds appealing.

The mess of conflicting emotions that grayed out into a morass of nothingness covering Jon's mind slides away with a concrete task, a need to care for something soft and vulnerable. He sits and watches the thing prance about and does not cringe from It at all, moving in perfect time with Its prompting when It slips him Knowledge of the creature's desires. He smiles. Laughs.

Being able to View the tableau of Jon with something small and sleeping through human Eyes nearly knocks Its servant-who-was-found off his feet, would do so even without the happy shock of seeing Jon out of bed weakening his knees. Jon slides into old camaraderie as though he has not been dull and lifeless for days on end, numb to the world; now he Watches as the creature snores, mindless of the water soaking his arms when he lays them on the desk to rest his chin on.

The servants Jon favors use the creature to draw him out of the cramped, obsolete room into the grander chambers that have been prepared for him, and he examines the trinkets in the hallways of Its Temple with fascination, delights at the chance to once more Watch the outside world. He is happy in a way It has felt for only fleeting moments, for the first time since It placed a piece of Itself behind his breastbone. Gloomy thoughts vanish like dark clouds blown by a strong wind, leaving only a shining moment It luxuriates in.

That night It watches Jon retire through feline Eyes, the kitten crawling thrillingly close to Jon's face before curling in on itself to sleep. Jon stirs none of the torments from his psyche in sleep, instead allowing It to watch those parts of his life It has not been party to from within his sleeping mind, and It Loves him.

Chapter Text

Jon should know better than to expect Jonah to stay away for long, at this point. He probably didn't even stay away during his stupor, Jon just didn't let himself realize he was there. He only has the decency to wait until the first morning Jon wakes up in his new bed to force his presence on him.

Jon sleeps better than he has for a while, though his dreams are dogged with the intense feeling of violation he's started trying to suppress in wakefulness. He keeps reliving moments, large ones, inconsequential ones, ones he didn't even realize he remembered, across his life and the emotional spectrum, but twisted out of shape. Everything always seems normal at first- almost less like he's dreaming than he's reliving the incident again- but soon enough something reveals itself to be off; he starts noticing that people aren't blinking enough, or there's someone there who shouldn't be, someone he doesn't know. Then he realizes that the ceiling, the sky, once the entire parachute his primary school class was sitting under is one enormous eye, and has been all along. He starts to see the way things crept in without him noticing, something physical twining its way up his limbs, dragging him down until he's consumed or jarred awake.

He remembers them better than other dreams. He wishes he could forget.

But he sleeps better with a locked door between him and the rest of the Institute that they can't unlock. As long as Gerry doesn't let them in, they can't get at him. It makes him angry, how secure that knowledge makes him feel. He shouldn't have to be grateful for being allowed to avoid his captors.

He doesn't actually hear the knocking, initially. It's a distinct advantage to having a bedroom an entire room away from the exit, with space and its own heavy door to block out the sound. Jon wakes to the Baroness kneading her claws into his comforter, and a little bit into his shoulder. He smiles and picks her up so she can't damage either. She yowls, wriggling out of his grip and leaping to the floor now that she has his attention, pawing at the door. She's not quite big enough to make the leaps necessary to bypass it and go into the other rooms through the tunnels up near the ceiling yet.

(Michael was apologetic when he realized, offering to find something to help her climb, but Jon just laughed and told him that she would be up there soon enough, and in the meantime she'd have something to strive for, though it may take up to two years for her to reach full size.)

(Is he really going to be here in two years?)

"What is it?" he asks, pushing himself up and out of bed. His dreams were bad as ever, but waking to a kitten is a marked improvement to waking drenched in fear-sweat. The Baroness yowls again, and he picks her up with a hand looped under her belly so he can open the door.

He can hear the knocking as soon as he's in the central room. It's a loud, even beat. He tenses and his shoulders rise up toward his ears until he remembers that the door is locked and no one can come in without his say-so. "Who is it?"

Jonah calls, "Let me in, Jon. I have some matters to discuss with you, now that you're feeling more yourself."

Jon bites his lip. "No thank you!"

The pounding begins again and Jonah says something in response, but Jon can't hear him because he's already dashing into the bathroom, feeling a bit giddy at getting one up on Jonah in a way that doesn't put anyone else in the line of fire.

-

He stretches his shower out as long as he can, trying to feel at home in a body that had been moved around and cleaned by strangers for days, and that keeps startling him with the alien flash of white tattoo ink in the corner of his eye, but he can only put Jonah off for so long. He doesn't want to test Gerry's possession of his spare key quite so soon.

The Baroness runs at his feet like she hasn't seen him in months when he steps back out into the main room, trying to wind around his ankles but only managing one because she's so small. He picks her up before she can make herself dizzy and gives her a thorough scratch behind her ears before turning his attention to Jonah. He can tell he's still out there, even though the knocking has stopped and he isn't speaking.

The Baroness swipes at his wet hair. Jon takes a moment to tuck her into one of the more sheltered hideaways, catching her interest with a ribbon ball so she's too occupied to protest being set down too much. He has to carefully detach her claws from his shirt and he'd rather have her warm presence in his arms facing Jonah, but he won't put her at risk for his sake. The others might be confident that he'll be allowed to keep her, but he wouldn't put it past Jonah to do something. He doesn't seem like much of an animal lover.

He nearly falls to his knees as soon as he opens the door. He thought he could bear to face Jonah by himself, even if it was just long enough to tell him he'd talk when Gerry could come and back him up, but he hadn't factored in being able to feel Jonah's direct gaze. He might have compared that smug, assessing once over to a physical presence before, but now it's somehow more. He doesn't just know that Jonah's entire attention is fixed on him, he knows it. It takes a drifting moment to realize that the points where the awareness is the worst correspond to his tattoos, that the Eye's presence on his skin and in his mind must be what makes Jonah's focus so apparent. He grabs the door frame, head spinning as he tries to ride out the feeling.

"Everything alright, Jon?" Jonah asks as though he's perfectly innocent.

Jon glares at him, but flinches back almost hard enough to stumble when he sees Jonah reaching for him with a solicitous hand. "Don't touch me!"

He follows the momentum of the flinch backward until he reaches a chair and can cross staying upright off his list of concerns. "What do you want?"

Jonah smiles blandly. "I thought you might like to take your breakfast in the mess hall with your friends. And before that, I have a few things to address, now that you're feeling more yourself."

"What." His skin crawls. He wants Jonah to look away. He wants Jonah to go  away.

"Many of our fellow worshipers of Beholding overseas have expressed interest in meeting you. Now that you're recovered from the Binding, a few of them will be arriving within the fortnight."

"Why." His shoulders draw involuntarily toward his ears. Exactly what he needs, more staring cultists invading his personal space.

Jonah's smile sweetens. "They were alerted to your existence by Beholding's reaction to your... sabbatical. Had you not vanished from Sight, your anonymity may have been preserved longer, but as it is I've held them off as long as I can. If they aren't allowed to send representatives here, some of them might choose to take more... drastic action. I made the judgement that you would be happier being visited here than being forcibly relocated to Beijing." Jonah stays infuriatingly calm throughout, terrible gaze still fixed on Jon with mild amusement. Jon clenches his hands into fists, letting his nails dig into his palms instead of screaming at the top of his lungs and never stopping.

While Jon is busy choking down his reactions, Jonah walks into the ridiculous walk-in closet (it might be as big as his bedroom back home all by itself. It might be the size of his entire home, by itself) and rummages around for a moment.  The temporary relief of being removed from his direct sight gives Jon time to decide that he hates that Jonah knows this space that's meant to be Jon's better than him; it makes him want to spend all day rearranging the contents of every drawer and cabinet in the place.

"Breakfast?" Jonah prompts, offering Jon a hand up when he returns from his business in the closet. Jon sets his jaw and stands without taking the offered hand. Gerry and the others would probably bring him something if he refuses Jonah, but he doesn't want to continue acting like he can't leave the room if he can. Or for Jonah to press the issue.

He didn't pay much attention to the slim box Jonah found in the closet; that was a mistake. As Jon's eyes dart around for the slippers he wore yesterday something heavy (the circlet he wore at his Debut) falls onto his head. He starts and reaches up to dislodge it. "Wh- No!"

"You ought to wear some signifier of rank if you're going to wander the halls publicly," Jonah explains, reasonable as ever. "I'm afraid I must insist."

Jon wants to call him out- he sincerely doubts that there's a single person in the building who wouldn't know him on sight, crown or no- but as Jonah stands in front of him admiring the thing the Baroness attacks her toy with a particularly impassioned meow, and he catches a flicker of annoyance and disgust dart across Jonah's features before he can hide it. His heart clenches.

If he fights Jonah on this, he might decide the Baroness is more trouble than she's worth- he's sure Jonah could find some way to get rid of her without leaving enough evidence for Jon to blame him directly. The longer Jonah's in the room, the more likely that is.

Jonah smiles like he knows he's won, and Jon hates him. "Shall we?" He offers his arm gallantly- Jon supposes he was brought up in a time where that was the done thing, though Jon is hardly a debutante. He hopes that walking past Jonah for the door cuts that little bit deeper, in that case.

Jonah takes it in stride, following Jon and placing a light hand on his shoulder. Jon has to choke back memory of the vertigo inducing plunge into the sarcophagus, taking a moment to steel himself before walking on. Maybe if he walks fast enough Jonah will keep his hands off.

Chapter Text

News of Jon's recovery spreads through the halls like sparking electricity, the feeling of elation lighting in every mind at once and rumors of its cause racing from one to another. They hardly need rumors at all; Jon is the only thing that gives their Patron that particular lightness, that is so important that even the lowliest of them are alerted to their God's pleasure. It is only further confirmed that Jon must have risen by the distinctive flash of Knowledge from their Leader warning them all to clear away from the route between Jon's old room and his new chambers, lest they infringe upon his peace with their presence.

After the bubbling excitement of the Binding, all descended into a terrible morass of worry when Jon was so overcome by the sudden closeness of his paramour as to become bedridden. Like his fellows, Arun did his best to keep his chin up, knowing that Jon needed them to keep things running smoothly, that he might have no trouble integrating when he finally regained his senses, but the Knowledge that their terrible era of concern is ended inspires him to begin composing an ode immediately. He holds its lines in the back of his mind as he walks the aisles of the Cult Library, jotting down what he can whenever his duties return him to the circulation desk.

News always spreads best in the mess hall, and any detail of Jon that could be gleaned from momentary glimpses or pried from the loyal mouths of his bosom companions is disseminated far and wide at supper. The most delightful snippet is that Jon has been gifted a kitten.

Arun knows little of cats, but he hurries to make a study of whatever materials he can acquire before lights out. A brief description of the particular creature now given that utmost of honors, living with Jon, is given by Michael, but he hardly includes the level of detail required by poetics.

He is turning over his latest projects, the ode to Jon's renewed vigor and something to honor the acquisition of his new pet, poking at his breakfast more than eating it, when a frisson of Delight echoes through the mess hall. The room falls uncharacteristically silent, and Arun looks up just in time to see Jon entering, Jonah at his shoulder.

His heart nigh stops at the unanticipated sight of his Muse. Jon is dressed casually, the only thing that would mark him out to the uninitiated as the dearest Treasure of the Eye the symbol splayed out in gold and jewels across his forehead, glimmering in the light like a beacon.

Gerard leaps from his seat, obscuring Jon from the view of most like a grim cloud covering the sun. The universal sigh of disappointment is hushed almost immediately, that those nearest might catch what words are exchanged. But their voices must be low, for no snippets make their way across a wave of whispers to Arun's ears.

He is glad to have lingered over his meal, though; many have already left the hall, and will only learn of Jon's tarriance when those here now relate the tale later. As a poet, he needs to see the inspiration for his art as frequently and in as diverse circumstances as possible.

Jon is pulled away from Jonah, spirited to a corner to eat with Gerard, Michael, and Sasha. Several of Arun's more daring peers seem ready to leave their seats and dare nearer, but Gerard glares them away in defense of Jon's peace. Arun notes approvingly that Jon has been served a finer meal than the masses; he should not have to lower himself to their fare merely because they cannot feast every day.

None depart while Jon is in their midst. It is only after he leaves, Gerard by his side, that they all drift off to their duties, made heedless of their tardiness by the Benediction of his presence.

-

At supper, it is announced that delegates of their sister institutions abroad will be visiting soon, that they, too, may meet Jon. For the first time in his life, Arun hears Jonah's word met with a fractious murmuring, the entire Congregation reacting with distaste to the idea of sharing their holiest of resources, Jon's vicinity. Jonah looks across the crowd sternly, and in his place beside him at the high table Jon stares at his lap, no doubt shamed by their disloyalty. All are instantly chastised by this last; it is hardly their right to hoard Jon to themselves, when he has the adoration of a God and should be honored all across the globe! They are merely fortunate that he has elected to ask the others to come to him rather than traveling himself.

(Nevertheless, Arun holds the selfish thorn of satisfaction close to his heart, knowing that only their corridors will be so blessed as to receive Jon within.)

Still, they must not quiet their mutterings quickly enough, nor demonstrate their contrition adequately, for to the dismay of all Jon eats quickly and leaves the moment he finishes his meal. Arun swears to himself that he will do all within his power to speed the arrangements along for the arrival of new witnesses to Jon's Splendor.

-

He does not expect to be so blessed as to see Jon outside of his occasional appearances at meal times and, if he is very fortunate, perhaps a passing glimpse in the halls. Consequently, he is astonished to find the animus of his genius in the Library some days later, Arun's very domain! He resolves to give Hannah a piece of his mind for not warning him, instead allowing Arun to wheel a cart of books around a corner only to find Divinity in the middle of the history section.

Jon is wearing the same sort of casual clothing he seems to favor, marvelously modest being that he is. The shirt looks distinctly as though it may have originated with Gerard, though the gold of his coronet still glints through his hair.

Arun's heart seizes at the sight of him, then seizes again at what he briefly takes for a creature of the Hunt, burying needle-claws in the front of Jon's clothing and trying to scale his shoulder. In the frozen moment where he tries to determine the best way to free Jon from its clutches without causing him harm (and oh! what distinction it would be, to die in his defense!) the creature tumbles, and Jon catches it against his chest and smiles down. A tiny, golden eye about its throat flashes in the light, and Arun realizes that this must be the kitten.

Though he thought he was moving with stealth once he spotted Jon and the potential threat to his life, he must have made some noise, for Jon looks over at him (!) and his brow furrows.

"Oh," he ducks his head, "Sorry, I can take her out, I shouldn't have brought her in." He scratches the kitten behind the ears, and makes to move.

"No!" Arun breathes. "No, it's fine. You don't have to go anywhere!"

Jon rocks back into place. "It's no trouble. But thank you..."

"Arun," he gasps out. Jon nods.

"Arun. I'm Jon. And this is the Baroness." The kitten makes another ploy for the heights, once more aiming for Jon's shoulder with a wild leap.

"I know." Jon flinches, and Arun's heart shatters. "I mean! I didn't know the cat's name! It's- it's nice to meet you both!"

"Thank you," Jon says a bit stiltedly. "Likewise."

Arun nearly faints at the reciprocity, but manages to remain standing at his cart, watching, until Jon selects a book from the shelf and leaves the Library. 

Chapter Text

Jon flinches from the first shock of cold water out of the shower head. It is exactly 3.2℃ colder than the rain in the coffin and he nearly trips racing for the toilet, heaving over the bowl and bringing up only bile. He stays sprawled across the floor, damp and shuddering, trying to get himself under control. He doesn't feel present in his own brain, jolted into a memory even though he knows he isn't there anymore.

He starts away when something wet and soft brushes against his leg, but when he turns it's only the Baroness, mewling at her owner to ask why he isn't participating in one of her favorite activities. He pulls her to his chest, moving slowly so she can get away if she wants to, and holds her there, breathing slowly and trying to focus on the feeling of another breathing being, tiny heart beating against the hand he has cupped around her. He isn't alone.

Eventually he pulls himself together enough to stand, approaching the shower again. He keeps the Baroness close, but tentatively reaches out his free hand to test the spray. The feeling of water hitting his skin still makes him cringe, even though it's no longer cold. He turns the shower off shakily, and the Baroness yowls at losing her favorite toy before she was done playing with it.

He starts to fill the tub, sitting on the plush mat holding the Baroness tightly as he watches the water rise. She's quickly distracted by the new source of water, and starts to squirm against his grip.

She hasn't seen him run the bath before because it reminds him of being forced into it, not allowed to bathe himself- but if he can't shower without a panic attack...

(He hates that they've taken something as foundational as bathing and forced it into a complex navigation of triggers and bad memories.)

He lets her go before the bottom of the tub fills completely so she can approach from the dry area at the end opposite the faucet. She races into the water the moment her paws hit the porcelain, splashing her way to the faucet so she can stick her head under the flow.

The Baroness keeps away the memories when he joins her in the water; trying to wash while keeping an eye on a kitten with unknown swimming capabilities is an excellent distraction from the memory of sitting there desperate to be alone but not allowed to  so much as shampoo his own hair, or of being desperate for contact while an entire garden's worth of dirt was rinsed away. He has to be careful of her claws when she realizes that being in water deep enough to put the bottom of the bath out of reach means she can go straight from swimming to her second favorite activity, trying to climb him. He doesn't mind when he's wearing a shirt, but he'd rather keep her claws out of his skin.

They stay there a long time, making an impressive mess as Jon slowly feels more like himself and the Baroness realizes that once she's climbed (or been helped) to his shoulder she can leap back into the water. It's nice. He used to enjoy baths, he thought they were relaxing; being used as a kitten diving board isn't exactly relaxing, but it's good.

-

His friends have various duties to attend to throughout the day (though they would gladly be excused indefinitely to keep him company, if he asked), so he occupies himself by wandering the halls, trying to get a sense for the Institute's geography. He hasn't made much progress; it's quite common for someone, usually one of his friends but not always, to be sent to find him and lead him back to the mess hall for meals, because he's lost track of time and wouldn't know how to get there even if he hadn't.

It's a convenient excuse, too. The doors to Artefact Storage are singled out with locks and signs, but otherwise few of the doors are labelled. He suspects that Jonah and Gertrude know what he's up to, turning every knob he comes across and trying to take note of which are locked (Jonah is indulging him), but everyone else accepts his explanation.

He isn't allowed into the public part of the Institute, even though he can't leave; otherwise he more or less has the run of the place. The halls seem just as labyrinthine now as they did when he was rocketing through them at a sprint. It makes it difficult to tell whether he's treading old ground, or to estimate how much he's actually covered.

He thinks there are some areas he's learned to recognize, but the idea that he could spend the rest of his life searching and still miss whatever door hides Danny and Tim haunts him. For all the Eye seems eternally eager to shove unwanted knowledge into his head, it won't show him how to find them. He doesn't even know for certain that they're still alive.

He doesn't progress as quickly as he'd like, frequently sidetracked by "helpful" interference or by stepping into a roomful of cultists eager to explain their little corner of the operation to him, or by his own curiosity. The library he's able to access is the sort of place that still thrills whatever tiny corner of his soul is still a bookish 8-year-old unafraid of what he might find between leather covers, the picture of musty, cared-for esoterica iterated over dozens and dozens of looming shelves. He loses himself there for an afternoon, and is clutched with guilt when he realizes just how much time he's wasted.

He tries hard not to show the part of him that's increasingly frantic over the absence of the Stokers, but it's difficult when the most convincing argument he can give himself for their continued well-being is that he doesn't think Jonah or Gertrude would deal with them quietly when their escape caused such widespread turmoil.

The idea that there are still more people that he's going to be expected to meet soon turns his stomach, and it's worse when he realizes that the arrival of the unknown representatives from other Eye factions likely constitutes his most likely chance at seeing Danny and Tim again. It seems like something Jonah would do, make an example of them in front of as many people as he can manage.

Jon doesn't know exactly what he'll do if (when) he finds the Stokers, how he's going to circumvent the contracts keeping them in the Institute or get them out, but he has to try. They tried to save them and they're suffering for it (he doesn't know what's happening to them, but he's certain they're suffering. Jonah is too vindictive for anything else, if he was willing to throw Jon in the coffin for three weeks what might he be willing to do to them?), and Jon owes it to them.

He might fail- he's been failing ever since they brought him out of the coffin and he was able to try- but he has to try. He needs them to be alright, and no one else is going to do anything to help them.

-

He's more aware of the feeling of eyes on him since the Binding. It's a constant background sensation, the knowledge that everything he does, he does under watch, but it's more pronounced when there's a flesh and blood person there. He can feel them all watching him whenever he's out of his room. It's worst when Jonah is the one looking at him, bad enough to turn his stomach and make him go weak at the knees, and only slightly better when it's Gertrude. The one time they both turned to look at him at once he almost fainted or vomited, and had to be helped to a seat. Things are best when the only other people around are his friends; they're the only ones who are used enough to him or care enough about his feelings not to stare.

He tries to ignore it as much as he can; it's never been good when people are watching him, in school it was always a sign that he'd done something wrong or made himself stick out, a harbinger of harassment and bullying at worst, ostracism at best, and the instinct to make himself small and unremarkable runs deep. It's consistently disconcerting that none of the tricks that used to make him vanish from notice work anymore, his watchers too invested to be put off by something as simple as him stilling his fidgets and quieting his muttering. He knows that the only way to avoid the stares is to go where they can't reach him, and that the only place he can be certain of that is inside his rooms with the door locked.

He tries to resist the impulse to hide himself away. Even if he didn't need to be out in the hallways looking for the Stokers, Jon doesn't want to let them take what little freedom he's gained without a fight. He pretends to them and himself that he doesn't notice them looking, that it doesn't bother him. He's already lost so much to their strange obsession with him; he doesn't want to let it take anything else.

He brings the Baroness with him often; the feeling of her warm weight in his arms is a constant that grounds him to reality when the staring and the shuddering crawling beneath his skin start to feel like too much, when he starts to lose himself again. She is real, and she has no ulterior motives. She just wants to be taken care of and played with and coddled, and Jon is more than happy to do all of those things. Sometimes, she even draws some of the stares away from him; she's something he likes, which makes her interesting to his captors, and according to his friends there aren't any other pets in the Institute. The cat is an unfamiliar sight to most of the people there, and so she's nearly as interesting as Jon himself.

She has a collar now, soft leather with a tiny bell and tag. The side of the tag not imprinted with her name has a tiny carved eye with a gemstone pupil; it's the same shade of blue as the Baroness's eyes, and Jonah proudly identified it as a cat's eye aquamarine when he gave Jon the collar. It makes him shudder a bit to look at it, but doesn't seem worth putting up a fuss over, however much he dislikes the idea of the one thing not complicit in ruining his life being marked by it anyway.

Today, though, he leaves her in his rooms. Part of him is afraid he'll become too dependent on her; cats enjoy their independence (like he used to) and eventually she'll decide she doesn't want to spend 20 hours a day being carried. Better to get used to keeping himself grounded on his own now, rather than risk being shocked back into catatonia when she's big enough to nap on the high shelves where he can't reach her.

He combs the fingers of one hand through his hair, since he can't stroke them through her fur. Sometimes the absent motion turns into a tug, when things start to drift away from him or the gaze of something unseen seems to burn especially bright against his skin.

He thinks he's somewhere near the library, though he's fairly certain this is a corridor he hasn't explored yet. His stomach leaps when he goes to turn a doorknob and meets resistance.

Jon taps on the door with his fingernail, the same kind of sound Danny used to make when he brought a new letter for Jon so he'd know it was his friend and not the poet (Arun, who works in the library and watched Jon and the Baroness browse the shelves until Jon got so uncomfortable he chose a book at random and left, the joy of meandering aimlessly temporarily ruined). There's no response from the other side. (though he can't really be sure that means Danny or Tim isn't there, can he? Not knowing they could be restrained somehow, or not aware of what's going on around them.)

"What do you need in there?" someone asks from behind him, making Jon jump away from the door and whirl to face them.

"I- nothing, I was just. Curious," he stutters. The man is taller than him, leaning toward him like a sunflower facing the sun. Jon takes half a step back when he realizes how close he is.

The man waves a hand dismissively. "Well, there's nothing in there worth looking at. It's just storage, spare parts and things. I'm Tom. I could show you some of the really interesting things around here, if you like?" His eyes are wide and hopeful.

Jon ducks his head. "That's- that's alright. I'm sure you have better things to do."

"It's no trouble!" Tom insists, taking a step closer.

Jon backs up again, and his back hits the door. "I'm fine, really." He shakes his head, flattened against the door.

Tom's hand lands on his arm, and he flinches. He keeps coming closer, and Jon is reminded of how scared he was of Tim at first, the things he was afraid someone with an intense obsession and greater physical strength might decide to do to him. He's plunged into the feeling of being an object like jumping into ice water, shivers running down his spine.

"Come on," Tom coaxes, rubbing his hand up and down Jon's arm and pressing closer, closer, even closer until they're nearly chest to chest. "Don't you want to see an insider perspective? Everyone knows you've been exploring, I'm sure there are all kinds of things you haven't seen yet. I know how hard it is for people who didn't grow up here to get used to the layout. Wouldn't want you ending up somewhere all alone, with no one nearby to ask for directions!"

"I- I-" Jon stutters. Tom smiles, he thinks it's meant to be encouraging but it just makes him think even more of all the places somewhere like the Institute probably does have that no one goes through often. Tom's eyes rove over his face, up and down his body. "I'd rather not."

"I know you're shy, Jon, but it's really no trouble! You ought to get to know more of us, we're your family now!" Tom insists, gripping Jon's arm and pulling slightly. "Come be friendly!"

Jon's breath is coming faster, and he's distantly aware that he's starting to panic. Just because he was wrong about Tim doesn't mean no one else wants to get him alone and- and- they'd probably justify anything they did to him, he knows now just how bad things can get without anyone batting an eye, he doesn't want to be alone with a stranger. He sets his heels, but Tom is stronger, and he finds himself stumbling forward when the soles of his slippers catch on the tile, realizes with horror that he's tripping directly into Tom's chest.

His face lands against Tom's shoulder with a little oof, and Tom wraps his free arm around Jon's shoulders. "Easy!" Tom laughs.

Jon squirms, trying to lean away and getting caught up against the solid muscle of Tom's arm. "I- Please-" He swallows convulsively, trying to put his words in order.

"You don't need to ask!" Tom says brightly. "I'm glad to help!" He starts towing Jon away again, and Jon is certain, certain, that he does not want to be alone with this man.

"Hey!"

They both jump at the new voice, Jon taking advantage of the distraction to tug against Tom's grip but making little headway. He can't breathe, if he can't breathe he'll faint and- but he looks to the end of the corridor and sees Gerry, coming toward them at a run.

"Gerard," Tom says coolly, so different from the cheery tone he was taking with Jon.

Gerry skids to a halt next to them and pushes at Tom's shoulders. "Let go of him."

Tom's face twists into something ugly. "You think you're so much better than all of us, Keay? He doesn't belong to you, you can't stop him from talking to the rest of us forever-"

"Let go of him!" Gerry nearly shouts. "You're making him uncomfortable, look at him, let him go!"

Tom's grip tightens instead, and Jon can't suppress the little whimper of fear that that pulls from his throat.

Tom's breath catches, and he looks down at Jon.

Gerry shoves Tom at the same time his grip loosens the slightest bit, and Jon skitters backward, against the locked door again, the moment he's freed.

Tom sneers at Gerry, giving him a shove, and storms off. "Blind traitor. Probably want to do to him whatever your mum did to your hypocrite, apostate dad, I don't know why Jonah doesn't see it. I'll see you later, Jon."

Something flits across Gerry's face, and then he forces his expression into something too blank and even.

Jon's breath is shaky as Tom vanishes around the corner. Gerry stays away from him, hands up like he wants to comfort Jon but doesn't want to touch him.

Jon's arms come up, wrapping himself in a hug. "Thanks. Thanks, Gerry, I..."

He can't stop thinking about all the things that might have happened if Gerry hadn't come along, all the vague fantasies he cooked up following Tim and Danny through the dark and all the more detailed nightmares he's developed since being dragged back. 

"I came to- It's lunchtime. Do you... do you want me to walk you back to your rooms? I can bring you lunch, you don't have to face the mess if you don't want to," Gerry says.

Jon swallows. He's been so adamant about not letting people's stares keep him trapped in his room again, but... he doesn't want any more strangers looking at him today.

He nods, closing the distance between them and pressing his forehead to Gerry's shoulder before tucking himself under his arm. "Yes, please."

He feels very small, and very alone. Even with Tom gone, he can still feel leering eyes sizing him up.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Jon remains silent and shy as they make their way to the Institute's gleaming chapel. Xiaoling found the place to be a bit much on her previous visit, knows that Magnus feels the same even though he's the one who designed it, but it seems less excessive when she thinks of Jon standing in the beams of light cast through the watchful dome.  Magnus offers Jon his hand again when they reach the doors, and Jon reluctantly accepts, every line of his body screaming discomfort. He's beautiful and precious and he should be honored, but his disquiet makes something twist in the pit of her stomach.

Morris offers her his arm as Gertrude draws open the doors, mouth tilted sardonically. She wonders if he shares her feelings about Jon's discomfort. She presses her lips together in a tight line, but takes his arm.

Magnus' podium has been joined by a throne-like stool for Jon, and a Victorian conversation seat. The latter is obviously Magnus' idea of a joke, and she wonders where he dug the thing up from in the first place. It is at least positioned so that they can both see Jon without craning their necks, though glancing away from him draws her into awkward eye contact with her counterpart. By the glint in his eye, he actually finds Magnus funny.

Jon takes his place with a stiff back and hands clasped tightly in his lap, staring at a patch of floor a few feet in front of him. Xiaoling can see the muscles in his back twitch and tense as he tries not to fidget.

"Today, we are here to celebrate," Magnus is saying, words only half registering to Xiaoling. She hardly cares precisely what niceties he invokes, knows much of it will be self-congratulatory fluff. "We celebrate not only the Binding of our beloved Jon, but the presence of dear allies and the apprehension of those who have most grievously betrayed us."

She can't immediately connect who the traitors might be, but the crowd clearly knows, a hundred voices rising in a derisive hiss. Magnus dips his head in acknowledgement, mouth curled cruelly, and the hisses die away.

"It is my pleasure and my honor to introduce you all to the Assistant Head Librarian from our allies at the Pu Songling Centre in Beijing, Miss Zhang Xiaoling."

She rises to stand at her name, nodding in acknowledgement of the polite applause. She vastly prefers the lesser pageantry of her first visit, though the thought melts into a sense of kinship with Jon's discomfort.

"And from our friends in America, Director of Communications Mister Quincy Morris."

Quincy stands beside her, waving cheerfully at the crowd, turning to face the other half of the circle and giving a flourishing bow. The congregation claps a bit more enthusiastically.

Magnus waits until they return to their seats to continue. "I know it has weighed heavily on all of your minds that our Jon was torn from us by two of our own. Likewise, it has plagued me and distressed our friends abroad. Now, with Jon Bound and our allies here to witness, it is time we give him justice."

The crowd erupts, so consumed in their applause and cheers and cries for blood that Xiaoling doubts any of them notice how the words make Jon go even stiffer, hands trembling faintly in his lap. The doors open again.

The two men dragged in have their wrists chained in front of them and a guard at each elbow, occasionally jerking them along or tripping them up, answering their stumbling with hateful sneers. They are both drawn and gaunt, beards unkempt and hair shaggy, but beneath all of it is an unmistakable resemblance between them. They're nearly identical, one holding a scant amount of height and breadth over his fellow, eyes slightly different shades of brown, with a look to them Xiaoling recognizes, the look of someone who has had all the worst images their assailant could summon forced into their mind, played on loop with full intensity until they crumpled to the floor and begged for mercy. She suspects these men found no such relief in the weeks since Jon's return to the Institute.

The thinner one glares at Magnus the moment he sees him, expression as hateful as any in the crowd. The other's eyes go immediately to Jon, face desperate and worried, darting to his chest with evident shock at the Binding tattoos. If she hadn't noticed the subtle ways Jon manifests discomfort, if she hadn't been predisposed to assume that anything Magnus says in front of his congregation is exaggerated for dramatic effect, designed to whip them into whatever emotional state suits him, that concern would prove that these two aren't so diabolical as Magnus implies. Whatever else they are, they are still Beholding enough to feel the irresistible draw to Its favorite. Whatever they have done, they had the mental fortitude to withstand mental assault for longer than Xiaoling has ever seen it carried out and come out with their faculties apparently intact.

The cacophony gives her plenty of time to follow the smaller man's gaze to Jon himself, to notice how intensely Jon returns the eye contact. For the first time since entering the chapel, his ramrod posture has shifted, leaning toward the prisoners like a flower toward light. His face is creased by distress, hands clenched around each other tightly, nails digging in. Most in the room likely interpret the obvious signs of concern as fear of his past captors, but Xiaoling doesn't believe that.

Jon likes these men. The worry in the eyes of one is returned just as intensely in Jon's expression; he's barely holding himself back from dashing over to them.

Xiaoling was given access to the Institute's correspondence regarding Jon, but this was no friendship of manipulation, aimed at freeing him from the Institute and nothing more. The glaring man finally breaks his efforts to strike down Magnus with his gaze alone and confirms her suspicions with the broken-open gaze he directs at Jon. She can see Jon swallow, hands tightening their grip, lip crimping as though he's biting it but trying not to show it. These men care for Jon- unsurprising, as she doubts anyone with the slightest connection to the Eye could help doing so- but Jon cares for them as well, a human connection based in more than preternatural emotional bombardment.

Magnus raises his hands, but the crowd doesn't quiet as obediently as before. The jeers taper off slowly, the silence ringing in their absence.

"Timothy and Daniel Stoker," Magnus finally says, voice soft.

The angry one turns to Magnus again, glaring even more intensely; the other draws his gaze away from Jon slowly, and the look he gives Magnus is angry but also looks like he's holding back tears.

"This Institute has fed you, housed you, cared for you, brought you up in the Eye's embrace from the moment you drew breath. And yet," a pause as the crowd's voice rises in anger once again, "when our Patron drew closer than ever before, when we were given the most vital charge in our long and illustrious history," if the emotional tide of the room weren't almost palpable she might laugh at the self-importance of calling less than two centuries long, "you chose to betray all that you'd been taught and steal him in the dead of night. You hid him from Sight, allowed him to come to harm at the hands of another Power, kept him from his rightful place in our order. For this betrayal and torment of the one whom you should have held to be dearer than anything, I ought to cast you into a pit and allow rats and vermin to pick you to pieces over weeks, shut away so that none could hear your cries."

The crowd roars.

Jon starts shaking. He wraps his arms around himself and his throat shifts as though choking back tears.

Magnus gradually quiets the crowd with a raised hand. "But I am merciful. For your repellent crimes, you will be merely... cast out. Banished from our ranks, to make your way in that world which you chose to abandon us for, never to speak to any who hold true to Beholding again."

Xiaoling doesn't have time to interpret the crowd's reaction to that, though she does catch the snarl from the shorter Stoker at the pronouncement, because Jon finally breaks from his seat, running to Magnus. Magnus steps back from his podium just before Jon reaches him and buries his hands in the lapels of his suit. The crowd likely can't hear him, but Xiaoling is close enough if she strains to catch Jon's words over the clamor.

"You can't," Jon says, shaking his head, and the pieces click together, the picture revealing just how cruel Magnus is being. As long as Jon was gone, assuming her was with the Stokers for the duration, he must have seen the effects of betraying their own Binding to the Eye and abandoning the Institute. "You can't, please, they'll die."

"Their contracts are Signed. They cannot be undone, Jon. They knew they made a commitment before they chose to break it."

It's a cruel death. Few who are not refused readmittance to their order's sanctum have the wherewithal to see it through, to let the ravenous Power leach away their being bit by bit, losing more of themselves by the day, until they're left in physical and spiritual agonies, their bodies torn apart from the atoms and their minds sucked dry to extract every scrap of Knowledge they might provide. Even if they make their way back to their Temple, they can never regain what they've lost; Xiaoling has only seen the results of such a death carried out to its conclusion once.

The small apartment had been barren, blankets heaped and tossed about a sickbed and any source of nourishment that could be drawn within arm's reach of the failing invalid moldy, untouched. A few bloody streaks from when the body's bonds had begun to break down but were still intact enough for there to be blood stained the sheets. Nothing else remained of the man himself but a skiff of crumbling powder- and the eyes. The eyes laid upon the pillow in the indentation where the head once rested, perfectly intact with optic nerves still trailing behind them.

Jon is near tears, entreating Magnus. Magnus has only taken advantage of his closeness to wrap an arm around Jon's back, face impassive.

"Please, please don't kill them, please." He's desperate, and he likely only knows what the very beginnings of the deterioration look like. Now that he's Bound, now that he's drawing ever closer to the Eye, how long will it be before the full Knowledge of his friends' execution is forced upon him whether or not he asks?

She rises smoothly, though neither seems to notice her until she speaks, Jon consumed with fear and grief and Magnus focused entirely on having Jon in his arms. "It would be far simpler to reassign a Binding contract than to break it entirely."

Jon's head whips to face her, makeup running from the tears he finally couldn't hold back. Jonah looks put out to no longer have his full attention.

She directs her words to him; if Magnus is decided, no amount of pleading from Jon will change that. "I doubt your Institute's contracts have changed significantly since I last viewed a sample; the alterations should be simple enough. For Jon's comfort, my superiors would be more than happy to take on the traitors' charge instead.  They would still live, but be entirely removed from the country."

She feels the heat of Quincy standing behind her just a breath before he speaks, and manages not to startle. "If they took one, we'd take the other no problem."

Magnus gives them a measuring look, but Jon's hands are loosening their grip on his suit and he's staring at them with open hope. He drops his hands to his sides and looks up at Magnus. "Please."

Magnus runs a hand down Jon's back in a motion that calls to mind Jon running a hand down the kitten's back earlier. "I find that to be an acceptable solution. Very well."

Jon sags away from him, stepping out of his hold and glancing at each of them before speaking to his shoes instead. "Thank you. Thank you." He follows Magnus' nudge to return to his seat on wobbly legs and collapses, eyes finding the Stokers once again.

The audience seems uneasy with Jon's obvious distress, but Magnus takes their attention back before more than a murmur can pass between them. "As their victim, Jon naturally has the most right to determine what might be done with these turncoats," he booms, directing a new wave of boos to the Stokers. "Jon has found my mercy too lax a punishment. In light of his distress with having them so near, even barred from our walls, other arrangements have been made for his jailers."

She can see the two tense, looking to Jon, but Jon seems not to know how to impart comfort, openly worrying his lip between his teeth now.

"Fortunately, our allies have volunteered to lessen the burden upon his mind. When they leave us, they will each take charge of one of the traitors. They will be separated from our congregation and from each other; they will have no communication with any of the aforementioned again, held apart at the Pu Songling Research Centre and the Usher Foundation."

A nasty addition, if the two are as closely related as she suspects. Jon stiffened at the amendments, but seems satisfied with his friends at least keeping their lives. Occasionally, he shoots little grateful glances at her and Quincy.

The change of plans seems to have put Magnus off his rhythm and altered the course of the rest of the meeting. He does not lead his followers through the rest as smoothly as usual, some of his planned remarks plainly skipped over or awkwardly lengthened to disguise the alterations. Magnus' remarks are briefer than she's experienced in the past, and Xiaoling thinks she would adore Jon for that alone.

There is, of course, a meal to celebrate the same events, the Binding and their arrival and Magnus' justice. Xiaoling is surprised to see Jon drawn away by a blond man who waves at Quincy and a dark-skinned girl who immediately takes his hand, rather than joining their walk to the hall where the meal is being held, but puts it from her mind.

-

Jon arrives at the "brunch" only a few minutes late, to raucous applause and cheers. His running makeup has been scrubbed away and redone. He seems reluctant to leave the pair who helped him with it, but takes his seat at the head table between Magnus and herself placidly enough.

She was able to read a summary of his Debut, slipped to them by a persuadable acolyte in London, and in light of that suspects that "brunch" is actually an excuse to divine what Jon's preferred breakfast foods are. If that's the case, it's largely unsuccessful; he picks at his food, rigid and withdrawn again, and doesn't join in the conversation unless directly addressed. She catches him shooting covert, longing glances to somewhere in the crowd, but can't tell where or who he's looking at. Given his behavior thus far she wouldn't guess that he had other friends among Magnus' congregation, but perhaps she judged too soon. Gerard seemed well-informed as well as protective, and if the Baroness wasn't a gift from him or Jonah then whoever gave her to Jon is another likely candidate, based on how he opened up at Quincy's gift.

Jon excuses himself the moment he can, and races from the room. Most seem to turn their attention to food they have neglected in favor of watching Jon, but a few dart out after him, including a dark figure she assumes to be Gerard.

She doesn't intend to heed his warning; learning about Jon is her entire purpose in being here. Still, she thinks she will take some of his other advice- Jon clearly requires a light touch and a gentle hand. She will have to wait for an opportunity to come to her, rather than seeking it out herself.

She's good at waiting.

Chapter Text

She didn't realize until she saw Tim and Danny again how much she wasn't so much dealing with that... whole thing... as distracting herself with Jon's new room and his recovery (multiple recoveries, as soon as he reached some equilibrium from one Jonah seemed to throw something new at them) and preparing for their international guests. They looked awful, almost unrecognizable. She can't stop replaying the memory of when Tim first learned to shave, how he was so insistent on doing it regularly that he gave himself razor burn all over his face, everything below his nose red and chapped for weeks. How he and Danny both always kept a clean shave, no matter what. She doesn't know if it was the scraggly beards or the look in their eyes that made them seem like old men.

She tries not to pick at her food too obviously. She isn't supposed to care about the fates of traitors. Never mind that they've been her best friends as long as she's been with the Institute, since they were all gawky preteens preparing for their Signings. They left, thieves in the night, without so much as a goodbye. They didn't even leave a note, or an apology for abandoning her. She's been entrusted with too much, all the status and responsibility she's been striving for her whole life, to let something like that get in her way. If people get too suspicious of her sympathies, that'll all be over.

"Sasha, try this," Michael says, pushing a pastry onto her plate. It's the third time he's done that, trying to distract her and bring her attention back to the meal. She's been letting most of his chatter fade into the background, too wrapped up in her thoughts to respond; Gerry hasn't been answering either, eyes fixed on Jon while he eats without paying attention to what he's putting in his mouth. Jon is hunched in on himself; he expressed a visceral hatred of today's outfit when he saw it, and then Jonah told him he had to sit up at the head table with their guests instead of next to Gerry. He looks like he's trying to wish himself out of existence. The thrill of love she usually feels looking at him turns sharp and painful today, mixing with her grief for her oldest friends.

Jon can't have asked that of Jonah, can he? She must be missing something, like how no one was told what was really happening to Jon in Artefact Storage except those of them guarding him.

She's gripped with a new wave of guilt, staring at the pastry's red center. Michael isn't so bad- she always thought of him as too friendly to really befriend, and she knows she isn't the only one, but spending more time with him has made her realize he means well. He's more self aware than she gave him credit for. His stream of words is his way of helping, trying to draw people out of their shells to help them integrate, to cheer them up, to keep up appearances. She suspects that the distance many of them keep hurts him more than he lets on, gets the sense that he's strikingly aware that his current acceptance into their little group is only because he happened to be there when they found Jon, because Jonah decided to assign him to Jon's care and Jon is too shy to meet anyone not pushed into his orbit.

It feels like a broken glass echo of normalcy to sit with him and Gerry, male voices on either side of her that almost pass for Tim and Danny when she zones out. It eats at her, the idea of what things would be like if Tim and Danny hadn't taken Jon, the five of them forming a wall around Jon instead of the three of them.

"Thanks, Michael," she manages to say. She does try the pastry; it's good, as much as anything is good today. Mostly everything seems like ash in her mouth.

She's never going to get to say goodbye to Tim and Danny. Did they know that they would never speak with her again when they left? That the evening they spent acting completely normal, never letting on that they had anything planned, was the last they'd see of her?

She's fairly sure from what she remembers of outside that brunch isn't generally a meal with five courses, but today it is, and everyone is expected to stay through all of them. If it weren't for that, she would have grabbed something portable and found somewhere hidden away to sort through her feelings. By the time the last one is brought out, Gerry is practically vibrating next to her. She considers drawing him into her half-hearted exchange with Michael, but she doubts it would work. She has Tim and Danny to think about, and Michael is always occupied with trying to manage everyone else's happiness, but Gerry has hardly anything in the Cult except for Jon, and he's not going to be distracted from his discomfort so easily.

Finally, Jon murmurs something to Jonah and gets a pursed-lip nod in response, and rises to leave. Most of the mess hall sighs in disappointment. Gerry shoots out of his seat to follow, and she and Michael are only a beat behind. Sasha doesn't think she can stand another moment of trying to modulate her expressions for the benefit of every nosy so-and-so who looks her way.

Jon's door is closed when they arrive, and Gerry knocks. After a moment he knocks again, calling out. "Jon? Can we come in?"

Jon's muffled voice answers, "Yes," but there's no sound of footsteps on the other side. After a long pause, Gerry haltingly reaches for the key around his neck and fits it into the lock, cheeks red.

Jon is curled up on a sofa, a compact little ball of misery with the Baroness pressed against his side. He peeks over his knees as they close and lock the door behind themselves, and his eyes are watery but he doesn't seem to have been crying. Sasha practically collapses onto the sofa on his empty side, forgetting for a moment how cautiously Jon needs to be approached, how little he likes unexpected touches, but before she can leap up like she's been burned he leans into her. Gerry and Michael sit down across from them, leaning forward like that will afford them a better view of Jon's hidden expressions.

"I didn't ask him to do that," Jon says. Sasha hums a question. "Send them away. Not like that, I mean. I mean- they'd die! I told you-"

"They got sick," Sasha says, wrapping an arm around him. She feels some of the tension leave him and he leans harder against her side.

Jon makes a motion that might be a nod. "That Xiaoling woman said that their contracts could be transferred to another Institute, and I thought that if they couldn't stay here then it would be better than dying. I didn't think he'd separate them."

It makes sense. The Signing has been twisting around in her heart since Jon first told them just what happened when Tim and Danny were away from the Institute, nothing she tells herself quite able to rationalize it into resting as easily as it used to. She was angry, but she wanted a chance to yell at them, ask them what they were thinking, and make them apologize, not for them to die. She shifts to card a hand through his hair- he must have taken off his crown of eyes as soon as he was safely ensconced in his rooms, but there are still pins and adornments braided in. She gently removes them as Jon tries not to tremble against her.

"It was the best of a bad situation," Gerry says, face closed off in what she's starting to recognize as an effort to remain politic and keep one of the numerous rants he has about Jonah and Gertrude and the way they run things under wraps. "You did your best."

"They wouldn't be in trouble at all if it weren't for me," Jon says, so quietly she can barely hear.

"It's not your fault," she says, surprised to find herself in near unison with Gerry. Jon starts a little at their doubled voice, and sighs.

"Why don't you let me run you a bath?" Michael suggests, eyes darting between Gerry and Sasha, checking to make sure he isn't cutting in too soon. Sasha gives a watery smile in response. "You'll feel better in your own clothes."

Jon unslumps a bit, glancing up at Michael. "It's fine. I can do it." He makes to stand, but his grief-slowed movements are outpaced by Michael springing to his feet.

"It's no trouble!" he calls back.

Jon snorts, burying his face in his hands. The Baroness realizes where Michael's headed and leaps off the sofa to follow him.

-

The three of them are deeply embroiled in a game of Cluedo when Jon exits the bathroom, trying to give him as much space as they can without leaving entirely. It feels like the least they can do, when they know how much Jon hates being dressed and pampered as he was this morning. It feels a bit unnatural to let Jon leave the room, go somewhere with no one to watch him, but they've all gotten used to ignoring that feeling. Most of the time, anyway.

He has the Baroness nestled in his arms, still slightly damp and characteristically moody about having been subjected to the indignity of toweling off, but instead of setting her on the climber or coming straight to them, Jon goes to open the bedroom door. To Sasha's astonishment, another cat, lankier than the Baroness, fuzzier and streaky brown, slips out.

"Um!"

"Jon...?"

"Oh!" Michael perks up, evidently not sharing their astonishment. "Quincy said he was worried about getting her through customs, and she was asleep when I drove him in last night, I'm so glad she got to you alright!"

"She did," Jon says with a soppy smile down at the kitten. "I haven't decided on a name yet, though."

Through some kind of inhuman feat, Gerry takes his eyes off Jon cooing over two cats at once long enough to shoot Michael a look. "You knew about this?"

"It was my idea!" Michael says, not taking his eyes off Jon. His back is to her, but Sasha suspects his expression (like her own) is every bit as besotted as Jon's. "He asked what sort of gift Jon might like."

Jon crouches down so he's on a similar level to the new cat, holding the Baroness near it but not letting her out of his arms. "You were right. Although it might become impractical rather quickly if you give that advice to everyone who asks." The new cat rests her front paws on Jon's knee, peering at the Baroness curiously. The Baroness looks less than pleased at the interloper. "Actually, I had a thought about naming her. Any chance you lot would be interested in helping with some research?"

Sasha perks up, even as she sees Jon shoot what she's sure he thinks is a subtle look at her. She'll take the distraction, even if it's only offered out of pity- she suspects it has more to do with fellow feeling, and an equal need to put his thoughts to something else, though. "I'm listening."

Chapter Text

He's made his overtures to Xiaoling, but she's been spending most of her time in the Institute's library, on business Quincy's almost positive doesn't exist. He's pretty sure she's doing it in hopes that Jon will happen in there eventually instead of tracking him down herself; he assumes she got some version of the rundown Michael gave him about Jon being shy about being too openly admired. Personally, he prefers the active approach. He doesn't think either of them's too put out about the other declining to join them; he's pretty sure that if both of them occupy the library it'll be enough to keep Jon away, and he really only offered out of politeness. Needing to preserve their relationship with the Centre doesn't mean he wants her tagging along and making note of everything he learns.

He won't deny that he hopes wandering around the Institute will let him bump into Jon eventually, but his main goal is to get a sense of the place, talking to as many people as he can. Michael's enough of a chatterbox that he knows thirdhand the Centre's primary concern is confirming Jon's place in whatever the Eye has instead of a heart, but no one at the Foundation ever really doubted that. Even if they did, they would have been dissuaded by how quickly they ran out of colored ink once Magnus sent over a few pictures of him, and the printers got the workout of a lifetime running enough copies to put up in everyone's cubicles.

No, Quincy's job is to see if they're taking care of Jon properly around here.

He's always planned to do that by talking to anyone and everyone who'll give him the time of day, but since agreeing to take one of Magnus' turncoats back with him that's been nagging at him like a missing tooth. He knows that he'll have the best account of why exactly Jon wanted to escape it's possible to get without asking the man himself- but not until he's already on his way home. If he finds reasons for concern in Stoker's account it'll already be too late to float any ideas to Jon.

If he knew one way or another whether Jon'll be receptive to the idea of relocating to the States or if he'll report to Magnus and get Quincy booted early instead, he'd bite the bullet and do it, but he can't risk losing chances to gather intel because he acted impulsively.

Most of the people he talks to give some version of the story he'd deduced from Magnus' speech- small comforts, he respected the Foundation enough to tell them Jon colluded with the Stokers instead of giving the same story about a forceful kidnapping he fed his people- but he does get a couple interesting leads.

Jon was taken to the infirmary almost immediately upon returning- the faint scar fading over his cheekbone and the recent-looking burn scar on his hand, if Quincy doesn't miss his guess- before spending a considerable time in Artefact Storage with hardly anybody else allowed in. Everybody seems to disagree about whether the injuries Jon was seen with after that were the same as he had before, but the next morning he was in the infirmary again, and he was still in bad enough shape that they had to wait for him to heal further before the Binding.

Most folks he talks to seem to be under the impression that whatever Jon was doing in Artefact Storage was related to his recovery, but Quincy's seen the healing you get from the sort of thing that ends up there. Sure, he's used an artifact of the Flesh on himself once or twice in a pinch, but he wouldn't do that to Jon. Never Jon.

Anyway, he didn't see any traces on Jon that would support that idea. The only sign of the Flesh was contained to the tattooed eye at the small of his back. It's impressive work, a trick he's never seen before, and he plans to lean on Magnus to get the artist to write up their technique for the journal the Guardians put out once every year or so, but it isn't the Mark of an artifact.

He could See the Web, old enough to have woven itself into the fabric of Jon's worldview (and he seethes and wants to challenge Magnus and Robinson about it, even though he knows it's too old to have happened on their watch), and the End lingers around the scars on his face and hand. It was difficult to spot in a bright, open space, but there was an afterimage of Buried as well, stronger when he had stood in front of Jon with the cat carrier and blocked the light, pressing in for an instant before Jon took the carrier and Quincy realized he felt crowded and stepped away.

That moment was good practice, the instinct to draw closer to Jon being crushed down by reason so he could back off. He doesn't want to track down Jon too soon- doesn't want Jon to feel as though he's been tracked down at all- but Quincy's always been a social thinker. He doesn't want to let any of his thoughts slip to anyone at the Institute, and he knows Magnus and Robinson must be watching them closely. His colleagues back home will be a bit alarmed to have received an email from him at all, warning them of their new permanent resident; everything he wants to tell them goes into the notebook he keeps in his breast pocket, written down in the shorthand peculiar to his generation of Foundation employees. He probably loses a few opportunities to chat because people see him mouthing his thoughts to himself, trying to put the pieces he has in the right order.

Between the deliberately random nature of his path through the Institute and the conversations with himself he becomes rapidly absorbed in, he barely lasts 48 hours before the warm breeze of his Patron through his mind points his feet in Jon's direction and he fails to realize until he steps out into the Institute's lower courtyard and sees him.

Well, he did want their second meeting to be spontaneous.

It's raining. He's unsure why Jon is out here at all, huddled against the wall as he is, well away from the point where the shelter of the awning by the door stops with the Maine Coon on his lap, until he hears the delighted, tiny mewl of the other kitten. He realizes with some astonishment that the little gray kitten- the Baroness, that was her name- is racing around the courtyard, completely soaked, pouncing at raindrops and rolling in the wet grass. It's surprising enough to actually draw his eyes away from Jon for nearly 30 seconds.

Jon is looking at him when his attention returns. The excitement he feels at that makes him feel entirely unlike himself for a moment, light and fluttering in his chest. After a moment Jon's shoulders hunch and he returns his gaze to the cat sprawled happily across his lap. "Hello, Mr. Morris."

"Quincy," he corrects without thinking. "Mr. Morris was my father."

Jon doesn't pull further in on himself, but his voice is quieter when he says, "Quincy." It makes Quincy's heart jump, the sound of his name on Jon's lips.

Slowly, watching Jon's body language for any indication he's uncomfortable with his approach, Quincy walks over and takes a seat on the bench, restricting himself to the far end of it instead of where he'd like to be, next to Jon with their sides pressed together. "What are you doing out in this weather?"

The kitten rolls in Jon's lap, squirming away from the belly rub she had been enjoying and mincing across the cold stone of the bench to Quincy. He smiles and holds a hand out to her; they got to be quite friendly leading up to this trip.

Jon's shoulders draw even closer to his ears. "The Baroness is too excited about the rain to come back, so I'm waiting for it to stop." He lets out a breath that's almost a laugh, "I didn't plan ahead well enough to bring an umbrella."

Quincy can feel the shape of something unsaid, something he can't identify; he doesn't think Jon's staying out of the rain just because he wants to stay dry. "Never met a cat who liked rain before."

Jon looks up, relaxing slightly as he smiles at the Baroness and the Maine Coon returns to his lap. He runs a hand down her back. "Tibby doesn't approve at all."

Quincy's about to comment on the name when the wind kicks up, blowing the rain toward them. Jon flinches at the contact, breath stuttering.

There's something not right there, not right at all.

He slaps his hands onto his thighs and stands- Jon starts at the noise, but actually seems more relaxed after, like he's come back to himself somehow. Quincy's glad to be wearing his hat as he walks out into the rain.

"Hello, sweetheart," he says to the Baroness, currently occupied with the place where a dip in a paving stone makes a puddle. She doesn't acknowledge him, and he takes advantage of her distraction. It'd be more polite to lure her to him, but he doesn't think she'll be amenable till the rain's stopped.

The Baroness meows and wheels her paws at the air when he lifts her up. Tiny claws come out and meet their match in the leather of his jacket, scuffing it but not even close to doing damage to her captor. Jon watches him walk back, and Quincy offers the kitten to him.

"Thank you." Jon takes the Baroness, scratching her between the ears before bundling her and Tibby both into his arms. "I should've brought a towel for you, shouldn't I? Troublemaker."

Quincy follows him inside, smiling as Jon fusses over the kittens.

Chapter Text

Gerry doesn't realize how long it's been since he had time to himself- time alone, or even just time without the weight of attention and expectations on him- until he has it again.

Suddenly, Jonah and Gertrude are too busy ordering everyone around and ensuring their guests will have nothing but good things to report back to their superiors to do more than expect that Gerry will be fulfilling his duties to keep an eye on Xiaoling and keep Jon company. Michael's persistent friendliness has mostly taken Xiaoling off his plate and Jon is spending more time alone than ever, trying to stay away from the scrutiny of more strangers and jumpy enough that even Gerry's company is sometimes too much.

After the initial shock of finding himself at loose ends for the first time in months, trying to remember what he used to do with his time before Jon, he tries to pick up the few things he remembers. It isn't the same; he's acutely aware that any time he's out of the Institute Jon can't reach him if he needs him, and sitting alone feels lonely now that he's gotten used to having people who like him around, even if he eats better dining out than he would in the mess hall. He only tries taking his meals elsewhere a couple times before deciding its too much and getting takeout to share with Jon- and occasionally Michael and Sasha- and returning to the Institute to eat instead.

(The way Jon lights up the first time Gerry brings him pad thai is like flicking on a lightbulb, it's so immediate and complete.)

There are plenty of tasks around the Institute to keep everyone busy, but most aren't as aware of how pointless and redundant much of their work is as Gerry is. No building needs to be cleaned, no library reorganized, no archive inventoried as frequently as the Institute's. He's pretty sure most of the work is there to ensure no one has time to do anything too subversive. He's rarely participated, and people no longer expect him to; now that he doesn't feel comfortable leaving the Institute (leaving Jon) for too long, he doesn't know what to do with himself.

It comes to him a little over a week into their guests' stay, when he's pacing circles trying to keep his mind off of worst case scenarios. He manages to wrench his train of thought from worrying about Jon to worrying about worrying about Jon and has a flash of insight.

He's never thought about another person this much before. He used to pride himself on his ability to walk through nearly any crowd without ever being approached by a hopeful conversationalist. He remembers that- and he remembers a moment of worry amid panic, wondering how much of his affection for Jon is genuinely his.

Once he's thought of it he can't stop, not for long. Gerry freezes when Jon asks what's wrong. Telling Jon what's going on would devastate him- and Gerry doesn't even know how his thoughts bear out without the Eye pushing them into his head and how much is mere paranoia.

That's when he decides he needs to do something.

He wonders if Jonah remembers what he gave Gerry the night Jon escaped. Knowing about the tunnels beneath the Institute at all is dangerous, especially when he's never fully trusted Gerry, but how to navigate them is something else entirely. People have been killed over lesser security risks.

(Sure, they say it was an accident, or natural causes, but Gerry knows what ruthlessness looks like, can recognize it in Gertrude's eyes as easily as he saw it in his mother's.)

He probably won't be killed if Jonah remembers, if for no other reason than that Jon likes him, but death is hardly the limit of Jonah and Gertrude's ability to meddle with his mind until the information is useless. He'd rather avoid the issue entirely.

So he's careful about choosing his moment. He waits until Jon is occupied with the kittens and Jonah and Gertrude are busy negotiating something with Xiaoling, then slips out of the Institute. Rosie just nods at him as he goes; she's used to Gerry being in and out constantly, even if the habit's dropped off recently.

He enters the tunnels a decent distance from the Institute. He makes his way deeper inside to be sure he won't be disturbed, to be sure that the Eye's influence can't leak in to him while he thinks, but he knows the instant he enters that whatever it is they do to the Eye is working. It's a strange feeling, a lightness and a loss at once. He's been bound to Beholding his entire adult life, grown around and into it. Knowing he's totally unobserved feels eerie.

He's stalling, focusing on the Eye's absence instead of what he came down here to think about.

Is the feeling of loss and his avoidance of the idea of losing his affection for Jon true, or is he just that starved for positive attention? To the point his mind will accept it even if it's manipulated and false? He leans his back against a wall and slides down until he's sitting.

He let Jon go in full awareness that Beholding couldn't see them. He tried to give him what he needed to survive and escape the Institute once and for all. Jon may not have succeeded, but he took out Gerry's oldest and deepest fear as collateral damage. The Eye has no influence on the relief he feels knowing that Mum will never come into his life again. He would feel grateful to anyone who had managed to End her once and for all.

There's a tinge of regret to that thought, though. Maybe he was too distracted, or Beholding was focusing his emotions on the gratitude for Mum's absence and Jon's safety, somehow, but he didn't grieve her when he found out. He doesn't. But... she's the only person who knew him his entire life.

If Mum's gone, then all his early chapters might as well be, too, any memory of them outside his own head gone forever. Mum is never going to see the light and tell him that she's sorry, that he's always been a worthy son and she loves him. He never thought she would, but...

Is it wrong to grieve his mother? Knowing all the things she did, what she was? That what Jon killed arguably wasn't even her anymore?

Would it be wrong not to?

He doesn't resent Jon for the loss. It puts his affection for Jon in a positive light, how similar the gratitude and bright surprised happiness he felt when Jon told him what happened feel to everything else he feels for Jon.

(Or it's a very, very bad sign about his ability to recognize when he's being influenced.)

(Just once, would it be so bad for something in his life to be good? To let go of the suspicion that kept him alive this long and accept it?)

He was drawn to Jon before he really met him. Those first hours, carrying him to the car and settling him in a room were... magnetic. Addictive, maybe. How much of the shift when Jon woke was natural, and how much was the Eye heightening the panic Gerry felt, realizing that Jon was terrified and crying?

It doesn't dislike Jon's pain and despair. He thinks it might prefer his happiness by some narrow margin, but it was hardly upset during the Binding, or in the days immediately after. Things only grew tense once it started to look like Jon might never come back to himself. Would it care to intensify Gerry's desire to calm Jon down?

Is the feeling that Jon isn't like anyone else he's ever met before just because of Beholding? No one else has ever sat beside him and offered pure sympathy for his dad, untainted by pity or smugness, much less disclosed their own past in kind. No one else has ever worried where Gerry was the way Jon did after knowing him a few minutes. Jon trusted him with the key to his rooms- trusted Gerry of all people to keep him safe from intruders with well-meaning excuses. Jon still lights up whenever he sees Gerry, even though now he's not nearly so isolated as he once was. Is what Gerry feels when he sees Jon the same clean affection, or his patron?

He thinks Jon feels different because he is different, because he's the first person to ever put that much effort into caring about Gerry. Maybe that's because of whatever mysterious quality drew the Eye to him, but Gerry thinks that whatever it is, it exists on its own terms, innate to Jon, Dread Power or no.

He thinks he would have gone with Jon and the Stokers, if he could have. He shuts that train of thought down fast, afraid he might spiral into wondering if Jon would have made it home (home to Oxford, or home to the Institute? He forgets himself sometimes, now that Jon doesn't look miserable every hour of the day, and part of him very much wants to forget that there's anything outside the Institute that could ever hold his attention or affection. That, he's almost positive, is primarily the Eye, helped only a bit by his own selfish failings) if Gerry had gone with them, if he would be safe now instead of tied to the Eye by Gerry's own hand. He didn't realize what would happen to the Stokers- what would have happened to him- once they left, but...

To do so would be to act contrary to everything Beholding craves.

He thinks he would have been willing to make that sacrifice anyway. For Jon.

Gerry lets his head fall back against to cool stone wall and gives himself a moment to blink away the tears and swallow the way his heart aches for Jon, alone in the quiet and the dark.

-

When he reenters the Institute with takeout for himself and Jon from a Greek place not far from his way into the tunnels with service slow enough to be a plausible alibi, there's hopefully no sign of where he's been. He made sure any signs of stress or tears were gone before leaving the tunnels, and can only hope his step is no heavier than it was before.

He isn't sure yet if he's glad he did that. It will be good for him in the long run (almost certainly) but right now he feels heavy with the thought of Jon losing his chance at freedom. He smiles at Rosie and hands her the little container of spanakopita he got for her- always easier to slip in and out of the Institute as he pleases if he stays in her good graces. She smiles and lets him pass without an interrogation about Jon, an rare ending to his interactions these days. He's lucky she takes professionalism so seriously.

Having some resolution to his biggest worry (deliberately shoving it to the back of his mind so he can't depress himself with the other things his introspection dragged to the surface) lets him focus on smaller ones. He wonders if today would be a good day to broach the topic with Jon.

He was peripherally aware that Michael and Sasha were scheming to get Jon a cat, but he didn't look into it further until he saw how happy the Baroness makes him. Once he realized how devastated Jon would be if anything happened to the little fuzzball he dove into research, quadruple checking anything he could get his hands on to make sure nothing happened to the creature that drew Jon out of catatonia when nothing else could.

Michael and Sasha did their research well- he can't find fault with the arrangements they made for the Baroness. And maybe it wouldn't matter... but in his research he kept coming across the same phrase, "social species."

Maybe it was partially misplaced guilt about Jon very much lacking a social life of his own because of Gerry, but it's been needling at him. He had started looking into getting a second cat, before their visitors arrived. He'd been fairly confident Jon would be happy with a second cat, but he has no idea if he'd feel the same about a third.

He knocks on Jon's door and tries to keep any sign of conflict off his face. Jon's been getting better at spotting when Gerry's worried about something; he doesn't know if it's the Eye's influence or if it's simply getting to know him better.

Jon peeks around the door before opening it all the way and letting him in- there's that light in his eyes, the one that seems to be reserved for Gerry alone. It's easy to banish his worries, seeing that. He can't keep the smile off his face.

"Gerry!" Jon bounces in place as he closes and locks the door. He seems like he's in a good mood, not touchy like he's gotten since their visitors arrived.

"I got Greek today, little bit of everything." Gerry starts laying it out on Jon's table, taking a seat once Jon does.

It's nice; it feels happy and warm to share a meal with Jon, a broad view of the city visible out the window. It's not something he's had before, but he thinks it feels a little like family.

"Thank you." Jon digs in with gusto that makes Gerry smile a moment longer than he should if he wants to avoid making him uncomfortable before doing the same.

If the wave of affection that crashes over him were completely artificial, Gerry doesn't think it would have such a sour undertone. He can't banish the specter of the life Jon should have had, one where he could have takeout whenever he wanted. The food isn't good enough for the joy Jon meets it with.

Jon waits until they've both mostly finished to talk. "Did I do something to upset you?"

Gerry startles at the question, heart pinching with anxiety. "What?" He holds back the more intense reassurances he wants to offer, that nothing Jon does could ever be wrong. He knows Jon wouldn't appreciate being told so.

Jon twirls his fork between his fingers, looking down at it instead of at Gerry. His bangs fall in front of his face; his hair is getting long. He wants to cut it, but Jonah won't let him, and he's restricted access to anything Jon could use to cut it himself so no one can help Jon go against his wishes. "I don't know. You've just been... acting strangely, I suppose. For a few days, now."

Ah. He should have expected this, once he realized Jon had noticed him acting off, but somehow he hadn't.

(He wishes he could tell Jon everything, but knowing him he'd focus on the question of whether Gerry's interest in him is manufactured and completely disregard that he's decided it isn't. You never knew when Jonah might be watching, anyway.)

"Sorry. Just... thinking a few things over."

Jon darts a glance up at him, eyes mulish. He isn't going to let Gerry get away that easily. "What kinds of things?"

Gerry fidgets. "Well... The cats, for one." It isn't even a lie- the cat issue is one of the things he's been thinking about, today even! Just not the primary one.

"What about them?" Jon's brows draw together in concern and his head whips around towards where the two kittens are playing, the Baroness engaged in mortal combat with a ball of ribbon and Tibby lazily rubbing the side of her head against the textured base of a scratching post, as though they might have vanished into thin air in the minutes since he's held them.

"Nothing!" Gerry rubs at the back of his neck, failing at not feeling embarrassed. "It's nothing. I was just... wondering if you'd want another."

Jon's face becomes serious. "Gerard," he says, voice rumbling and solemn, "is there another cat in this Institute right now?"

Gerry chuckles, pushing away the discomfort of hearing Jon abandon his nickname, even temporarily. "No, sorry."

Jon drops his face into his hands. "Thank God." He peers up at Gerry from between his fingers. "I've been a bit afraid that everyone else might start getting ideas. Can you imagine if even half the people in the Institute decided that they, personally, needed to give me a cat?"

Gerry laughs. "You could have your own personal army."

"No."

"No," Gerry echoes, reining in his laughter. "I was just... before Tibby, I was wondering if you'd want another. One other." Jon raises an eyebrow, and Gerry hurries on before he can say anything. "It's just. They're supposed to be social animals, and I was afraid the Baroness would get lonely. So I started looking around at shelters and things. But you have Tibby now, so."

"Shelters?"

He should have just told Jon about the tunnels. Let Gertrude kill him if she wants, it couldn't feel worse than his ears lighting up red does. "I thought you'd like to know you were taking in a cat from a shelter or a rescue or whatever. Since they have lots of cats who don't get adopted because they aren't babies anymore. And things."

Jon smiles faintly, sadly. "I used to go to an animal shelter with Georgie. They let students volunteer to play with the cats."

"Right." Gerry doesn't quite know what to do with that- or the alien jealousy he feels remembering Jon had other friends before the Institute, who he'll never see again. Gerry's eyes feel tight, under pressure. He swallows- must not have chewed that last bite properly, that's all. "And there are all kinds of reasons cats don't get adopted easily, and I thought you might... like taking in one of those."

Jon doesn't say anything for an agonizingly long time, pushing food around but not taking another bite.

Eventually, Gerry breaks. "Would you? I mean, I'm sure- you have Tibby now, so. You probably don't want him."

"Him?" Jon's head jerks up.

Gerry buries his face in his hands. He hates this conversation, he's going to die. He didn't mean to say that.

"Was there a... specific cat? You had in mind?"

Gerry nods, feeling defeated. It hardly matters now, Jon doesn't need another cat. "Don't worry about it. It's fine, I didn't mean to guilt you, or..."

"Will you tell me about him?"

Gerry sighs. "People don't adopt black cats. Because they're bad luck- well, they aren't, but people think that. I've never heard of an Entity attaching to a black cat, anyway..." He shakes his head, he 's getting off track. "He's all black, a few years old. They don't know exactly, he was a stray. They think he belonged to someone, he doesn't act like a feral cat, but there wasn't a collar or anything, so. He's sweet. Cuddly."

"Does he have a name?"

Gerry shrugs and studies the table. "They give them placeholder names at the shelter."

"Gerry..."

He looks back up at the sound of his name, and there's something distant and strange in Jon's eyes.

"Are you asking me if I'd like a third cat?"

"...would you?"

Jon ducks his head, the adorably shy tic he shows whenever he asks for something, like he thinks he's being too daring, like he thinks any of them could ever deny him. "I- yes. Because you found him."

Gerry feels a smile spread over his face. "I can go get him after our guests go home."

Jon beams back. "Thank you. For the cat, and for asking first."

Chapter Text

Jon is a marvel, a tectonic shift in her understanding of what it means to serve Beholding. Jon is... holy.

Xiaoling struggles to articulate how it feels to be so near to him; even without meeting him since their introduction, she can feel when he comes close to her location, and it's sometimes as though the very walls sing with happiness or vibrate with worry in response to something he's doing. She has never been particularly adept at casting her gaze out of her human eyes, but when it is Jon she is seeking out, it is easy.

She establishes herself in the Library, claiming an interest in taking advantage of its unfamiliar contents while she has the chance, and spends much of her time bent over books selected almost at random, occasionally turning pages.

She Watches Jon. When she begins to feel the pressure behind her eye sockets that presages a headache, she focuses instead on overhearing the gossip passed in whispers. (She also hears the drafting of a large quantity of dubious poetry in this fashion- but to be driven to such lengths by Jon is understandable.)

It is irritating that Morris manages to arrange a second encounter with Jon before she does, but not unexpected. For Jon to be the kind of person who might appeal to the Eye, he must have a natural curiosity that will draw him to the Library sooner or later, and she estimates her chances of a successful meeting as being much higher if he thinks he's merely stumbled across her rather than her seeking him out. Her main frustration on that front is that she was not watching Jon at the time, and the rumor mill merely relays that Jon and the American were seen walking back to Jon's rooms together, along with the two cats.

(It's magnified by her natural annoyance at Morris and his lucky guess with the kitten and the natural social grace and charm that makes him able to seek Jon out more actively while she must wait and plan her interaction carefully. She was chosen for this mission for her objectivity, not her charisma.)

Her patience pays off eventually; only a couple days after his meeting with Quincy, Jon does not just enter the Library, he approaches Xiaoling on his own.

His hands are twisting in front of him and his shoulders climb closer to his ears the longer the whispered commentary on him winding through the aisles continues- Magnus' followers really aren't as quiet or subtle as they think they are- but he is undeniably headed for the table where she has been feigning interest in a heavy tome since breakfast. She pushes the volume aside to devote her full attention to Jon.

"Xiaoling."

"Hello, Jon." Her smile is entirely genuine.

Jon swallows. "Would you be amenable to joining me elsewhere to speak privately?"

The wave of affection at how scripted and stilted the request sounds, like he practiced it over and over before approaching her, is entirely her own; she's been doing the same even more than usual, communicating as she is in a foreign tongue. "Of course."

She stands, trusting that her reading will be returned to its shelf (odd as it is to spend so much time in a library she bears no responsibility for) and follows Jon out. He stays a couple steps ahead of her, not quite running and never looking back. He doesn't speak, and Xiaoling does not feel any urge to fill the air with small talk, even though she does want to know more about him. The realization that Jon engages in the same habit of rehearsing that she does has boosted her confidence in her ability to interact with him successfully.

He leads her to his rooms, holding the door for her in an odd gesture of stiff chivalry, though he doesn't seem to know why he does it, ducking his head and fidgeting even more as he darts in and closes the door behind them. He gestures to his small sitting area with one hand, tearing off the circlet he wears- less ornate than that which he wore on their first meeting- with the other. A shame, when it sets off the warm tones in his skin so beautifully. Though, he's no less beautiful without it.

He hesitates, swaying in place a bit and playing with the cuffs of his shirt. The kittens scamper toward their owner, stopping on their way to investigate the stranger in their space. Xiaoling has never been an animal person, but anyone can see how Jon dotes on these creatures; to court the kittens' favor is to court Jon's, so she holds her hand out to them and waits patiently until the Baroness bumps her head into Xiaoling's hand, allowing her to scratch behind her ears a couple times. Then Jon sits on the couch opposite Xiaoling and the kittens both bound toward him.

She has no objection to watching Jon greet the cats while she waits for him to speak, the one Morris gifted him- Tibby, she's heard he named it- trying to leap up onto the couch and falling significantly short, and the Baroness making a concerted effort to dig her claws into the material of Jon's trousers and hoist herself upward. Jon reaches down to scoop them both onto the couch with him. Tibby settles on a throw pillow just within arm's reach while the Baroness bounds into Jon's lap and stands with her front paws against his chest, staring up at him.

Xiaoling can tell Jon is increasingly aware of her watching, now that the cats are settled. He starts fidgeting with his cuffs again, but still doesn't speak.

"What did you want to speak with me about?" she asks eventually.

Jon's shoulders jerk inward, and she doesn't know if it's a flinch. He ducks his head, but almost immediately jerks it up again to look toward her, almost meeting her eyes. "I... Thank you. For volunteering to take Danny and Tim."

She keeps her expression still. "Of course."

The Baroness hops in Jon's lap, claws threatening his shirt. He holds a hand against his chest, forming a platform for her to use to leap up onto his shoulder, where she perches somewhat precariously. Jon's next words come almost too quickly for Xiaoling to parse, a breathless rush. "Thank you for saving them. What Jonah said isn't true. They didn't- they weren't the ones who kidnapped me. I went with them willingly."

She gives Jon a measuring look. For a moment she thinks she's done something to upset him, looked at him too critically, as he ducks his head down low- but then the Baroness walks across the back of his neck to his other shoulder, settling herself there with a flop. Jon straightens slightly and darts another nervous glance at her over the top of his glasses. She isn't sure if smiling at him is the right thing to do. "I am aware. I believe the accounting of events sent to us was somewhat more accurate than the more widely disseminated version."

"Oh." Jon slumps a bit more, but she thinks this is in relief. "That's- good. I didn't want you to have the wrong impression, and..." His breath catches and he trails off.

"And?" she prompts as gently as she can.

"And I wanted to ask you a favor. I don't know which of them will end up going back with you, but it doesn't matter. They're both my friends. Please... please don't be cruel to them. You heard what everyone was like, when- please don't let anything awful happen. Please."

She wants stand, walk over so she can sit beside him on the couch and wrap a soothing arm around his shoulders, but she restrains herself. "Of course. Your friend will be in safe hands."

Jon glances up, looking at her face more fully than he has since finding her in the Library. His eyes are shining with unshed tears, and he doesn't look like he believes her. Nevertheless, he says softly, "Thank you."

Poor Jon. He's had so much to adjust to, and he's been so brave. "Have you spoken about this with Quincy, as well?" That would set them even, if Jon only spoke with the American because he was asking for his friend's safety. And if Quincy said no, Xiaoling will make him change his mind herself, and damn their relationship with the Foundation.

Jon sniffs, head dropping as he clearly tries not to cry. "Not yet. I'm going to speak with him next. But- please don't mention this? If- if Jonah knows he might... I'm afraid he might not agree to let them go with you."

Xiaoling can't imagine anyone denying Jon something so harmless when he clearly wants it so desperately, but nonetheless says, "Of course. He won't hear a word of this from me."

"Thank you," Jon says again.

She can tell she's about to be dismissed, so she takes a chance, asks, "Tell me about them?"

The look Jon shoots her is surprised, but he clenches a hand in the material of his trousers and answers. "They're incredible. Danny- Danny was one of the first people here who I was happy to talk to. He wanted to know everything about life outside the Institute- Tim thinks he would have left on his own, eventually." His face twists. "They're very close. I think Tim's always felt like it's his job to keep Danny safe, and even though Danny didn't tell him what he was doing, Tim figured out on his own that Danny was going to get me and try to escape. He moved to fill in the gaps in the plan anyway. He didn't think anything of extending that protectiveness to me, even when we were outside the Eye's influence. The first few days, before they got sick, were wonderful, even though we couldn't go anywhere. I... I always wondered what it would be like, to have brothers."

He stops, swallowing hard. She understands, now, the exquisite cruelty of Magnus' decree that the pair are to have no contact with Jon or each other. The impulse to swear that she'll find a way around the rule is smoothed to the back of her mind; she can examine it later, when there is no longer any risk of her thoughts being discovered by Magnus or his Archivist. "I am glad to know you had friends here," she says instead. "I'm sorry you lost them."

Jon wraps his arms around himself, jarring the Baroness on his shoulder so that she nearly falls. She draws no attention to the tear that finally falls, a perfect circle of damp on his trouser leg. "I have other friends. Now. If, if I know that Danny and Tim will be alright, then it's okay."

"Is it?" she asks without thinking. But Jon answers before she can chide herself too far for the impulsivity and tactlessness of the question.

His voice is almost a whisper as he says, "It has to be."

Chapter Text

Every time Jon thinks he's adjusting to this life, like maybe he's finally found a bit of balance, something comes along to pull the rug out from under him again.

Today it's that he heard two cult members he doesn't know whispering to each other about the conversations he had with Quincy and Xiaoling begging them to treat Danny and Tim well. They didn't seem to know what they spoke about, small mercies, but they knew an unsettling amount about the portions that took place in public, even though he knows neither of them was nearby. Now a part of his brain he thought he'd learned to quiet is shouting at full volume.

He hasn't felt this self conscious in years, since he mentioned his anxieties to Georgie and she pointed out that most people were too wrapped up in themselves to even notice he was there, much less judge the way he performed some quotidian task. But no one here is too distracted to pay attention to him. Every single thing he does is observed, so if he ever does trip over his own feet or spill something or make an unconscious face it will be noticed. Worse, if he does something really notable it will be passed on to Jonah or Gertrude.

He can't even limit his worries to them, though. There are other places like the Magnus Institute out there, and they're just as interested in him- interested enough to force Jonah to allow Quincy and Xiaoling's visit, though he clearly hates giving relative outsiders access to Jon now that the chance to dress him up and show him off has passed.

He doesn't miss the calculating, possessive look that comes into their eyes sometimes; he realized early into their visit that if they can take him away from the Institute, they will, and his friends have confirmed it. They've all been asked about him in faux casual fashion. Gerry won't share anything, practically on pain of death; Sasha is nearly as tight-lipped, with her own relationship with the Stokers to deflect attention away from, but sometimes innocent details about Jon get tossed out as cover for that; Jon doesn't mind Michael chattering away with Quincy, sure that he'll stick to harmless topics like Jon's preferences and how nice his hair looks now that it's growing out (though he disagrees on the latter), but he appreciates knowing that there's one person in this dreadful place who won't give away any of his secrets.

(He makes himself be content with Sasha and Michael sharing harmless trivia about him. Too much attention on Sasha's connection to the Stokers could be dangerous for her. It's good for Michael to have a friend outside their little group, and Jon thinks Quincy genuinely does enjoy his company even outside of what he'll share about Jon. It's good to see his friend happy, Jon won't ruin that for him when happiness here is already in such short supply. It certainly continues to elude him, Gerry, and Sasha.)

The idea that they might somehow manage to force him abroad fills him with a numb terror. He would lose what little he still has, isolated among overly intimate strangers all over again, and they're both fishing for an excuse.

So when he turns a corner and nearly runs into Quincy, he stumbles back, arms jolting up and in to wrap himself in a hug and gaze rocketing down to the floor, safely away from eye contact.

"Woah!" Quincy says a bit too loudly, stabilizing hand landing on Jon's shoulder. The noise and the contact both make Jon flinch; to his credit, Quincy's hand drops and his voice is much quieter when he says, "You alright, Jon?"

He jerks his head up and down in a nod. "Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for. You shouldn't ever have to feel frightened." It's less subtle than Quincy's earlier efforts to tease out incriminating details, but the end of his visit is fast approaching.

Jon could go as well if he just gave Quincy justification.

If he wasn't afraid of being torn away from his friends and put under the thumb of whoever the Americans have instead of Jonah, he'd be disappointed about the visit's end. Quincy treats him like a person instead of a prize, most of the time, and his nosiness is usually smothered by his polite kindness. Those are rare traits among Jon's current milieu.

Quincy's very good at feeling safe, like Jon could say or do anything and only be met with concern and genuine interest, then given help or comfort instead of reprisal. If he had less to lose, if the rest of the Foundation weren't such an unknown quantity, Jon might be tempted.

Instead of spilling out all the times he has been frightened, he nods again. "Thank you."

From beneath his lashes Jon can see Quincy giving him a long look, though it isn't the intense, infatuated stare he gets from most people. Quincy looks at him like he's a puzzle, but there's also concern there.

Jon would consider telling him some of the things that have happened to him if he didn't know the consequences. Sometimes it feels like they'll all spill out the way they did when Gertrude asked. If confiding in him didn't mean losing Gerry, London, Sasha, Michael, maybe even the cats....

Jon is still under his gaze but not frozen in it. He doesn't think Quincy would deliberately hurt him. He was happy to promise to keep the Stokers safe as best he can, and to Jon that's worth quite a lot. Xiaoling promised the same, eagerly, but Quincy answered like it was obvious that that was what he'd be doing, even if Jon had never asked at all.

"You know, Jon," Quincy says after a long moment of Jon fidgeting in search of the words to continue or exit the conversation, "I'd like it if we could correspond after I go home. If you ever needed someone to talk to with a bit of distance, say."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say; it's another offer he might take Quincy up on if it was merely what it seemed, but he's not interested in committing words that might be used against him to ink and paper.

"My correspondence is locked up like Fort Knox," Quincy says as though he knows what Jon is thinking. For all Jon knows he does. (Quincy is merely good at reading people.) "Anything you write to me would be completely private."

"I'll think about it," Jon hedges. He knows enough about the Eye at this point to doubt that's really true.

"D'you mind if I write to you here? I'll make the letters out to Michael, or your big dark friend if you prefer, so we both know they're coming to you direct." Instead of Jonah or Gertrude getting the chance to open them first, neither of them says but both hear in the pause between sentences, "I'd like to let you know how things settle, y'know, what sort of security measures we set up to make sure you never have to see the fella that hurt you again."

Jon tenses. The words would sting if it weren't for their earlier conversation, but Quincy seemed thrilled to be able to set Jon's mind at ease.

They're in public- he can't exactly offer to let Jon know Tim or Danny is safe and happy, in so many words, here. Jon doesn't miss the mention of Michael, either. Hasn't he worried about him losing a friend when he no longer has a Jonah-approved reason to correspond with Quincy? But if Michael is receiving mail on Jon's behalf Jonah won't stop him- might not be able to stop him without offending his allies. 

It's the sort of thing he took for granted before, but that now feels so kind it aches. "I'd like that." His voice comes out soft, like it got lost on the twisting path of his thoughts before reaching his mouth, "Every day here is so much the same- it would be something to look forward to."

"I'm glad." Jon can almost feel the width of Quincy's grin as he pulls out the little notebook he carries around and flips to the back, scribbling something down before tearing it out and offering it to Jon. "Here. So you know how to address anything if you decide you want to talk."

"Thank you." He takes the jotted down address, tucking it into his pocket and hoping Quincy will realize it's not the only thing Jon's thanking him for.

Chapter Text

Sasha hasn't felt at ease since their guests arrived.

It's not just the stress of needing to make sure everything gives a good impression, the cleaning and the errands- she's good at that, she's always been good at setting her mind to a task and getting it done.

She knows they want to take Jon away. They're going to take Tim and Danny away.

(She's never going to get to ask them why they left without a word, why they took Jon but left her behind.)

(Not that she would want to go. Where their loyalty went, that's another question she'd like to ask.)

(Did they make the right choice, not trusting her, if she insists to herself now that she would have betrayed them?)

(Would she?)

She tries not to think about Tim and Danny (suspects she'll be trying not to think of them for the rest of her life), but she can't avoid worrying about Jon. It's practically her job, nowadays.

The American corners her a few days before he's due to leave- she's been avoiding them both, but he doesn't give any indication he's noticed that when he leans against the wall in front of her and speaks in a smooth drawl. "I hear you're friendly with Jon."

She nearly bites through her cheek trying to keep her expression blank. "I suppose." She tries to pass him, but he straightens in a way that looks casual but that neatly cuts off her path around him.

"What do you think of him?"

She blinks. It's a strange question; it should be obvious what she thinks of Jon, because it's the same thing everyone thinks of him. He's clever and kind and wonderful and Jon.

He smiles easily and amends, "How do you think he's holding up?"

She doesn't glare at the obvious fishing. "His tattoos healed very well."

"And emotionally?" His smile is sweet and bright, but his eyes are even and clear. He doesn't intend to leave her alone without whatever he's looking for.

Sasha doesn't intend to give it to him. "He's fine."

"Gotten over whatever made him decide to run away, then?"

She's not doing this. She's not interested in dissecting any of her boys' motivations for that incident with a stranger; she's not interested in dissecting them with herself. "I have work to attend to. Excuse me."

She makes to go around him and is casually blocked again. Fine.

Sasha knows her way around the Institute better than this interloper could ever hope to; she'll take the long way. She spins on her heel and darts away.

-

Later, she sits behind Jon on a couch in his rooms, carefully brushing his hair- it's getting close to his jaw, now- while the kittens tumble over each other in his lap. He feels her help is unnecessary, but submits to it because it settles something in Sasha's chest to do it.

(It shouldn't be his job to calm her down, she should take care of him, he's so much more important but she can't deny herself the comfort.)

They spend far longer in companionable, slightly tense silence than Jon's hair really warrants, but it's nice. She doesn't know if it's her Patron's pleasure at someone getting their hands on Jon's hair or the presence of a friend and absence of probing, judgemental stares that steadies her. The instinct to prod and scrutinize has served her well in the past, but she wishes she could turn it off and enjoy moments like this without wondering how much her mood is being influenced.

She doesn't startle when Jon clears his throat, because he did the awkward shifting shoulder jiggle he always does when he's uncomfortable with breaking the silence but about to do it anyway a moment before. His hands are open and empty, not willing to risk his anxiety or anger tensing them into fists and pulling at the cats' fur. "Quincy said he'll write to me after he goes home."

She's too used to being watched to let her motions stutter, but her heart leaps to her throat. "Oh?"

Jon hums. "And asked me to write if I ever... wanted to talk."

She isn't sure if her heart's stopped or pounding dangerously close to the speed of light. Jon must know it isn't an innocent offer- but he isn't one of them, not really. He's so new, and for all he's sharp and clever and (hyper)vigilant he isn't used to the way their sort of people maneuver.

(Is the threat really there, or is she selfishly trying to keep him to herself?)

Jon clears his throat again, like a motor revving over and over before finally being coaxed into motion. "He's going to write once they're settled in."

She doesn't need to ask who the other person is, and she feels a bit detached from her body. Relieved at the thought that she might get some unexpected glimpse at what's going to become of her best friends, horrified at the certainty that the offer is bait, trying to lure Jon closer to the Americans and away from them.

Jon's being so carefully circumspect in his language that Jonah must be watching, he's had a good sense for that since the Binding, so she doesn't probe at the issue of Tim and Danny more (though she wants to so, so badly). Instead, she follows the other wave of emotion trying to knock her flat, something Jonah would approve of wholeheartedly. "You know they want to take you away from us."

Jon flinches and Sasha adds some guilt to her whirlwinding emotions, rubbing a tight, soothing circle on the back of his shoulder in apology for the anger that leaked into her tone. "I know."

She swallows. "Do... do you want-"

"No!" Jon says it so forcefully they both startle, and he shakes his head, dislodging the brush.

Sasha lets the hand holding it fall. His hair has been neat and sleek and shiny for a while, now, and she's afraid her hand might start shaking. She starts picking at the hair caught between the bristles, pulling it free.

"I don't want to- I don't want them to take me," he says in a calmer tone, though it's still tense and tight. "I don't want to leave you and Michael and Gerry. I don't want to leave England."

She dumps the half-cleaned brush onto the coffee table, leaning forward- slowly, giving him time to move away- wrapping her arms around Jon's waist and hooking her chin over his shoulder. She can feel the fine tremor running up his spine, like this, staring cheek to cheek at the kittens in his lap. "Then you won't."

Jon doesn't remind her that she can't promise that. He just leans into the embrace.

Chapter Text

Jon wakes at 1:02 AM to a hand on his shoulder and is rolling away before he can think. The detective- Danny and Tim- they have to run, to escape, or they'll be dragged back to the Institute-!

Chapter Text

Danny starts to question whether Jon and Sasha were actually there almost as soon as they're out of his sight, while at the same time trying to commit how it felt to hug them and Tim to memory as thoroughly as possible. Every step he takes feels like lurching forward into a world that's not quite real on legs that might not hold him, his mind confused by the onslaught of too-realistic memories and events Jonah forced him through over and over.

He doesn't feel quite right in his body. He and the American- he isn't sure if they were introduced, time speeding up and slowing down irregularly- arrive at the airport and settle in to wait several hours for their flight. He spends all of it trying to slowly tense and relax his muscles one body part at a time until his body feels like his own again. His mind stays wrapped around Jon.

(He wants to think of Sasha and Tim just as attentively, but it's hard. He can feel something Other redirecting focus to Jon again and again like a moth to flame, and he doesn't know how to fight it except to keep trying. It makes him feel disloyal to all of them, for being unable to focus on Tim or Sasha and for trying to avoid thoughts of Jon.)

(At least giving into the temptation to think of Jon neatly redirects him whenever he starts to stray too close to the things he experienced (saw? they didn't happen to him but they feel like they did) after being captured.)

This should be a golden opportunity to people watch, all kinds of people he's never seen the like of before bustling around the airport even at this time of night, but he's too scattered to appreciate it. His old self would have been unable to sit still with the excitement of going on a plane, but there's too much drawing his attention away.

The American stands at a cue Danny fails to identify among the whirlwind of unfamiliar stimuli, a hand at Danny's elbow pulling him up as well. As they board the plane, Danny's attention is rapidly drawn away by being in closer proximity to more people than he ever has been in his life, and they're all strangers. He thought that his and Tim's (Tim...) faltering shopping trips were overwhelming, but this metal tube full of unknown quantities makes Tesco feel like the Library back home.

He pictures Jon in the Library, back home. It's good, because Jon deserves the world, and certainly deserves better than being trapped in one tiny room for the rest of his life. 

Jon must be allowed out of his room because of those tattoos. Their purpose is obvious. Jon wouldn't agree to them willingly. Why? fills a pit of darkness in Danny's mind. 

Jon told them to worry about themselves. To worry about whatever awaits him in America, not what happened to Jon back home.

Danny doesn't know exactly what the American wants from or intends to do with him, but he was almost kind back at the Institute. It could have been because Jon was there and making his affection for them obvious, and now that they're away from him that kindness will disappear.

Danny hopes not. He doesn't think it will, but Tim and Sasha always say (said, he's never going to see them again and it hurts) that he's too optimistic. He tries to look at things like Tim, with the same cynical edge that had Tim planning Danny's own escape better than he could. Tim would shove that hope away as wishful thinking. Tim would think through every possible problem and figure out how to fix as many as he could.

He doesn't have much to work with. He knows he's bound to the Usher Foundation now instead of the Institute, but he only has the clothes on his back, no friends, no money, absolutely nothing to bargain with. Just crowds of strangers from the Foundation that will envelop him as soon as he's away from this batch.

Tim would assume that they're going to treat him the same way Jonah did. Danny suppresses a shudder at the thought. He needs to keep that from happening, he can't-

He's alive because Jon wants him to be. He can feel some of the intrusive influence that made it almost impossible to make it to Pinhole Books without turning around and dragging Jon home slipping away as the plane takes flight- his ears hurt and he isn't sure why- but it's still there. He doesn't remember anyone from their allied Temples visiting in his lifetime, but they did for Jon. They're still affected by Beholding's love for him, even an ocean away.

Jon can't advocate for Danny here, though. Neither can Tim or Sasha, for that matter. He's never... really had to speak up for himself, no matter what, before.

He'll have to learn. No safety net here. No daydreams of someday leaving to see the world, either. He has to make a place for himself he can live with, and he has to act quickly.

Quickly, but not impulsively like with Jon. He realizes now that their escape was never really going to succeed the way he wanted it to, that even if they got Jon back home he and Tim would have eventually died, but they might have at least managed that much if he'd planned better.

He and Tim would be dead, though. They're only alive because two strangers were willing to take them on on Jon's word alone.

Could word of Jon help him the same way?

It feels like a very Tim idea to have, so he pushes through the pang of grief and his mind's effort to spiral back into worse things and tries to think of what else Tim would say. What problems would Tim find that Danny wouldn't?

People weren't willing to trade much for information on Jon at home (is the Institute still home? Does he have a home? (Did he ever?)). But there, everything made its way through the grapevine eventually. It was a matter of knowing things first, not knowing them at all. Jonah won't give up more information that he has to, and no one at the Foundation will be going in to see Jon every day, multiple times a day, and potentially learning something new every time. They'll have access to what their representative reports back and what Jonah gives up willingly.

...No, they probably have some way to get new information. Spies or an arrangement that forces Jonah to give up more information than he might of his own accord, something along those lines. Maybe both. He can't rely on assuming how much they know about Jon.

Still, their information will be restricted. And... and Danny knows things about Jon no one else does, besides Tim. Most of them are things that make him ache to think of sharing, but he has them.

Could he exaggerate how much he knows about Jon? Keep them happy with the tiny tidbits he's comfortable sharing outright until he's able to come up with other ways of keeping himself safe?

If their Archivist asks him how well he knows Jon, Danny thinks he can say "better than nearly anyone else" without it being a lie. If he lets them make assumptions about what that means... he might have a chance.

-

He doesn't know how long they're in the air, his sense of time completely upended by Jonah, but it feels like forever. Other people on the plane have fallen asleep and woken back up in the meantime, so it has to have been quite a while. The American doesn't fall asleep, but he doesn't talk to Danny, either. Danny spent some of the flight looking out the window, but there isn't much to see. Mostly dark, with the occasional pale mist of a cloud passing underneath. When an intercom crackles to announce their descent Danny feels the tension he's managed to release returning.

The American doesn't say anything to him as they slowly follow the other passengers off the plane into another too bright, crowded airport, as they snake their way through the long series of queues that seem to make up this part of their journey, as they finally come outside into the night only to board what he identifies (with a touch of pride and a stronger pang of missing Jon) as a bus. The bus takes them into a seemingly infinite, multi-level field of cars. Danny can't imagine how anyone finds anything in such a place, but the American navigates with apparent confidence to one in particular. It's red.

Everything is still and silent for a moment when they climb inside the car, before the American turns to face Danny, eyes skimming his features in a way that makes him homesick for Sasha. Danny doesn't quite succeed at hiding his flinch when he finally speaks. "I don't think we've been introduced. Quincy Morris."

Danny waits too long to answer, mind getting lost trying to find the trap. He stares at his lap. "Danny Stoker."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Danny. Don't worry, we're gonna take good care of you- any friend of Jon's is a friend of mine."

He startles at the words, darting a glance at the other man. His face seems open, honest. It doesn't feel like a trap on its face, but Danny hardly trusts the ground beneath his feet anymore. "Jonah wouldn't have called me Jon's friend."

He isn't sure what he's probing for, but Morris's face softens. "He didn't. Jon did."

Danny takes a deep breath. Jon... would Jon have taken the time to worry about him? It seems absurd that the only steady point in his mixed up thoughts would bother, but that's not right. He knows that's not right. He remembers how happy Jon seemed when they were passing notes. He remembers, hazily, feeling like his life was leaking out his pores and dissipating in the air, and seeing Jon lean over him, laying a cool hand against his forehead and coaxing him into drinking something. That Jon worried.

He thinks of being dragged along in chains while people who've known him all his life jeered and sneered, of meeting Jon's eyes and the relief of seeing him whole. He thinks of the worry in Jon's eyes then, leaning forward like he could close the distance between them that way. Jon hugging him like he's trying to break bone.

"You believed him?" he asks.

Morris huffs. "Jonah Magnus ain't as all powerful as he likes people to believe. Some of us account our own experience above what he says."

Danny weaves his fingers together, flexing them against each other. His nails have gotten long in his mental absence. "And you don't think we kidnapped Jon and- and hurt him."

"I think he wanted to go. And I think you can tell me how he actually got hurt. I'd appreciate it if you told me."

Danny darts a look out of the corner of his eye. Morris's posture is casual, deliberately so. He isn't as blase about this as he wants to seem. While he's looking Morris digs through his pocket for something, pulls out a key and starts the car. It rumbles beneath them.

He hopes Jon wouldn't be angry about this. "Alright. I- Jon and I were friends before we left the Institute."

Morris hums encouragingly and the car begins to move.

Chapter Text

The departure of their guests leaves the Institute in the first lull they've had since Jon's arrival. Pleased as Gertrude is that they once more have Jon to themselves, that he's settling into something like a routine and all threats to his place with them are, for the moment, gone, the calm leaves Gertrude space to think.

Her careful detachment is gone, obliterated the moment she made the impulsive decision to take Jon's Statements before he was Bound to the Eye.

The Buried spared her his dreams for a time, but they struck with a vengeance in the long days of healing before he could be Bound. He seemed to appear disproportionately often, even taking into account the fact that he gave more than one Statement. She suspects the only reason he didn't say something was the very good chance that she was featuring in his nightmares in some capacity already (and that shouldn't hurt, she makes a point of never regretting the things she does).

Jon didn't seem to notice them among everything else, but Gertrude can't forget. None of the Eye's visions have struck her so deeply since her very first days as Archivist. She cannot maintain objectivity when every time she looks at Jon she sees his eight-year-old self, eyes taking up his entire face as he watches segmented limbs reach for him, held in place with silken tethers, unable to run.

The dreams banished any lingering doubt about how dear Jon is. The Archivist's role is to Watch, to passively feed on the fears of her victims night after night, never interfering. Beholding would not allow it, even if Gertrude herself felt so inclined.

She doesn't think she'll ever be sure whether the choice to try and intervene the first time she watched Jon's dreams was her own, or if her Patron compelled it. Even now, that scene plays behind her eyelids in quiet moments, the memory no duller now that Jon is Bound.

Gertrude has taken Statements from every kind of person, young and old, rich and poor, aware of the Entities and not, and none of them have impacted her the way Jon has. None of them have made her want to intervene.

The first time she dreamed Jon, she had recognized him immediately, though he now has premature gray in his hair and no trace of childhood pudge. The solemn-faced little boy could be no one else; there was a brief moment where nothing happened, and she simply appreciated the sight of Jon so young. She's never been interested in children, but this was, naturally, an exception.

Jon's eyes had shown that, even dreaming, even in the surreal acceptance that Beholding's visions gave its victims, he knew that he was not meant to be so small or helpless. He had swayed there for a long moment, the Eye drinking in the sight of him, before the door appeared.

The moment he saw it Jon started silently weeping, precociously sure of what was coming even his first visit to the unreal torture of the dream. A split second after the door appeared the dream light shifted, showing the gleaming strands of webbing wrapped tight and taut around every joint. He wrenched in their hold, the movement barely visible against his enforced stillness.

He hadn't been able to do anything, jerked forward on marionette strings, pulled toward the door that seemed to pulse with menace. He hardly seemed to notice Gertrude, attention totally fixed on his fist jerking up to knock. The sound echoed and boomed, filling the senses, and Jon's shoulders hitched with a sob.

He wavered in place as the door creaked open, agonizingly slow, and Gertrude had wavered in her own vigil. The Eye's horror had welled up alongside her own as the first hairy limb eased out of the cracked entry, the spider's legs reaching out one at a time, drawing out as much terror as possible. The sight of the spider broke Jon's silence, and he began a whispered mantra of "No, no, please, no."

Her placidity shattered like glass as the fourth limb crept out and finally began to reach for the child she loved more than she had ever loved anything. The Archivist jolted forward, grabbing Jon and pulling him to her chest, whirling to guard his tiny form, frail in her arms, with her own body. The eyes that made her up gawked at his closeness as he jerked in her grasp, unsure whether to writhe away from his captor or cling to his savior, taking in every crease and tear track on his little face. Some of the threads holding him broke, but others stayed stubbornly fixed. She stepped away, snapping a few more, and the scene shifted.

The Jon in her arms was the one she knew, now, and the few threads that still clung to him yanked back with a vengeance, hooks embedding into his flesh. He flew from her grasp and writhed as he was pulled aloft, more hooks swinging down to dig in with little squelching thuds.

Mary Keay stepped toward him with a knife in her hand, looking just as she had when she visited the Institute before her undeath, gloating over Eric's page.

Gertrude could only watch in fascination- there was hardly an acceptable way to see beneath Jon's skin like this in the waking world, after all. Her usual frozen posture failed to return, hands jerking with the conflicted urge to snatch him to safety or Watch.

The dream played out similarly every time she had it, her actions varying slightly. One night she held herself still and Watched as Jon was bound in a cocoon, bitten and paralyzed, until Mary appeared and Gertrude could snatch away her knife and cut the webbing away herself. Jon's eyes met hers, desperate and scared, before fire singed away the last of the Web and Mary stepped forward to carve the skin from his face. Another, she held him through the entire dream, stroking his hair and cooing, holding him still just as much as the hooks in his flesh did as Mary sliced into him. Sometimes he got his hands on the lighter, as she knows he did in truth, and she Watches the dream burn.

Even as the dreams repeated night after night, Gertrude never got used to them the way she did all the others. The weight of the child Jon in her arms, the contortions of pain and terror of the adult, still come to her sometimes. They're vivid memories, uncomfortably so. She has seen plenty of children through encounters with the Fears, seen even more fall to them, but none have ever plucked at her heart the way Jon's eight-year-old memory self does.

She doesn't think he's connected the dreams to the Statements or deduced that there was anything unusual about them, even though they stopped the very day he was Bound. She knows he has nightmares many nights (fewer, now that his pets ensure he does not sleep alone, and she no longer forces her way into his head each night); he likely didn't think to distinguish her dreams from the rest. He lacked the near rote repetition of most of her victims, after all.

She knows he would have, with time. He would have noticed the unique intensity, the way they left him feeling more drained than normal dreams, eventually. Still, part of her is stung that her presence never merited comment, absurd though she knows the feeling to be.

Even though she no longer sees him each night, back to her usual well worn rounds, she cannot dismiss the dreams' effect on her. She would call it karma if she believed in such a thing, reciprocity for the many sleepless nights and waking shudders she has forced on others over her long career. For decades, she has dismissed as trivial the dreams that left her victims deeply Marked; now it's her turn, though she is marked in a different fashion.

It's much harder to summon up the requisite objectivity when she sees Jon now. She cannot help but see the remaining traces of that crying boy stumbling away from a monster, and remember the fierce protectiveness the sight lit within her. She cannot trust herself to rein in Jonah's extravagances, nor to accurately assess the risks and benefits of harsher treatment. She questions her decision to recommend against allowing Jon access to the Institute's public face. She cannot trust the judgement that said it was too dangerous, that Avatars of rival Powers or helpful strangers who've seen missing notices for him might find him there.

She knows he longs for other companionship, and she longs to take care of the child she held in her dreams.

Gertrude has always held herself apart from the rest, relied on her own judgment while refusing to allow frivolous emotions to cloud her sight. It's what made her Archivist, and it has served her well. The only time she has ever seriously doubted herself was the affair with Agnes and the Web, back at the very beginning. She told herself then that her naivete had cost too much, and that such a thing would never happen again. Seeing the shadow of the child in the man's face reminds her uncomfortably of the passion that had burned and urged her to her ritual without reexamining her sources and plotting out every potential drawback. He makes her want to be the soft, grandmotherly woman she often plays for Statement givers, to allow him refuge in her office and let him spool out all his cares to her sympathetic ear.

She counts herself fortunate to have cultivated a reputation for standoffishness with their international colleagues. Watching them fawn over Jon, knowing that they wanted nothing more than to steal him away to their own centers of power, it was all she could do to maintain civility. The biting, vicious part of her soul that makes her so effective in her role longed to show them that the other part of her reputation, the part she knew those abroad largely dismissed as exaggeration and theater, was entirely earned. In the moments between going to bed and true dreams she envisioned the Pu Songling Research Centre and the Usher Foundation in flames, followed by the Eye's other Temples, until the Magnus Institute was the only place in all the world where Jon could find refuge.

She held her tongue when Jon pleaded with Jonah to allow the Stokers to live because she was unable to distinguish between cold judgement and the sharp jealousy which said to indulge him and draw him closer to them with the show of mercy, and to eliminate the threat to his place here. She has always had a vengeful streak, but the sight of the Stokers called it to the fore, baying for blood. Part of her wanted to interrupt and demand that Jonah change his sentence so that they could be pulled to bloody tatters before her, as they nearly allowed Jon to be.

Knowing that they (traitors and emissaries both) were far away, too far away to ever influence Jon again, is barely enough of a consolation to put them from her mind and fix her sights on the future. The only thing that keeps her annoyance at Morris and Zhang from boiling over is the hope that their promised correspondence with Jon will sate some of his desire for the outside world and help him settle in his place here.

His companions are another problem, too indulgent. The entirety of her is in agreement on this point: Every time a new privilege or reward comes from them rather than Jonah or herself it binds him tighter to them, when he should be tied to the Institute at large, and the allowances they make for him draw dangerously close to exposing him to the wider world and another escape, even if such a venture must now be brief. Her mind churns; she cannot pull them away from him without turning him against the rest of them (against her), but Gerard has always been resistant to authority and he encourages Miss James's independent streak. Michael, at least, remains as doggedly loyal as ever, but he's outnumbered and in the constant company of bad influences.

The answer would be simple if Gerard were not the one Jon was most attached to. She would simply send him away on some errand for as long as it took for Michael to pressure Miss James back into line, only allow him to return when his resistance would place him in the minority. Perhaps she would never allow him back at all.

But Jon is heart wrenchingly distressed when Gerard is gone for a span of hours; separating them for days or weeks would cause him to spiral into despair, and he has a self-destructive streak they've only seen glimpses of thus far. Gertrude has no desire to see more of it, despite craving every sliver of Jon she can get.

He is so precious and so fragile she can hardly believe he survived long enough to make his way to them. She is so crushingly aware of his mortality that it's all she can do to keep her distance, keep herself from drinking in as many interactions with him as she can. She can't break down that last barrier; she needs the shreds of detachment that remain to her.

She's made that detachment the status quo between herself and their order at large since adolescence, and she regrets it now. Jonah can't be trusted to handle manipulating social dynamics as she has always trusted him, his jealousy preventing him from actively pushing others to befriend Jon and his fascination bringing his sadistic streak too much into the open to wholly succeed there himself.The line between means necessitated by the ends and overindulgences is so fine.

She needs more trusted members to nudge into Jon's orbit. Miss James was her current choice when she considered who to train as her successor, the primary obstacle convincing Jonah to make an exception for Outside converts never being allowed out of the hidden Institute, but she has proven to susceptible to bad influences; the other candidates are too young to hold Jon's interest socially; Emma and Fiona are years dead (and she shudders at the thought of allowing the Web so close to Jon again).

She lingers more than she used to, keeping an eye on the social currents and searching for someone she can entrust this to. No one stands out, and she doesn't know if it's due to their own inadequacies or the way she longs to take that role herself.

She watches Jon lean into his friends and feels the phantom weight of a trembling child, and her mind whirs.

Chapter Text

Jon looks up with a smile at the knock on the door, followed immediately by Michael's voice merrily caroling, "Mail's here!" Sasha jumps to her feet to let him in before he can, startling at the sight of him and backing away from the door to give him space.

His smile drops when he sees what she saw. Rather than the one or two letters he was expecting, Michael carries in a large sack, bulging at the sides and with packages and envelopes peeking out the top. He should have expected this. When does anyone keep information about him to themselves when they can spread it far and wide? It was naive to expect he would get letters from Quincy and Xiaoling and no one else. Why wouldn't he receive sacks of- of fanmail, like he's some kind of Old Hollywood starlet? He still gets gifts in his drop box multiple times a day.

Michael hip checks the door shut and carries the sack over to the table, setting it down and letting its contents spill out. Some of them have hearts drawn on them. The sound of the avalanche of mail makes the Baroness perk up, leaping out of Jon's lap to try and climb one of the chairs and get a look at the new stimulus.

Gerry whistles. "You want privacy to go through all this or do you want us to help?"

Jon slumps in relief. He wouldn't feel right asking, but accepting an offer feels a little less like he's taking advantage. "Help, please."

Sasha laughs, ruffling Jon's hair as she walks past and scooping the Baroness up before taking a seat at the table. "Watch out, we might decide to steal your mail."

Gerry stands, offering Jon a hand. He takes it, feeling weighed down by the situation once again.

He's been trying to adjust, now that there's nothing hanging over his head in the immediate future, to the idea that this is what the rest of his life will be like. His grandmother was a great believer in making the best of things, the picture of the kind of old wartime stoicism that would hate to know how much time he's spent curled up in bed feeling sorry for himself, and at least some of it must have rubbed off on Jon for all she used to scold him for whining, because the idea of making that his norm makes him feel like he's losing something. He doesn't know if the battle is against himself, Jonah, or the ghost of his grandmother's disapproval, but he doesn't want to lose.

He doesn't like his friends being out of his sight. Part of him is certain that they'll be taken away from him as well if he isn't there to fight for them, taking the few bearable parts of his captivity with them. Part of him still hates being alone, something that used to be a comfort turned horror by the compounding of the coffin and the hungry looks aimed at him by strangers wherever he goes and the knowledge that Jonah or Gertrude could come for him. Part of him knows that he could, at least, assuage the first fear if he reached down into buzzing ink and joined hands with what lives there, could know where the people he cares about are and what they're doing whenever he cared to check. Even beyond the walls of the Institute. Even Georgie, outside any Temple of the Eye at all.

He doesn't know what he'd become if he gave in to that temptation. He doesn't know what else he'd be inviting in.

Jonah would release his friends from their obligations if he asked, leave them free to do nothing but entertain Jon, but he'll never ask. He's already suffocatingly aware that even if they care for him much of the time they spend with him is out of obligation. They spend time with him because Jonah tells them to, and because Beholding won't allow them to dislike doing so.

Sasha and Michael do, at least. Gerry let him go in the tunnels where the Eye's influence was blocked out, and it isn't hard to quash the whispering naysayer that says that he did it because he didn't want to put up with Jon anymore with the memory of the urgency and worry in his face when he gave them everything they needed to stay out of Jonah's grasp for as long as they did.

He's started tagging along on their regular duties, trying to disrupt their lives as little as possible. As Michael and Gerry's days regularly take them out of the Institute and Jon is, infuriatingly, not even allowed into the public facing part of the building (all objections answered with the reassurance that by keeping him hidden they keep him out of the grasp of other Powers, keep him safe, laden with references to call back the memory of every time he's encountered them in the past. He hates that Jonah knows enough about Mr. Spider to use it to manipulate him), he spends a lot of time with Sasha.

It's nice, being with her. He's found that if he curls up under her desk and leans against her legs he can look out the windows while being hidden from view, unable to be gawked at without the gawker very obviously abandoning their work. He brings a book and lets Sasha play with his hair.

It's nice knowing that she misses Danny and Tim as much as he does. It helps when he feels the ghost of relief that they're gone.

He misses them with a vicious ache, wishes they didn't have to be separated, wishes he could just talk to them one more time, but them being gone means they're out of Jonah's reach. Even if he struggles to believe Quincy and Xiaoling's promises that they'll be safe, neither of them showed the same vindictive hatred for the Stokers that Jonah practically oozes from every pore. It's one less thing Jonah can hold over him.

He tries to pull his thoughts away from the Stokers, to the task before him. If they can find letters from Quincy and Xiaoling among the deluge he can reassure himself that they've kept their promises. He was excited to get mail before he realized just how much of it there was; this is just a distraction, a chore. It doesn't have to be anything more.

It does brighten his outlook on the whole mess to see the Baroness pouncing and sliding through the letters with gleeful abandon. Tibby, alerted by the Baroness' happy meows to something interesting happening, saunters up to the tables and meows to be let up as well. Sasha makes eye contact with Jon, smirking, before picking the second kitten up and dropping her in the center of the pile to roll over and over, unable to escape the heap as letters slide against each other. He manages a thin smile back at her before picking up a letter and scanning it for the sender's name.

They settle into a rhythm, checking the sender before opening the letter or package, skimming its contents for anything of interest, and holding up any gifts inside for Jon's inspection. It's more of the same things he gets in his drop box. The kittens are delighted by the handful of correspondents who thought to send cat toys, and they pile everything intended for them (and some things that aren't, after they're double checked for safety) in a sort of nest at one end of the table. Sasha beams at their proximity to her seat, excusing herself to the restroom so that, Jon suspects, she can pass by where he kept the cat treats on the way and set to spoiling them rotten whenever he isn't looking.

"Oh, this is pretty," Sasha says some time later, holding up a glittering hair clip. Jon felt his eyes twitch; he hates how his hair fell into his eyes, still victim of Jonah's insistence that he not be allowed to cut it. He doesn't like the thought of encouraging him.

"Keep it." He looks up through his lashes, trying to check Sasha's reaction. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is an "O" of surprise, but she doesn't look angry.

"Are you sure?" She toys with the clip, watching it reflect the light.

"I don't think I can even use it. How would I fit the... ugh," he flicks a hand toward where Jonah's idiotic circlet dangles, hanging from the corner of one of the cats' climbing shelves near the door, "on top of it?"

Sasha bites her lip. "Alright. Thank you."

He smiles at her. "Of course."

Sasha smiles back and pins a stray lock of hair back. Every once in a while her hand drifts upward, landing softly on the clip as she grins.

Sasha's reaction emboldens Jon to gift anything any of his friends show the slightest bit of interest in to them as quickly as possible. It lightens the weight of knowledge the letters make so much more real, that there are people all across the world, people who have never met him, who would have abducted and kept him just as eagerly as Jonah.

"Oh no, I couldn't, it's yours!" Michael says of a scarf he evaluated as "so soft," in answer to Jon's immediate "Keep it, then."

Jon shakes his head, shoving away the flicker of irritation at everyone's constant insistence that he needs more and more material possessions. "They gave it to me, and I'm giving it to you. You go outside more than I do, anyway."

Michael looks like he wants to protest, but ultimately says nothing as he lays the scarf across his lap, stroking it.

Sasha and Michael need similar convincing almost every time, some logical reason that they deserve nice things more than Jon does. Gerry never expresses interest in much of anything, but Jon can't tell if it's because he refuses to take any of "Jon's" things or if it's just that the shining, glittering, colorful assortment of items his gifts trend toward aren't remotely to the goth's tastes.

"Aha!" They all jump, especially Jon, at Michael's cry of triumph, much louder than his usual assessments of various gifts. He grins sheepishly at them, continuing at a lower volume, "This one's from Quincy."

Jon reaches eagerly across the table for it, tearing it open. Quincy, he notes, had the sense not to embellish his envelope with any fanciful doodles or extra declarations of love. It is, however, much thicker than he expected. Quincy seemed a bit taciturn, though on reflection that was mainly with Jon, with more of the feeling he was choosing his words carefully than that he didn't have much to say. Writing a letter provides as much time to consider every word as one wants, Jon supposes grimly.

Sure enough, opening the letter reveals a thick sheaf of papers. Quincy does, at least, have rather large handwriting, so the bulk isn't an entirely accurate representation of the volume of the contents. He scans the first page for mention of Danny, flicking quickly to the second, then the third.

His heart stops. He clenches his fingers to keep them from going lax and dropping the letter- letters- to the table.

Rather than continuing the thread of the previous page, the third page starts over with a greeting. A greeting in familiar handwriting.

Jon sets the two pages of Quincy's writing aside, the world seeming to narrow to the letter tucked safely behind one Jonah has no reason to be suspicious of, forbidden communication from the friend he never expected to hear from again. He reads it eagerly, then again, slower. The world expands again as he processes the reassurances of health and safety from Danny's own pen, letting in the concerned whispers and stares of the others. He blinks and realizes he's crying.

Rather than explain, he separates the page from the stack to hand to Sasha, who has just as much of a right to know Danny is safe as Jon, only for his heart to stop again as he sees the next page is also in Danny's handwriting, this one addressed to Sasha directly. He passes her letter over without reading, sitting stunned as she makes a wordless exclamation that seems to be turning toward tears just as quickly as Jon did. He sets his letter from Danny and- he checks the last page to find Quincy's handwriting once again- the end of Quincy's letter on the table. Gerry leans over to peer at what has Jon and Sasha so worked up.

He leaps up as soon as he reads the salutation, and Jon presumes he passes the information to Michael in hushed murmurs, though only the rhythm of the words reaches his ears, comprehension not a priority as he digests the miracle he just read.

He'll have to find a way to thank Quincy, who's just risen immensely in his estimation, for the promise to ferry letters between them and Danny in secret. Who took it upon himself to ensure that Jon doesn't lose another friend.

He startles at Gerry's hand on his shoulder, holding out a torn open envelope with the contents stuffed haphazardly back inside. He looks up to see the painfully kind expression Gerry only wears around Jon. "It's from Xiaoling. She did the same."

Jon scrabbles for the letter, flipping through it to be sure, checking for Tim's signature at the bottom- two letters, for him and Sasha each, just like Danny- and promptly bursts into grateful, overwhelmed tears before he can properly read it.

Chapter Text

Jon knows there's no one down this corridor or the next, but it doesn't feel like knowing. More like his body knows where to go without his brain's input, moving on autopilot. His feet steer him through Artefact Storage, down back shelves where no one sees him, and his fear of the place feels dull and distant. He exits into the public half of the Institute, strange and violent hope clogging his throat.

The receptionist's desk in the foyer is empty, his steps echoing as he passes through.

London hits him in a rush of city sounds he didn't realize were missing inside the Institute. He pauses, stunned, for a fraction of a second before moving on.

He knows this can't last, that he'll have to go back to the Institute even if the tattoos don't directly alert people where to come take him back, but he wants to savor this rare moment of feeling alone and free. Has he really forgotten what it feels like to walk among strangers without being stared at so quickly?

His aimless wandering takes him into a small cafe, brightly lit and sparsely populated. He intends to walk up to the counter and ask if he can use their phone, but instead his feet steer toward a Black woman sitting at one of the tables, wholly focused on neatly unfolding her napkin into her lap. He tries to turn toward the counter. He sits down across from the woman.

She looks up and smiles brightly at him. There are two cups on the table, as though she's expecting company. The coffee on his side is accompanied by a pastry with dark filling. He wants to scream, but instead wonders hysterically if it’s blueberry or blackberry. He picks up the cup and drinks.

“Hello!” the woman chirps, leaning her chin on a hand. Jon tries to make eye contact with the cashier, or any of the handful of other customers, but no one has any reason to look over at an apparently normal meeting.

The woman looks at him expectantly as he puts the coffee down. He swallows, clears his throat. “Hello.” His voice sounds strangled, too quiet. He wants to shout. Now that he’s paying attention, the force pinning him to his seat, that steered him here, feels horribly familiar.

“Jonathan Sims.” She looks him up and down, opinion kept behind her eyes. Her bleached blonde hair seems too stiff and still, almost glued in place.

His experience with monsters is limited- and he is sure that this woman, whatever her motives, qualifies- but he wracks his memory. It is polite to knock. Jonah likes politeness. If he can’t escape, he can at least try to survive. “I believe you have me at a disadvantage…?” His voice is still too soft. He’d been dreading the pursuers that must be behind him just moments ago, but now he wishes he could crane his neck around to watch the door, wave his arms to catch their attention. Better the devil you know (that reminds him less of Mr. Spider). They can’t be far behind him.

She smiles approvingly. Jon robotically nibbles his pastry (blackberry) and sips his coffee. “Annabelle Cane.” She looks at him like she thinks he might recognize the name, but he has nothing for her. She snickers. “Shame my reputation can’t precede me.”

She watches him eat the pastry and drink the coffee, never touching her own drink. He can’t stop, can’t move slower or faster, just works away at the small breakfast at a measured, even pace. When a spider skitters out from under Annabelle’s hairline and disappears near (into?) her ear he wants to scream, but he can't even choke.

When he finally finishes the last drop and crumb, Annabelle stands, offering him a hand. He takes it, eyes immediately going to the glass doors now that he can turn. No one familiar. Annabelle leads him out of the cafe, still holding hands, and he feels a dissonant pang of guilt for not clearing their table.

No one looks closely enough to notice the fear that surely must be writ large across his face as Annabelle leads him through the streets of London. She swings their hands idly between them as she starts to speak. “The Mother was curious when we found out about you. Though it was ages before we did.” She knocks her shoulder into his in (hopefully) mock reproach.

Jon grits his teeth. “I’ll be sure to ask Jonah to start sending out a newsletter.”

Annabelle laughs. “You should! I’m sure you’ve already heard all about how strange it is, an Entity falling in love, of all things. We wanted to see what kind of person sparked that.” She gives him a sideways glance. “Personally, I don’t see it.”

Eventually, the silence drags on long enough that Jon fills it with, “Neither do I.”

Annabelle’s laugh doesn’t sound quite right, like she learned it by imitating a sitcom laugh track. She pulls him towards a park. He should be paying closer attention to where they are; the realization he’s lost track of where exactly they are in relation to the Institute makes his stomach sink, like he’s giving in to Annabelle’s control.

Annabelle draws him a good way into the park, sitting down beneath a tree surrounded by flowering clover and laying him down, pulling Jon’s head into her lap. His body is relaxed, even though inside he's practically shaking with tension. Where is the invasive force that's skittered beneath his skin since the Binding, always eager to share information to or about him, now that he wants nothing more than a rescue?

“You make for an interesting bump in Mother’s plan.” She trails fingers through his hair as she speaks, and he thinks he feels a tiny spider crawl down onto his face. “The Eye and Web are usually friendly. It was quite a surprise to learn of such a significant development through the grapevine."

If he could move, Jon would shudder at the faint air of threat in her voice. "You'll have to take that up with Jonah." It all comes back to Jonah, doesn't it? All the problems in his life, ever since he decided to attend that stupid lecture.

Annabelle hums, and her hand leaves his hair. He can't see what she's doing, and his stomach clenches with anxiety. "You smoke, don't you?" she asks.

"I... I did." He hasn't had the chance, since being kidnapped. It wasn't in the budget when they were hiding in Pinhole Books, and otherwise he's barely had the chance think about it. He was rather more concerned with being trapped in a sarcophagus and having his mind and body invaded via evil tattoos than with that craving.

He thinks the last time was with Georgie, trying to lean out the open window to prevent the landlord complaining and duck inside, out of the driving rain. The window was barely big enough for one of them, but they did their best.

Annabelle's fingers skim his hair again. "Not anymore."

He gags. The idle, lingering thoughts of Georgie, laughing together while they smoked, turn sour and his stomach rebels.

Annabelle titters. "Can't have you dying of something like cancer!" She sounds delighted as he searches for any other thought, trying to stem the uncontrollable nausea. "Imagine what the Eye would do!"

He eventually gets his stomach under control, too afraid to speak and unable to flee. One of the first things Gerry ever told him was that he would be safe from the other Entities at the Institute; it shouldn't be a surprise to learn that that, like so many other things, was a lie.

Annabelle taps him on the back, and he knows that it's exactly where the eye tattoo representing the Web sits. It sends an electric shiver up and down his body, and he sits up. Facing Annabelle now, she beams and sets something atop his head. "You left your crown at home."

Jon swallows back the anger and humiliation of her mockery as Annabelle stands and pulls him to his feet. Powerlessness should be a familiar feeling by now, but it still clogs his throat and burns in his chest the same.

Annabelle takes his hand and leads him out of the park, walking back toward the Institute. "Be sure you do tell darling Jonah to be more considerate of his allies."

Jon wants to get away from her, but he doesn't want to lose the freedom of a disinterested crowd.

The Institute looms up before them like a bad dream, and Annabelle releases his hand. "It was nice meeting you, Jon!"

His body continues forward, still not under his control, back into the Institute. The receptionist's desk is occupied now- Rosie, that's her name. She doesn't notice him until control of his body and voice returns in a rush. He tears at his head, pulling off the crown of clover flowers Annabelle wove while they sat in the park, and gasps, "Rosie," on the verge of tears.

Her head jerks up, her momentary joy at his presence evaporating into horror as she registers his expression- he must look terrible. He feels terrible, like he's a cloth wrung out, any shred of comfort or bravery he's managed to marshal since his kidnapping swirling down a drain. "Jon! What's wrong?" She leaps up, rushing around her desk to lay a hand on his shoulder, feather light, none of the presumptuous entitlement to his body he's experienced from so many cult members, from Annabelle. He finds a shred of comfort in that.

"She- The Web-" He's shaking. He feels distant from his body, from the room, from the world. Rosie's face immediately reflects all the horror he feels, and there's comfort in that, too.

"Come on," she soothes. "Let's get you back to your room, and I'll call- I'll call- I'll call someone." She doesn't know who exactly should be alerted to the Web encroaching on their territory. It's never happened before.

"Not Jonah." He doesn't think he could stand someone else acting as if his opinions on who gets to talk to or touch or control him don't matter, not right now. "Not now."

"Alright," Rosie coos as she leads him back into the hidden parts of the Institute. "Not Jonah."

"Not Gertrude," he whispers, and his voice breaks.

Rosie hums. "Let's get you settled, hm? Here." She takes his hand and rubs his fingers where they're clenched white-knuckled around crushed clover. "Where did this come from?"

"We went to a park," he says. The halls are just as empty now as when he left.

Rosie works the clover free and their hands drop. She doesn't let go, and Jon doesn't have it in him to mind. "Can you tell me who it was?"

Jon walks, no more aware of what propels him or where he's going than on his way out, and lets Rosie tease out the story a sliver at a time.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Thank you for the warning. I'm sure Jonah would have waited until the last possible minute to spring it on me, and I greatly appreciate the chance to prepare. It will be nice seeing you and Xiaoling again, at least.

We're busy with out own preparations for everyone's arrival, so I don't have time for a longer letter (especially since I'll see you in person soon) but I owe you one- and you know I don't say that lightly.

Sincerely,

Jon

24 October 2013

Chapter Text

Melanie is so going to gloat next time they meet up with Georgie for a What the Ghost? planning meeting. Georgie took one look at the Magnus Institute's bizarrely thorough application for researchers unaffiliated with an academic institution to get access to their library and declared that What the Ghost? can get on just fine without those resources, and gave Melanie skeptical looks every time it came up.

That's fine. They don't need Georgie to have access to the Magnus Institute's library. Technically, only one of them needs permission, but Melanie isn't about to miss out on any opportunity to get her hands on these resources, and getting Martin to apply along with her smoothed the whole thing over considerably. Melanie might care the most about the podcast's academic rigor- more invested in being seen as serious researchers than Martin will ever be, whatever his job title, and nowhere near as content to give in to campy spooks as Georgie- but she's the worst of the three of them at charming people into giving her what she wants. Martin was able to convince the Institute to accept their applications without answers to a couple of the more invasive questions, and came up with convincing lies for a couple of others.

Even if she'd had to answer all the questions honestly, this would be worth it. Any old university might have the sort of things she needs for What the Ghost? in their collection, but they're buried amongst every other subject, and only one or two of the most uncommon references would be in any single collection. The Magnus Institute was practically built for her purposes. She and Martin have only been here an hour and change and they've already found promising leads for the upcoming episodes on Highgate Cemetery, Black Eyed Children, and the Wollaton Gnomes.

The library is mostly deserted, a handful of frazzled looking grad students gathered around a table near the circulation desk and people with Institute IDs on lanyards darting in and out to hunt down a specific book or exchange a few words with one of the librarians. For the most part, they have the run of the place.

They're working their way back toward one of the study tables, away from the frantic whispering of the grad students, when they run into someone else who seems as engrossed in the library for its own sake as they are.

The man is short and slight, hair tangled into a sloppy bun at the back of his head and clothes rumpled like he didn't bother looking at what he was grabbing before getting dressed this morning. Between that and the weird tattoos poking out from under his clothes and the gold colored headband, she would've disregarded him as another grad student, maybe a newly hired professor given the gray streaks in his hair. Isn't that what uni is for, extremely specific and weird fashion choices incorporated into outfits barely a step up from pajamas? More notable, though, is the long-haired gray cat draped around his shoulders.

Melanie stares for a moment, trying to convince herself that she's seeing things, or it's an extremely realistic accessory, but then the cat shifts, rubbing its head against the hollow of the man's neck, and he reaches up absentmindedly to scratch it.

"This is a library!" she blurts.

The man startles, looking over at her owlishly. "Excuse me?"

Melanie grits her teeth. "This is a library. You can't have a cat here!"

He blinks. "Oh. No, the Baroness is allowed."

Melanie scoffs, insulted at the quality of the lie. "What kind of idiot thinks that's a convincing excuse?"

The man's expression flickers, and he buries his fingers in the cat's fur. "It's the truth. Ask any of the librarians if you want." He slinks away before she can answer, and Melanie turns on her heel, determined to take him up on the challenge. Martin trails behind her, chewing his lip the way he does when he wants to tell her to calm down but knows that doing that will only make her angrier.

"Excuse me," she says to the first person they run into with "Librarian" on their lanyard ID. She was looking for anyone official, but this woman's ID actually says "Head Librarian," which is even better. "There's a man with a cat here."

The woman peers at them, sizing them up rather than reacting with what Melanie would judge an appropriate level of shock and horror. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises. I'm revoking your access."

Melanie stares, dumbfounded. "Excuse me?"

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I'm revoking your library access," the woman repeats with a disapproving glare over the rim of her glasses.

She gapes, mind racing a mile a minute trying to figure out what could have possibly gone wrong. She'd gone over the rules with a fine toothed comb, and made Martin do the same to prevent exactly this and they hadn't even made it one day. "Why?"

Before the librarian can answer, the man with the cat rounds a corner. Anger rising, Melanie opens her mouth to demand to know why he isn't banned for bringing a cat, but the man speaks first. "Diana!"

The woman turns to him, keeping Melanie and Martin in her peripheral vision, expression instantly softening. "Jon. I was just asking these two to leave, they won't be coming back."

The man- Jon- adopts an earnest expression, hand running down the cat's dangling tail over and over. "You don't have to do that! I was actually just looking for them, we were having the most fascinating discussion, so I went to see which study room was open so we could continue in private."

"Are you sure? I heard what she was saying, Jon," Diana says in gentle tones, like she's talking to a frightened child.

"Absolutely," Jon says, shoulders squaring a bit. A glance to the side shows that Martin looks just as confused by the entire exchange as Melanie is. "Please don't make them leave."

Diana wavers, eyes darting back and forth, finally saying, "If you're sure."

Jon beams, and Diana practically melts. "Thank you!" He turns, beckoning them to follow. "Come on."

Not seeing much other choice, they do, and Jon leads them with confident strides through the winding shelves to a line of doors, opening one and holding it open for them.

The study room is so average it feels jarring after the strangeness of that entire exchange. Jon closes the door behind them, rocking back on his heels nervously. "I'm so sorry."

Melanie would like to yell at him for apparently being the reason they were nearly ejected- really, how does it make sense to kick them out for objecting to a cat in a library instead of him for bringing the cat- but holds herself back since he was also the one to stop that from happening. She has no idea what to make of any of it.

"Thank you," Martin says, blessedly taking over the interactions Melanie can't navigate as he always does. He really is the best employee ever hired off a fake CV. "We really appreciate it."

"Is that why you have the cat here?" Melanie asks without thinking. "Because the librarian has some sort of crush on you?" She refuses to wince as she processes how confrontational that sounded.

Jon grimaces. "Something like that. I can... I shouldn't leave too quickly, since I said I wanted to speak to you, but I can stay out of your way. I really am sorry."

Before Melanie can continue her interrogation, demanding to know why he's taking advantage of the librarian's feelings and why the hell her bosses haven't intervened, Jon shrinks into a chair in the corner, setting his stack of books beside him and burying his nose in the topmost one, and Martin pointedly sets his own stack on the table and grinds his heel into her foot.

Reluctantly, she takes a seat at the table with Martin and sets to work. By the time they're ready to leave, hours later, her ribs and foot are probably bruised from the number of times Martin has dug an elbow or heel into them, catching her before she can speak every time her eyes drift to Jon and annoyance bubbles up in her chest to demand answers.

Jon follows them out of the library, cat still draped around his shoulders, and sees them off with a theatrical smile, saying a bit too loudly, "Thank you for speaking with me, I hope I see you here again soon!"

Chapter Text

"Hello," he says. Martin nods and hums in return, careful not to be too loud (the reason Jon had to stop them being thrown out the second time). Melanie rolls her eyes, which just makes him smile more. He lost any anxiety that people might think he's annoying a long time ago. "What are you looking for?"

Martin starts whispering details, a bit too low to entirely make out. He gets the gist, though. Something about shipwrecks and ghost ships. He opens his mouth to say he knows exactly the book they need, but stops before he says anything.

He does know exactly the book they need. It's in the other Library.

He wavers, tearing through every detail about the book he can recall. He's fairly sure it's in the other Library because it has chapters helpful for research about other Powers, but he doesn't think that's the point of the volume. Some books end up in the other Library just because they're relevant often enough that make getting someone allowed in the public half of the Institute to go fetch them is inefficient, but they're still in the system that patrons here can look at, just marked as checked out or available through interlibrary loan, so they'll have to wait a few days and come back.

He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet, and nods to himself. He sets his own armful of books on the edge of one of the shelves; they'll be there when he comes back. The Baroness, irritably displaced from his shoulders, may not be, but she'll come find him when he's forgiven. Tibby starts winding around Martin's ankles, so he might have to coax her to pick somewhere other than Martin's foot to nap when he returns.

"I'll be right back," he says, only now realizing that the other two are looking at him like he has two heads. Oh well.

He smiles in answer to Rosie's, glad that she doesn't try to catch him in a conversation like some people do, just notes whether he's in this half of the Institute or not in case Jonah or Gertrude asks. He doesn't go above a fast walk until he's slipped through the hidden door crammed under the staircase. He doesn't want anyone thinking he's leaving the Library because Melanie or Martin chased him out.

Once he's in the main part of the Institute, he doesn't worry about appearances. Anyone who sees him sprinting full out for the Library will figure he'd be shouting if he was fleeing in fear, and aside from not wanting to leave the others waiting too long, it's the best way to ensure everyone who sees him knows he's on an errand. If he goes any slower someone might try to talk to him, and if that happens there's no telling when he'll manage to extricate himself.

He nearly topples skidding around a corner too fast, but makes it to the Library in good time. The Eye decides to be helpful, and offers him a route that gets him to the book he needs without getting close enough to anyone else for them to try to chat. Melanie and Martin are a novelty, and Jon interacts with them differently to anyone else; that's enough for errands to help them to be sped up rather than bogged down. For now, at least.

He doesn't run once he's back into the public part of the Institute, but only because there's only the lobby to cross before he's back in the Library. He does jog, though; walking to leave and hurrying to find them again is another way to communicate that he enjoys their company and doesn't want them booted out.

He's out of breath when he finds them, not quite out of the aisle where he left them and shooting confused and dubious glances at his abandoned books and the cats. The Baroness launches herself up and back onto his shoulders as he passes her perch, nipping his ear to show her displeasure. Tibby just looks at him with regal disinterest from her spot making sure Martin's foot doesn't blow away in the nonexistent wind.

He holds the book out toward Melanie, gathering his reclaimed reading to his chest and gasping for breath. "It was... Special Collections..." isn't technically an explanation, but he's hoping it bears enough of a family resemblance to go unchallenged.

Martin turns to look behind him, brows furrowed. "Isn't Special Collections...?"

The bit of this Library devoted to materials that are too fragile or unique to be left on the shelves, but which don't belong in the Archives is, indeed, in the direction Martin's looking. Willingness to benefit from Jon's ability to bend the rules at least heads off the additional fact that permission to access Special Collections as an outside visitor is even more difficult to get than gaining access to the Library.

Chapter Text

Martin glares at Melanie, because it's easier to act like her standoffishness pushed Jon close enough to the edge for his question to topple him over than to figure out how to fix it. How was he supposed to know Jon would react like this? Aren't pet owners supposed to like being asked for pictures? Georgie does!

Melanie ignores him, because she's made the more productive decision to try to get as much out of their current research material as she can, as quickly as she can. Jon isn't going to be dashing off to weirdly remote storage rooms on their behalf anymore. They'll be lucky if he doesn't retract his request that they not be banned.

If that librarian finds out they made Jon cry (or near enough), they aren't going to need to worry about being ejected from the library. They'll be lucky if she lets them leave alive.

He grudgingly moves to follow Melanie's lead. Better to assume that they don't have enough time in the Magnus Institute left to waste it with bickering. Either that's the case or he'll be pleasantly surprised. Like assuming that whatever medication the doctor says might help Mum is going to be less effective than a placebo, so he doesn't get caught off guard when it manifests horrifying side effects, or have his hope crushed when it doesn't turn out to be any more of a miracle cure than any of the dozens of others were.

Eventually, Jon starts to straighten up, not wrapped around the cat in his lap like it's the only thing keeping him from drowning anymore. The Baroness is rubbing her head against his cheek, which is more interest than Martin's ever seen her show for anything besides climbing her owner like a human cat tree.

Jon keeps his eyes on his lap and his arms around the second cat, seeming a bit blank. He lolls his head back, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answer to all his questions. He tips his face forward again and scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes, the tattoo on his palm meeting Martin's gaze. He squeezes the cat a bit harder before he asks, "Is there anything else you're looking for?"

His voice sounds rough, but his eyes aren't red or swollen. Martin doesn't think that the librarian will care about the difference between this and Jon shedding actual tears, but it makes him feel less bad, at least.

Melanie glances up, and her expression is back to being nasty even if she hasn't worked her way up to full force yet. Probably getting angry about being kicked out ahead of time. She doesn't say anything. Martin doesn't say anything. He has no idea what to say.

If they were closer, he wouldn't have to say anything. He could just wrap Jon up in a hug- already would have, as soon as he got upset.

It's completely inappropriate to think about how Jon would probably be a nice armful. Jon probably hates them now.

Jon's shoulders start to creep up toward his ears, and he bites his lip. Strangely, he seems to be taking as much heart from their awkward silence as he might have from actual comfort. He scoots his chair back up to the table and pulls a little notebook out of his pocket, paging through the first book on his stack.

Jon doesn't say anything. He doesn't stand, or leave, or shout for someone to come throw them out. Every time Martin dares to look up, he looks happier. Happy enough that the librarian might not realize he was ever upset at all. Imminent retribution- or arrest, he doesn't trust the librarian not to have them written up for trespassing if she ever has Jon in agreement that they shouldn't be here- seeming less and less likely, Martin's thoughts start to stray back toward other questions.

Jon is almost always here when they are, but he's been absent once or twice. He doesn't have an ID like the other employees they've run into, but his word apparently carries significant weight. He not only has access to the Library and, allegedly, Special Collections, but apparently wherever they keep overflow in storage, too.

Eventually Martin can't help but ask, "Do you... work here?"

Jon startles, looking up wide-eyed like he forgot they were there. Melanie adds Martin to her list of enemies and gets some revenge for all the times he's stomped on her foot to keep her from saying something rude to Jon.

"Er," Jon says, either genuinely surprised to find himself in company or far too confused about his own employment situation. "I... sort of?"

He looks frustrated at the answer; Martin shares the feeling. What does that even mean?

Before he can ask, Jon adds, "It's. I'm. There- it's, ah. A nepotism. Thing."

Melanie sighs loudly. "What, and no one above the librarian cares about you bringing multiple cats in here? Her boss can't possibly know."

Which is not at all the question Martin was going to ask. He might have been too slow choosing one to stop Melanie from reintroducing her favorite ax to grind, but that wasn't in the running.

Jon blushes. "No. I mean, yes."

Melanie doesn't bother to add words to the look she gives Jon.

Jon doesn't look cowed. He looks significantly happier than he was when Martin asked in the first place, actually. He takes a deep breath.  "I mean, it isn't Diana, it's... Elias."

Martin can practically feel Melanie's blank look melting as confusion gives way to annoyance.

Jon must see it, too, because he doesn't give her time to yell at him. "Dr. Bouchard, I mean. The Head of the Institute."

Martin's going to have to hear all about this once they leave. If this came up before they got into the habit of using the library here as a resource, Melanie probably wouldn't have tried to fight the ban, on the basis of one flaw in judgement reflecting poorly on choices about what materials to purchase and which are well below the bar expected of an academic library.

"You're kidding," she says.

Jon stares at the floor, some of the melancholy that had faded creeping back. "Wish I was."

Martin teeters between them, no more willing to pry at an obviously touchy subject than he is to endorse the preferential treatment Jon enjoys, at least not to the extent that Jon is able to grant them access and provide pretext for bans.

"So, what is he?" Melanie asks, tone going flat from being torn between curiosity and scorn. "Your uncle or something?"

Jon's face turns up again, but he doesn't look at them, eyes hazy. "Or something."

They don't get much out of him after that.

-

"What are you even here for in the first place?" Melanie demands the next time they see Jon. Martin's just glad that Georgie agreed with him enough to convince her to at least wait until they're tucked into the study room- apparently kept empty for Jon's exclusive use- away from prying ears.

Jon makes a questioning noise, looking up from the book he dived into the second he sat down.

"What's your job?"

"I don't. I. It's just sort of a package deal." Jon looks no less irritated at the inadequacy of his answer than they are, but Melanie never seems to notice things like that when it comes to Jon.

"A package with what?" Martin stomps Melanie's foot, but she pays him no heed.

"Just. The Institute." Jon's face stretches in a pained grimace.

"What, like you're written into the charter?" It isn't the right thing to say to make them both subside, but he is curious; every time this conversation comes up Jon's answers seem more bizarre, but he's so obviously uncomfortable with giving them that Martin isn't sure they're lies.

Melanie wheels on him. "He can't be written into the charter, the Institute was founded in the 1800s." It's missing some of the usual good-humor Martin's blunders are met with, some of the edge of an inside joke snarled in her bad mood.

"1818," Jon says under his breath.

It sounds automatic to Martin, something they weren't supposed to hear at all, but Melanie isn't interested in extending any such grace. "So? What does 'a package deal,'" she doesn't physically sketch the scare quotes in the air, but they're audible enough, "mean? Rich parents that donate money for you to run around pretending to be academic?"

"I'm an orphan, actually," Jon says dryly. Then, Martin could swear his face shifts not into annoyance but fear, something wounded and wanting, eyes fixed on Melanie like he's afraid of what she'll do.

It's gone in the next moment, as Melanie says, "Am I supposed to feel bad for you?"

"Melanie!" Martin interjects. She gives him a sour look, but also gives up on further quarreling, mouth twitching as she replays the interaction and bumps their shoulders together in acknowledgement.

Jon watches them like he's anticipating an apology, but before Martin can elbow her into it he seems to perk up, happier at its absence.

-

Martin is a few minutes late to their weekly planning meeting at Georgie's. When Georgie opens the door, he can hear Melanie already mid-rant, not even stopping while Georgie's out of the room.

"Interesting run-in with the Library Nemesis Tuesday?" she asks.

"Er, weird, mostly."

Georgie takes pity on him and takes some of the binders he keeps all of What the Ghost?'s metrics and planning information in so he doesn't drop his laptop. If Melanie weren't already consumed with an unsolvable problem to circle, she'd be breaking in right about now with teasing about how all the information there could fit inside his laptop and he wouldn't have to drop a binder on the way in every few weeks, to the considerable alarm of Georgie's neighbor down the hall who always pokes his head out his door to ask if they heard the "gunshot." Martin is in charge of the data inside, though, and he likes the old-fashioned physicality of the binders.

"-it was completely condescending, he's always so condescending!" Melanie shoots a look at Martin, as they enter the kitchen. He focuses on pulling out all the information for the meeting while she winds down. "And you're no help. Whose side are you on?"

She kicks his ankle, but her mouth is already twitching as she tries to stifle a smile. It's a well-worn subject, and without fresh material or the physical presence of the object of ire she always gets to laughing at herself before too long.

"I'm on the side of not getting kicked out!" he insists, per usual.

Melanie snorts. "I think you just want to suck up to him because you think he's handsome."

"Oh?" Georgie says before he can reply. "I haven't heard this."

"There's nothing to hear!" He crumples up a bit of scrap paper and throws it at Melanie's head. She dodges easily.

"I definitely heard you saying that he looked nice in that blue shirt a couple weeks ago," Melanie says.

Martin can feel his face getting hot; teasing each other about their dating lives used to be a lot more mutual, but the short-lived relationships breaking up bouts of Melanie and Georgie flirting with each other have vanished, and it doesn't seem right to tease either of them about it when he's friends with both, and when he knows that drawing attention to it would just set them spiraling into denial. He's spent the last few months very deliberately avoiding that; he's got plenty of material saved up for if they finally quit dancing around each other and start dating for real.

"Because we've never seen him dressed like that!" he insists, even though he's probably blushing enough to give away the game.

Melanie makes a frustrated noise, put off from teasing him. "That's another thing! That's the only time we've seen him dressed like that, because he's always wearing ratty band shirts and things! And a literal crown. A crown, Georgie! We've seen him dressed like a professional once and he works there and he was still wearing the crown."

"Maybe the Magnus Institute just has a loose dress code," Georgie says.

Martin shakes his head in time with Melanie, but doesn't take any rant material away from her. "We've never seen anyone else dress like that. And last time he admitted that he's there because of nepotism!"

Georgie hums curiously, pulling up her notes on her laptop.

"Technically he said he was a nepotism hire before that, last time he said he's 'a package deal' with the Institute," Martin says, because if they're going to talk about it anyway he desperately wants to hear Georgie's take on that little detail.

"What does that mean?" Georgie asks, successfully distracted from trying to pull the meeting on track via passive aggressive mouse-clicking.

"That's all he said!" Melanie half shouts, slumping into her chair, grouchy but spent. "That and that he isn't part of the Institute's founding documents because it was founded in the 1800s."

"Did he?" Martin asks, instead of pointing out the pointed eschewing of the more specific date Jon gave. "I think he just said what year it was founded, and then we stopped talking about it."

"So now he's a two hundred year old Library Nemesis," Georgie says, putting on the exaggeratedly spooky tone she usually reserves for the show.

Melanie's nostrils flare, but she lets the conversation die with, "If he's that old he should've died of smallpox before I had to deal with him."

Chapter Text

Jon waits until they're safely behind his locked door before slumping in on himself and throwing himself onto the couch, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Sasha!"

She snorts and hooks the circlet off his head to be put away. He interrupts his wordless moans and groans of distress with a grateful snuffle before continuing.

"Sashaaaaa!" If anyone else heard that level of distress Jon would probably be sleeping in a pile of people in the middle of the mess hall. Sasha considerately stifles her laugh.

"Jooooon!" she answers, pulling her pajamas out from the collection of clothing she keeps here for the nights Jon needs company. That role's fallen almost entirely to her lately, with Gerry and Michael absent for days at a time as Jonah makes a circuit of any university that will have him. They'll probably bring back a cluster of new converts; it's the right time of year to snatch up recent graduates, and this round of intense recruitment every few years is when prospects they've cultivated a relationship with over multiple visits tend to join. 

"Saaaaaashaaaaaaa!" Jon wails.

"Jooooooonnnn!" She grabs his pajamas and throws them at him before focusing on tying her hair back for the night. The shirt unwads itself and lands draped over Jon's head.

Jon sits up and squirms out of his shirt. The pajama shirt falls to the floor in the process, and by the time he's pulled his shirt mostly off, wrestled with the cuffs, pulled it back on so he can undo the wrist buttons, and then taken it off for good, Gerry Jr. has made himself at home on the pajama shirt. "Hey, no!" Jon says, voice back to normal.

Gerry Jr. doesn't budge. Jon stares at him blankly before standing to find the jar of treats so he can lure him off. On the return trip, he notices Sasha desperately stifling laughter before he sees the Baroness making herself comfortable on his pajama shorts. He looks at the single cat treat in his hand, then back to Sasha, then back to the Baroness. "You're all being so mean to me."

Sasha loses the battle for silence and slides down the closet door frame.

She's gotten a hold of herself by the time both cats have been coaxed away and Jon has successfully changed into the reclaimed pajamas. He celebrates his victory by throwing an arm melodramatically over his eyes and collapsing back onto the couch. "Sashaaaaa!!"

"What?" She plops down next to him hard enough to make him bounce.

He sits up and slumps into her side at a less hysterical angle, resting his head on her shoulder. "I saw Melanie and Martin today."

"Really?" She can usually tell when they've been in; Jon gets all bouncy and smiley. She wouldn't have guessed it today.

He hums and nods against her shoulder. "They're doing an episode on Bigfoot."

Sasha has thus far been entirely unsuccessful in finding out what Melanie and Martin make episodes of. It's a sanctioned use of her time in Research, since it pertains to Jon, but having nothing to go on but their first names hasn't been especially useful, and she still hasn't convinced Diana or any of her underlings to part with their access applications. Jonah and Gertrude have copies, but like everyone else they're keeping details close to the chest so they can conduct their own research. And somehow none of the security cameras are positioned to get a good look at the faces of people going straight from the front doors to the Library!

Jon is already using all the influence he feels comfortable with ensuring that the pair continue to have access to the Library, and no one has come up with a big enough favor to break the monopoly on details. Working in the Library doesn't leave much time for extracurricular research, so they aren't even making progress on their own! But she hasn't pushed, because she knows that Jon likes having that disadvantage, a normal sort of disadvantage.

"Are you upset because you don't like Bigfoot, or for another reason?" she asks. His hand lies lax and dangling on his knee; she laces her fingers through his, and he squeezes her hand.

"It's- nothing. It's probably nothing." It sounds like a very sad something, all the joking drama of earlier drained away.

"What is it if it isn't nothing?"

He sighs, and it sounds bad enough that she lets go of his hand and wraps an arm around his shoulders instead. His burrows into her, voice muffled into her shoulder. "Just... the way they look at me. The way Martin looks at me."

Martin hasn't been the topic of much discussion thus far. The thing Jon enjoys- and everyone else is variously bewildered and distressed by- about the visits is Melanie's unvarnished dislike. "How's that?"

Jon scoots closer to her, practically trying to fuse into her side. "It's... familiar. Maybe."

"Oh." She can supply the familiar elements on her own, and her heart aches for Jon.

"Maybe I'm just... being self-centered. It doesn't have to be that, does it? It could be- could be- well, something else, at any rate!" He jerks up, hands flailing in the air for a few moments before falling still. He buries his face in them.

"I don't think you're being self-centered," she says. "It might just be friendliness? Or he's happy to see you because you always help with their research! But I don't think it's your fault you're on high alert for... that."

Jon makes a noise in his throat she can't categorize definitively as a response or the beginning of a sob until his hands fall back into his lap and he leans his head against her shoulder again. "Melanie still hates me, at least."

"Well," if it weren't for Jon's prelude of distress, there would be laughter in her voice, "at least that's something."

"Mm-hm." He drags himself to his feet, grabbing her hand to pull her up alongside him. The cats gambol around their feet, trying to come as close as they can get to being tripped over before bounding away, all the way into the bedroom.

Curled up together in bed, the cats settling in around them and the lights off, Jon finally stops holding back his distress. Sasha holds him until he falls asleep, tears soaked into her shirt and standing in her eyes.

It isn't fair. Martin isn't Eye-inclined, as either servant or meal, that's one of the only things that anyone has to say about him. It shouldn't happen this way. Jon should have gotten normal flirtation, normal falling-in-love, before he came to them. One of the only things Jon had to say about Martin in the beginning was the shy admission that he wasn't bad-looking, back when he was safely out of the question enough for them to tease that opinion out.

-

She doesn't hear about the next developments from Jon. Martin and Melanie are back only a few days later, and then again the day after that. By then, approving whispers are circulating about Martin blushing when he saw Jon, and his eyes lingering when Jon  turned away.

Jon doesn't relay any of it himself. He just falls silent and small once they're in the privacy of his rooms and curls into her side when they go to bed.

She wishes she could make him feel better, but she just isn't positioned to do so. Gerry or Michael could back Jon up, but she can't go into that part of the Institute and they won't be back for days. She can't even properly write Tim or Danny for advice, since the mail's been paused until Michael is back.

just holds Jon at night and does her best to come up with distractions during the day, counting down the days until she has backup, if nothing else.

Chapter Text

The first time, Jon was positive he was imagining things. He's oversensitive to people going moon-eyed at him, and there's no reason to think that that wouldn't lead him to the wrong conclusions when applied to people unaffected by Beholding. But the same looks- mostly when Martin thought he wasn't looking- were still there the next time.

It's every time, now. Multiple times, every time he sees Martin and Melanie, he catches a glimpse of Martin looking entirely too happy to see him, or blushing, or Melanie giving him a knowing look and teasing nudge. They haven't made a point of it, haven't demanded Jon acknowledge anything, but it's there. Even Melanie is friendlier to him, in isolated moments when her dislike for him is outweighed by her desire to tease her friend.

It puts him back in a role he finds himself in all too often, flinching away and startling at other people, afraid of the lengths they might go to in the name of attraction. Just because Martin's never tried to touch him, or sit beside him instead of across the table, or hold him, there's no way of knowing that he won't. Beholding hates telling him that sort of thing. It can be prodded into it, sometimes, but hasn't divulged any extra information about the outsiders. It's holding a grudge, as much as it can be said to do such a thing, over Melanie's hostility, and knowledge with the potential to increase Jon's comfort around them isn't on offer. It still lets him know if they've arrived, sometimes, but its interest in them is fading.

The feeling of loss is wearing down something inside of him, something that he didn't even know he still had.

It's unfair. He wants this one thing for himself. He might not even have turned down Martin's interest, if they'd met before. He's thought that Martin is good-looking, and he doesn't know if that's why Martin seems interested now.

He hasn't acted on it yet, sure. But will he? Jon feels confident now, on the strength of his own perception and the rumors being spread by observers, that the interest is there.

What happens if Martin does make a move? What can he say? "Sorry, flattered, but I don't know if you're being influenced by the paranormal force that's obsessed with me"?

He doesn't like lying. If he has to turn Martin down, he'll have to lie. Not just that, he'll have to lie well enough to convince Martin that it's a definite no, too definite to be worth asking again.

He'll have to lie well enough to make that clear without driving them away completely.

He doesn't want to lose this. It's slipping through his fingers, it's less there every time Jon sees them, but it's something. Even if Melanie's dislike of him faded naturally, it would be real and his and completely separate from the cult. He loves Gerry and Michael and Sasha, but in a vacuum they wouldn't want to spend time with him. Maybe Martin and Melanie wouldn't, either, if he couldn't give them Library access and the occasional research lead, but it doesn't have to be that. They might be just as interested in being friends if he was getting them free drinks at a coffee shop instead. It's not the worst start for a friendship.

He has no idea how much his feelings show when he speaks with them. Everyone here is used to accepting the lie of his shakiest masks, and no one draws attention to any lapses if there's a sliver of an argument for any other cause. Sasha can't be trusted to point out his feelings creeping out of hand, because she knows him too well and because she knows what he is feeling and why.

Every time Martin and Melanie leave, he desperately wants to see them again.

-

The topic of the day for him is haunted houses. He lacks both the degree and the reliable peer review that are prerequisites to the sort of career he pictured himself having, but he ends up noodling away at papers all the same. They never leave his rooms, the illusion would be too cruelly shattered by people fawning over them like the drawings of a five-year-old of particularly sensitive temperament, but it's something to fill the days.

He has a good stack of books gathered and is just starting to debate sitting at one of the main tables where he'll have some warning about anyone entering the Library (Melanie and Martin, he hopes; Jonah, the precise date of his return this time unstated, he fears), ducking into his study room, or carrying everything all the way back to his rooms and making any arrivals moot.

It isn't hard to tell that Martin and Melanie have arrived, anymore. There's a tenor to the whispers that changes when they're around. He perks up in spite of his fears and starts peering down aisles trying to find them.

It doesn't take long. They spot him a second after he sees them; Melanie looks less irritated at his presence than usual, but that's not concerning today. None of the cats have followed him out.

It's difficult to decide which is riskier: letting his excitement show and possibly encouraging Martin's interest, or hiding it and getting them banned from coming back through lack of enthusiasm. The latter still feels like the worse prospect, but his smile is still a bit restrained. "Hello!"

"Hi," Martin whispers. Melanie looks at him sideways and grumbles.

"What are you looking for?"

Melanie sighs, louder than she needs to be. "We don't need your help. If you two want to flirt, do it somewhere else. I have work to do."

Martin turns, about to say something, but Jon's heart has already sunk as surely as a rock thrown into a lake. If it was anything else, he'd recover, be happy to hear it, but this...

"Oh. I'll just. Leave you two alone, then."

He ducks his head as he walks away, steps quick because the only thing worse than losing this would be Martin trying to paper over the remark by siding with him. If he does that, Jon can't pretend that Melanie's just in a particularly bad mood, and next time things will go back to how they were. He swallows tears. It's stupid that he feels like crying. He's an adult, he can handle rejection, he doesn't need everyone to like him and he doesn't need them to coddle his feelings.

He settles at the table closest to the entrance; he knows he's visibly upset, and he wants to be sure that they make it out again unmolested. He probably has a couple minutes to swallow all the signs of his upset before people start gathering.

Chapter Text

Melanie's furious. A quiet, out-of-the-way corner of her mind says that it's at herself, at how she can say all manner of awful things to Jon and he'll bounce back like she hasn't said anything but this, somehow, is what pushes him over the edge. She wasn't even trying to be mean this time!

It's easier to focus on that, that feeling that he overreacted; she wasn't trying to be mean. She was barely worse than she'd be comfortable being to any stranger. It was half genuine annoyance and half an attempt to either tease Martin or be his wingwoman, depending on the reaction. Where does Jon get off, acting like he's too good for Martin?!

Whatever the deal is with him and the Head, it certainly seems to incentivize the rest of the staff; as they leave the library after a chilly few hours of not-fighting, guiltily out of sight in the study room Jon always takes them to, they pass Jon sitting at a table, pretending to read while an entire fan club hovers around him. More than a few look more lovesick than Martin ever has.

Martin splits from her as soon as he can. Usually they end up over at one or the other's flat (or Georgie's, to her mock annoyance) after these trips, debriefing and hammering out the first stages of outlines they'll formalize at their official weekly meeting. She texts an apology as soon as she's home and can think through the wording.

Dots to indicate Martin drafting a response flicker in and out of existence a few times before she receives I'm not the one you should apologize to.

Before she can respond- or, being honest, quash her instinctual irritation at being urged to apologize to Jon- he sends another, I'm not OK with you using me to make him uncomfortable. If I decide to bring that up I'll do it on my own.

And she gets it. She does. She saw it as soon as Jon retreated. She knew going in that he was shy about things like that, as borne out by every time she's caught him catching Martin looking at him, or her teasing Martin about his crush.

Georgie, in one of life's great injustices, has suggested that the reason Melanie and Jon clash the way they do is because they're too much alike. It's with that in mind that she eventually settles on I'm not going to say anything to him if he seems to want to pretend it never happened, but if he doesn't I'll apologize. She wouldn't want to address it, days from now with all the feelings settled and the wounds scabbing over, if it was her.

Martin answers, Fine. Which is probably the best she can hope for until he's finished dwelling on the problem and ready to move forward. Pushing him to move past things like this before he was ready has come closer to ending their partnership than finding out he lied on his CV ever did.

-

Either Martin blabbed or Melanie failed to respond normally enough to evade notice when Georgie sent her usual text asking about the latest encounter with the Library Nemesis, because there's already food waiting when she arrives as Georgie's for their weekly meeting. Usually they graze on whatever's in Georgie's fridge, or someone (well, Martin) brings something homemade, or they order a pizza. Damningly, not only has Georgie preordered takeout, she's pre-ordered Chinese, barbecue, and Hungarian. The first two are presumably in consolation for the disaster at the Magnus Institute, and the third Georgie's consolation for having to deal with them.

Martin is already jabbing around with chopsticks when she arrives, and Georgie's lack of questions indicates that he definitely told her what happened. The only question is whether that happened over text or just now, while they were waiting for Melanie.

If it was anyone else, she'd be annoyed at being talked about behind her back, but Martin and Georgie know her well enough that she can't pretend the motive was nefarious; no one here will buy that she wanted to have that conversation herself instead of burying the memory until she has to act on it further.

They spend a few minutes eating in silence- work isn't an option; Martin's binders and all the electronics have been set well out of danger. Eventually, she accepts that they're going to make her set the tone, being friendly now or waiting until they can use work as a buffer, and she takes that as her topic. The argument that barbecue sauce doesn't actually present a significantly greater danger to laptops, papers, and so on than any food does- crumbs? Hello?- is a well-worn one, and they're back to normal by the time the meal ends.

As they go through the comments waiting to be resolved on this week's script, and then shift to the planning for the next few episodes, scripts and outlines in decreasingly finished states, she starts to remember how excited she is for what they have coming. They're in the midst of a batch of episodes that wouldn't be practical without access to the Magnus Institute- and, in a few grudging cases she decides she'll have to shell out a thank you for if he's still speaking to them, without Jon's help on top of that- and being able to get such large chunks of their research done in one place has them ahead of schedule.

With Jon stories out of the running this week and the rest of the most obvious non-work topics already exhausted while they ate, they finish faster than usual and earlier than planned. The conversation, unfortunately, turns where it always does when they have spare time: brainstorming.

Melanie hates brainstorming. Martin and Georgie like bouncing vague concepts and word association off each other, with Wikipedia and Google filling in when they approach a topic defined enough to have an actual name. Melanie would much rather do actual research on her own and come to the meeting with a plain list of suggestions, but the official planning discussion is a couple weeks away and she hasn't written one yet. She begrudgingly participates; it's as much an excuse to spend time together as it is a business necessity.

They've been doing well enough nailing down topics as they occur to them- another miracle of the Magnus Institute, tracking down citations as they come up and being able to take all the neighbors off the shelf as well, secure in the knowledge that very little there doesn't have some degree of relevance to What the Ghost?- so Georgie quickly brings out Melanie's least favorite method of brainstorming, which is already one of her least favorite things.

"It's... A," Georgie says a few moments after they fall silent waiting for an online generator to suggest a random letter.

Melanie groans. "We'll just sing the alphabet next time, shall we?"

"A..." Martin says. She generally assumes her griping will go unanswered during brainstorming sessions, and it doesn't actually bother the other two. "Abby?"

She gives him a Look. "Abby who?"

Georgie nods.

Martin shakes his head, waving a hand like he's erasing the question. "No, an abbey. The nun kind. Is there a haunted abbey?"

"Somewhere, probably."

"We just did Furness Abbey in February," Georgie says. Martin groans and leans back into his chair like he's been shot.

"Apparition?" Melanie suggests limply. Georgie shakes her head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like the answer's written there.

"A... a... aliens?"

"We are not doing aliens," Melanie says before Martin can answer.

"A specific alien," Georgie insists stoutly. "Alien story. Abduction. Whatever."

"No!"

She can see Martin writing it down and falls forward, letting her head clunk onto the tabletop. 

Georgie and Martin don't say anything before she recovers and levers herself upright again, both lost in thought. Melanie huffs. "Is there any alien abduction where the person didn't come back?"

"I mean. You wouldn't know, would you?" Martin says. "You don't know someone's been alien abducted until they come back and say."

"Mm-mm," Georgie says. She does that, brainstorming, like using real words in between ideas will make all her ideas run away. "There's that. What is it? The American thing?"

"...Does anyone else get alien abducted?"

"Yes!" Martin says, the intended question he's answering unclear. "With Bigfoot!"

She looks between them, her usual skepticism of these sessions entirely overtaken. "We're doing Bigfoot this week."

"It's not just Bigfoot!" Georgie says.

"Is Bigfoot an alien?" she asks, more to amuse herself until the others figure out what they're trying to remember than as a suggestion.

"It's- it's Missing something," Martin says.

"Oh!" She actually does know what he's talking about, now. "With the number!"

"Yes!"

They all fall silent, the truth having been approximated well enough for now. Eventually, Melanie asks, "Could we just do a missing person? Without aliens?"

"No," Georgie says.

"I mean- we wouldn't do anything that actually matters now. But someone probably went missing in a spooky way in the 1500s, or something."

"I think there's a Wikipedia page that lists that," Martin says, eyes fixed on the screen as he goes in search of exactly that. "Here: List of people who disappeared mysteriously."

"We could do the princes in the Tower," she suggests. It's not something they've really done before; the closest is the legendary and probably invented characters who are always supposed to have turned into ghosts, without an identity more specific than "mother" or "nurse" or "murderer" and occasionally a name that doesn't match with any surviving records, but it is the kind of thing they do, abstracted through enough time that the particulars are only barely better than legend and rumor.

Martin is scrolling, the wheel on his mouse clicking as he mouths things to himself. Georgie is sitting straight, jarred out of the loose posture brainstorming usually devolves to. "I don't want to do a missing person." It's at odds with how she was acting a minute ago, serious and subdued.

Martin looks away from his screen. "Georgie?"

"I just don't," she says, voice tight.

"Okay, we don't have to!" It comes out fast enough that Melanie's afraid it sounds aggressive, or annoyed, and something about the change in mood makes her desperately want to be heard as neither. "Sorry. We'll think of something else."

Georgie nods, but even after trying to change the subject, they don't get much additional brainstorming done.

Chapter Text

As soon as Martin and Melanie are out the door, Georgie collapses onto her bed. She clutches a pillow and tries to breathe.

She already feels like she overreacted. From a different angle the Princes in the Tower is exactly the sort of story they do. Without the preceding context, she never would have thought of vetoing it. Now, though...

Even that thought is tender, like the gums under a recently lost tooth. Actually thinking about calling the others, apologizing, looking at the suggestion as a whole again hurts. Bringing... bringing Jon that close to What the Ghost? hurts.

She stills thinks about him, but the thoughts started plaguing her around the time the show really started to take off. She scoffed at the idea that he had just wandered off, deliberately or because of some sort of breakdown, at the time. It was too unlike him. What the Ghost? is exactly the sort of thing he would have enjoyed, though. It was hard not to think of what he'd say if he saw it gaining traction, and from there it was a short jump to thinking of him out there somewhere with amnesia, but his interests unchanged, listening. Hearing her voice and remembering. Reaching out. Alive.

His disappearance, once she finally gave up on finding him alive, caused the worst relapse she's ever had. Having her hopes rekindled in some small way was terrifying. She's audibly subdued on the episodes from around that time, too consumed with the very real ghost living in her heart.

It isn't better the next morning. The shock and horror of having the topic broached, even obliquely, was too raw last night. It isn't until morning that she starts to cry.

She didn't know how to deal with it, at first. Alex is a name and a figure in a handful of photos and little more; even the good memories are dangerous. Georgie's tried to grant some sliver of the dignity of remembrance, but she just can't. The entire experience lives in the darkest corners of her mind, and she does what she can to avoid summoning it into the light.

She tried doing that with Jon, but it's different. Alex burned the emotions out of her; by the time Jon came into her life she was more or less a person again. By the time he disappeared, she was normal, or as close as she's going to get. She can tuck Alex away because so many of the emotional threads were severed.

She can let go of Alex because she had closure. She may not know exactly what happened, but she knows enough. Alex isn't coming back, dead or alive. She's decently buried in a cemetery somewhere, as many questions answered as can be.

She tried to handle Jon the same way, the first time he was pulled back into her thoughts after she was able to put herself together and try to live on. It didn't work. The feelings, the questions- it's all too much. Momentary recollection fades before too long, but anything as intense as last night won't.

Alex is buried at the bottom of her mind, but Jon lives in a box in her closet.

Figuring out what to keep and what to toss or donate was awful. She tried to restrict herself to a cardboard printer paper box she hunted up on campus somewhere, but she couldn't. At first, it was because the lease was up but the search wasn't, or at least not to her. She thought about renting a storage unit for a bit, but decided that she'd gladly replace the dull necessities if he turned up. If he came home, reoutfitting him with pants and linens and books would be a small price to pay, and she'd pay it gladly.

It was the right decision. She got to clear out the mass of possessions in the clean cut of moving instead of having to come back to them after giving up, all the life drained. She might still be renting a storage unit if she'd done that, or she would have had to miss too many payments at some point in the lean years after graduation but before the show paid decently, and some of the things she would be heartbroken to lose might have been auctioned off to a stranger.

It wouldn't have been so difficult, if there was anyone else. Jon didn't have a soul in the world left who wanted a physical memento of his existence aside from her. Pitching in as a friend to help a family member wouldn't have been so hard, because all of the decisions wouldn't have fallen to her.

She didn't manage the cardboard box, though. A big plastic storage tub isn't much larger, but it is a pain to take out or put away, up at the top of the closet. It's an awful lot of things to keep from an ex, and an awful few to be the sum remnants of someone who was vibrant and alive so terribly recently.

It's an old routine, now. The tub goes next to the coffee table, where the Admiral can supervise excavations. The contents are all taken out at once without looking at them, so that as she finishes with each item she can put it back and not think about any of it after that, because it's already put away in the tub instead of scattered around the room.

There's a four-inch ring binder at the top that comes last of all. It's all the news clippings reporting the disappearance, copies of the different posters she put up with the dates they were current noted on the back, condolence cards and notes from various people, the notes she took on every rumor anyone would offer, no matter how absurd, printed out emails between her and the police. She was thinking of throwing it out, but before she could she ended up looking at the University and local newspapers researching an episode, and discovered that all the issues from the time of Jon's disappearance were left out of the digitized record. She had to pull the bin down and tear through the binder, terrified that the contents would have somehow disappeared as entirely as their subject.

They'll get to that part of the digitization eventually, but she won't be throwing out her copies. She needs to know she always has ample evidence that Jon existed, that she knew him, that other people were as baffled by his vanishing as she was- as she is.

Going through all the accumulated sentimental miscellany doesn't take as long as it used to. The Admiral draws out the process significantly, as he thinks anything soft and on the coffee table is intended as a bed for him. She doesn't move him; it would feel wrong, something Jon never would have done himself, and wouldn't have let her do without significant displays of offended judgement. The Admiral can't hurt them, so long as she keeps an eye on him. They stopped smelling like Jon's aftershave a long time ago.

She has the bottle of aftershave, too, but it smells off. The residue on the outside of the bottle has made it gummy and foggy over the years, and the scent wasn't intended to last this long. She could buy another bottle, but it would feel wrong. It would be the same scent, but it wouldn't be Jon's.

Maybe if she ever does go looking for the same aftershave they'll have discontinued it or changed the formula, and she'll regret the decision. But maybe no aftershave then will hurt less than the thought of new, untouched aftershave does now.

At the top of the bin, there's a big ziploc bag. When she threw out all the things she couldn't keep, the pants and socks and everyday clothes, she kept a set of entirely unsentimental, normal clothes. The bag has changed when it's gotten torn or stained or lost its seal, but the writing on the outside hasn't. Every year on the anniversary of the disappearance, she pulls it out and sends everything inside through the wash. They used the same detergent and fabric softener, and she uses the full amount of both for the small load because Jon liked when his laundry was fresh enough to smell like them.

She washes them any other time the tub comes down, too. She cut the part of the original bag she wrote on out when she had to replace it, and the penultimate thing she does when she puts Jon away again is slide a clean, neatly-folded outfit into a bag with a block-letter label written when she still believed it taped to the outside, "FOR WHEN HE COMES HOME."

Not everything is so fraught; some of what she saved, she saved because of Jon's attachment to it rather than her own. She checks those for damage and puts them back into the bottom of the tub.

She intends to have the bin closed and back in her bedroom, even if she doesn't manage to get it back up to the top of closet by then, before their weekly meeting. But then the power goes out for several hours, and she spends most of it trying to track down the landlord or the utility company for an estimate of when it'll come back on and coming up with a list of places she could go to charge her phone if it doesn't. By the time it does, it's been long enough that she has to restart the laundry and go do enough shopping to have milk in the morning, and the bin completely slips her mind.

-

She doesn't remember everything's still out until Martin arrives for their meeting and his gaze sticks on the unfamiliar element. "Er, was that because your power went out?"

Turning expecting to see him looking at a mess the Admiral managed to make between Melanie coming inside ten minutes ago and now and finding Jon spread over the room feels like she's been hit in the chest.

Melanie comes over to see what they're looking at before Georgie finds her voice, and at that point they're both giving her worried looks and it's easier to just explain.

She falls onto the sofa like a felled tree, arms wrapping around her middle without much thought.

The others creep over to join her, stepping like they're afraid that sudden movements might scare her away. Staring in front of her, trying to think about how to say anything to people who never knew Jon, she doesn't remember the laundry until they're already seated, Martin beside her and Melanie cross-legged on the floor in front of her.

She jumps to her feet, swaying in place as she says, "I'll- one moment." She races to find the clothes before the others have time to respond.

It's easier, when she gets back to her place next to Martin. She can look down at the table without it being awkward, and speak while she folds the clothes.

"I... Last week," she settles on. "I need to apologize. I didn't mean to be... harsh, it's just..."

"It's your show, too," Melanie says. "You're allowed to veto things."

It makes something twist in her chest. "Still. It was. Intense."

"Don't worry about that," Martin says.

Georgie manages to gasp in a breath and she can see the others leaning in, in her periphery. She's not the only one who noticed how close it sounded to a sob, then.

She's never told anyone all of this before. At least... not after giving up.

"When I was in uni," finally getting somewhere, the words trip on each other's heels in a torrent of speed, "I had a boyfriend. We- we broke up before graduation, but neither of us liked living with strangers and we stayed friends, so we kept our flat together. Readjusted our spending so we could afford to have him move into the other bedroom instead of having a third flatmate. He-"

The clothes are folded. She searches for a lopsided crease, but they're folded. She really has to choke back tears now, as she slides them into the bag with her hopeful message on the outside, from when she was determined and angry and sure she'd get him back. The bag goes into the bin, and the pair of shoes she kept goes next to it.

Martin has started to sneak his arm around her, so when she sit up straight again it's into a hug. She scrubs her arm over her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"There's- the binder," she says. Melanie quickly retrieves it from the remote corner of the coffee table and hands it to her. Georgie takes another deep breath. "He- The fall of our last year, the year we were going to be friends instead of a couple, there was a guest lecture we both wanted to go to."

They were both supposed to go. He wasn't supposed to be alone, and maybe if he hadn't been he'd still be here.

"You don't have to tell us if you don't want to," Melanie says, but it just proves that she has to. If they think she's upset because of something Jon did... she doesn't want anyone thinking of Jon like that.

"It's fine. I- I didn't end up going. I realized at the last minute that I had completely forgotten a- a stupid history essay. Jon went to the lecture by himself and he-e-e," she sniffs, nose clogged and voice failing, "didn't come back. He never came back."

She lets herself relax into Martin's side. Melanie's moved closer, looking up from where she's practically sitting on Georgie's feet.

Georgie opens the binder. There are big, opaque dividers at the front and back so she doesn't have to see what's clipped into the rings.

She had an awful scare with a cracked phone screen; she was so panicked that she could lose all the photos of Jon she had- that practically anyone had- that she ordered physical copies of all of them. The digital ones are saved a few places, just in case, buried deep in other files so she can't come upon them by accident, but she's glad to have the physical copies.

On the first anniversary, after the vigil she organized, one of the last times Jon garnered any press, she came home and went through all the photos, writing the date they were taken and where and why on the backs. Some of the details of her memories have faded with time, but her handwriting is as stark and clear as it was that day. She usually goes through them in whatever order they're in, doesn't bother to organize them beyond splitting the stack in half so that she can use both pockets on the inside of the binder's covers. Today, she just holds the complete stack in her lap, looking down at the one that happens to be on top.

It's her and Jon at a Halloween party, having taken a loose interpretation of "couple's costume" to dress, respectively, as Sigmund Freud and Marie Curie as part of an inside joke she only half remembers.

She manages to swallow her tears enough that when she breaks the waiting silence her voice doesn't shake. "It took- I don't know how long. Before I realized that he wasn't coming home. I thought that he was sleeping late or leaving early and we were just missing each other. We didn't have any classes together. And then I looked in his room to see if he was missing our movie night because he was sick, and it was empty. The bed was made but the jacket he had asked me if he should wear to the lecture was still where he left it on the bed. And then I had to call around to everyone to see if they knew where he was. And then I had to talk to the police and they didn't believe me that it was serious!"

She pants with remnants of rage at the thought of the delay, first from her and then from the authorities, meaning that traces that could have located Jon were already gone by the time anyone was seriously looking for him. "They said he probably went home for a family emergency, or was out partying somewhere, or just didn't want 'his clingy ex-girlfriend' knowing where he was. But he didn't have any living family, and he only really went to parties when I was going too because they made him anxious, and if he wanted me to leave him alone he would have just told me."

She shuffles the Halloween picture to the bottom of the stack. The next is of Jon with his arms held out at his sides looking down at himself with disgust, having tripped face first into an impressively large mud puddle. The next after that is Jon with a cat in his lap at the shelter that let volunteers play with the animals, where they always made each other go when they noticed stress that was becoming unmanageable. She puts the binder and photos on the coffee table and starts wiping her eyes with both hands.

She sniffles. "They never had any real leads, even after I made myself enough of a nuisance that they started taking it seriously. People saw him at the guest lecture, and a couple more saw him walking home. They had CCTV practically all the way to our door. He just... never made it back inside the flat. Vanished into thin air. So I- I reacted badly. When you suggested doing missing persons."

"God, Georgie," Martin says, squeezing her. She leans into it, lets herself turn so that she can wrap her arms around his neck and bury her face in his jumper.

"That's awful," Melanie agrees, voice faint.

"I'm sorry for- for being a mess, right now," Georgie tells Martin's collarbone. "I was planning to have everything put away before you got here, but the power and- and-"

"Don't apologize for that," Martin says sternly. He holds her tight and rubs soothing circles on her back.

She shudders her way through a bit more crying before sitting up. Melanie has the binder open in her lap, paging through the clippings, the photos next to her knee. She quickly puts everything away when she sees Georgie's collected herself, handing her the binder so she can set it in the tub.

"Do you want help putting that away?" Martin asks softly.

"Yes, please. You're- you're taller than me." It almost manages to be a laugh. Almost.

Chapter Text

Georgie doesn't seem to notice anything off, but she's probably not at full capacity after their conversation about Jon. They're just lucky that she was too busy crying to notice the silent conversation occurring under her nose.

Melanie doesn't think she's ever been angrier. She was practically shaking as she looked through Georgie's grief binder. There are dozens of news clippings inside, all sorts of press making it very clear that Georgie was the main voice calling for an investigation, that she was the one organizing candlelight vigils and search parties and Facebook pages while still doing all the coursework to graduate on time.

She's been frantically trying to remember if they've ever mentioned Jon's name to Georgie before. Because it is Jon in the photos, Jon from the Magnus Institute, the same man they've been joking about for weeks. It's all she can do to stifle her feelings long enough to make it through the half-hearted meeting to make sure that they can record as scheduled later in the week and make sure Georgie's had tea and sympathy and dinner, with a bubble bath running and a carton of ice cream Melanie ran out to get and a promise to go straight to bed afterward before they let themselves be shooed out.

She doesn't think she would have made it through without the ice cream. She ran all the way there and back, pounding her feelings into the pavement until she was sure she could keep them hidden from Georgie. For the moment.

Because there will be time to let Georgie know just how angry she is- they both are- on her behalf. It won't happen until after they're sure it's the same Jon, and not some awful coincidence that Georgie's ex-boyfriend has a perfect doppelganger, but it will happen.

She's almost positive that Georgie doesn't know their Jon's name. Not that she would lie about something like that, Melanie doesn't think her reaction could have been faked and Jon isn't exactly a unique enough name to be immune to coincidence, but it's... something. It's something that they came back from the Magnus Institute the first time with complaints about "some guy" with a cat, and subsequent encounters remained about "that same guy" until Georgie started calling him the Library Nemesis instead, too early in their acquaintance for Melanie or Martin to have bothered reporting his name. It matters.

They go straight to her flat from Georgie's without discussing it. Martin's walls are thinner and his neighbors are more prone to complaining about any kind of noise. He's better at hiding it, but she knows Martin's equally enraged, all thought of crushes forgotten.

Georgie thinks he's dead, and he's right here in London bringing cats into libraries and letting people develop crushes on him.

Martin, because he is wonderful, gets them their own carton of ice cream from her fridge without being asked. Then they decamp to her bedroom, where they can flop on her bed and be safe in the knowledge that it's practically a bunker. It was where they recorded What the Ghost? until Georgie was able to move to her current flat and outfit the spare room with a proper recording setup.

"It's him, right?" she asks. She's never judging anyone for carrying a purse again. Sure, everything she needs fits in her pockets, but that's all. Stealing a photo from the stack without Georgie noticing, and getting it out without creasing one of the few mementos she has of her dead or lying ex-boyfriend was all but impossible. She ended up sliding it between the couch cushions next to Martin while Georgie was crying on his shoulder, so as soon as she was finished he could slip it into the pocket of his hoodie.

He riffles through the binder he keeps the show's metrics in. He always brings it, but they don't usually use it much, and he was able to hide the photo more safely in the pocket of one of the section dividers, out of sight. When he finds the right divider, he holds the photo out to her.

She picked it because it has Jon and Georgie both clearly visible, no costumes, no face paint, no obstruction or weird expressions. It's just the two of them, extremely recognizable, sitting next to each other at some sort of awards dinner. They both have name tags on lanyards- the same sort of tags and lanyards everyone working at the Magnus Institute except Jon wears- with their names mostly visible, though it's not clear enough to read what they're being honored for, just that it must not be an award specific to the school, Oxford printed under their names and above the tiny unreadable details. They must have had whoever was seated across from them take the picture.

It's just as damning here as it was at Georgie's. "That's him, right?" she asks again anyway.

"Yeah," is all Martin says.

It is. It has to be. Five years has meant a lot more premature gray for Jon- though the excuse that he must be older than Georgie's Jon would be doesn't hold, because it's already there in the photo- and he has longer hair and tattoos now. But the face is the same. She doesn't think that there are any exculpatory excuses in the comparison between Georgie's neatly business formal boyfriend and the band t-shirts and sloppy buns and crown they know.

Martin takes the picture and turns it over, reading whatever notes Georgie wrote there. Melanie starts combing through her mental schedule for times that they can camp out at the Institute and see if Jon shows. She doesn't think this is information either of them is comfortable letting wait.

-

The plan of attack they eventually settle on is to act like nothing is out of the ordinary. The photo is tucked into the notebook she's been working out of when they're at the Magnus Institute. They'll be there more frequently than they otherwise would be, but no one needs to know anything other than that they have a lot of research to get done. It shouldn't be a noteworthy difference, they've been there with varying frequency; Melanie's just glad that they haven't established a pattern of being there only at specific regular times.

She feels absolutely no regret over the plan for when they get hold of Jon. They're only going to confront him at the end of the visit, cramming in as much research beforehand as they're able. If anything is going to get Jon to ask for them to be banned, this is it.

It also means she knows ahead of time that they aren't going to confront him where other people could overhear, which is easier than making that decision in the moment. It still feels like people are looking at them, like they suspect what they know.

It only takes three days for Jon to show, though.

Chapter Text

Jon is disappointed when the gossip spreads enough for him to know that he missed Melanie and Martin visiting. Jonah is back from his most recent recruitment trip, and Gerry and Michael with him. It feels safer to take advantage of having permission to be in the public part of the Institute when Jonah is gone, and the feeling is only intensified by having someone to actually see there. And he wants to spend as much time with his friends as possible before they leave on the next leg of recruitment.

He isn't sure if he wants Gerry or Michael to do anything about the visits, so it isn't so bad. Sasha is easy; she can't come into the Institute's public face, so she can't do anything about Martin and Melanie, so he doesn't have to decide if he wants someone he trusts to observe how they act and either confirm or deny his fears about Martin, or to talk to them, or do nothing at all.

Martin and Melanie hardly ever come two days in a row, so he doesn't go looking. Someone must have disrupted communication at some point, because usually if they show up he knows even in the back, from the uptick in gossip, but he doesn't find out until it's too late.

Jonah leaves the next day, and Gerry and Michael with him. Melanie and Martin have never come three days straight before, but Jon wanders out into the public side anyway. He even leaves the cats; if Melanie and Martin come, they probably have enough research done for Melanie to storm right back out if she sees the Baroness around his shoulders. He expects to be disappointed.

He isn't!

Things have been a bit strained since he ran away from them, but none of the awkwardness rekindles this time. Melanie looks at him like he's the last person on Earth she wants to see, and none of the worrying signs in Martin are there. He's all but jumping for joy as he helps them track down useful books on half a dozen different subjects.

"We're doing a lot of planning right now," Martin explains. "Since we're finishing with the first batch of things we were able to research here."

Jon is just happy they're here. He pulls reading for himself practically at random so he can follow them into the study room and be in the presence of people without anyone staring at him. He's looking for something new to research anyway.

No one talks, or flirts, or stares. Neither of them are there because they feel like they ought to be, or because he's an emotional mess. It's wonderful.

-

He smiles to himself when the close of the business day draws near and he starts sorting his own stack of books into those he's finished with and those he wants to take back to his rooms in anticipation of Melanie and Martin leaving. He lingers as they start putting their own things away; he usually walks them out to make sure they get there without incident. They don't have to take anything from the room but their personal possessions; someone saw Jon trying to move books out of the room to be reshelved, enough of them to be a hassle, and the next time he came into the study room a book cart with one of the notices marking places to put books to be returned had silently appeared.

Instead of heading out, Melanie sets her notebook back on the table and takes out something inside. When she turns to him, her eyes ought to set him on fire.

"This is you, isn't it?"

He takes half a step back to look at the photo thrust toward him, heart skipping at the thought that they know who he is. How? Where? Are they going to try to take it to the police? He can't let them do that, if they do that Jonah's contacts with the police will tell him and Jon has no idea what would happen if Jonah had pretext to ban them or hurt them or who knows what.

It is him. He recognizes the picture. It's Georgie. His eyes sting. He remembers the picture being taken. There had been four of them together on a group project, and the professor liked it so much she told them to polish it up a bit and submit it to an awards committee. They had nothing to lose, so they did. Being encouraged to submit could be a decent accomplishment to use applying for jobs or internships or whatever on its own.

When they found out their project won (what was it on? So much of uni is gone, it's been so long. He couldn't bear to think about it and now vast swathes of his life before the Institute are missing from his memory) they'd all been in a tizzy over what to wear to the awards dinner. One of the other people in the group had parents who bought her outfit for her, and the other got a check as a congratulations from his grandparents and spent some of the money on clothes for the ceremony, but Jon and Georgie didn't have anyone who could give them that kind of money on short notice, now matter how happy they were for them.

They ended up going to every charity shop they could get to without spending so much on the fare that new clothes would be cheaper. He did alright, just had to find a suit jacket that fit well and trousers that matched it as closely as possible. They didn't hang quite right, after he used long-buried memories of Gran making him learn how to sew to take them in, but with the jacket on you couldn't really tell.

Every single women's suit they found seemed to be made of a different fabric, far more variation than there were in the men's. Georgie tried to find one in the men's instead, but the cut was wrong for her and they all looked more disheveled than professional. He ended up picking out the entire lining of her eventual choice's jacket, which gave her just enough give to be able to move her arms without seams audibly tearing.

"Where did you get that?" he manages to ask.

"She gave it to us!" Melanie snarls.

He looks up to meet her eyes, feeling like he's been plunged into ice water. "You know Georgie?" His voice sounds very small, but he can't tell if that's because of the ringing in his ears.

"She thinks you're dead," Melanie says, stepping into his space to stab a fingertip into his chest.

His breath comes fast. Is his face flushed? Is he shaking? He can't tell. 

"She can't come here." Melanie looks ready to retort, with Martin's unfriendly face behind her, but he doesn't give them time to speak. "She can't come here. Please don't let Georgie come to the Magnus Institute. Please, Melanie."

"I don't let my friends think people are dead who aren't."

He shakes his head. They have to leave soon, someone might come to remind them the Institute is closing and hear, they're going to tell Georgie and everything he went through to keep her away from Jonah and the Eye and the cult is going to be for nothing. 

"She can't come here," is all he manages to say.

"You owe her an explanation," Martin says.

Jon shakes his head; he doesn't disagree, but he can't seem to do anything else. "I'll give it. Just- just don't let her come here. She can't come here."

"Why?" Melanie says. "So your boss doesn't find out what kind of person you are?"

He swallows. She's going to storm out, he can see her twitching toward the door, and if he says the wrong thing she'll bring Georgie here. "I'll explain what happened to Georgie." He's tried not to think about what she must think for a long time, but it's worse after all this time than it was when he was picturing her showing up like his knight in shining armor. "Afterward, if you want to tell- tell Elias," he almost slips and calls him Jonah and if that happens they'll think he's lying and- "you can. If Georgie wants to tell him, you can. But Georgie can't come here. I'll- Anywhere else. I'll meet you anywhere else."

He'll find a way. He might get dragged back here by police, but he'll do it.

"There's a cafe with outdoor tables about a block away," Martin says. "You know the one?"

"I'll find it." He's too relieved to think about how strange he must sound to them.

"Right." Martin gives him a doubtful look. "Well. Turn left out of the Institute's front doors and it's the first place with outdoor tables you'll see. Noon. Tomorrow."

He doesn't say or else, but he might as well. "I'll be there. I promise. Just don't let-"

"That's her decision," Martin cuts him off. "Be there tomorrow, and we won't bring her here."

He nods. He might cry. "Thank you."

They leave him there, chest heaving and head buzzing and terrified.

-

When he collects himself, the lobby is dark. If he doesn't get moving someone's going to track him down for dinner. If that happens, Gertrude might decide that Melanie and Martin pose enough of a problem to deal with or report to Jonah. If Jonah finds out, he might cut his trip short.

He makes it to dinner. Sasha looks at him a bit oddly, but no one else seems to notice anything amiss.

She tries once, safely sequestered in his rooms, to ask if anything happened, but doesn't press when he pleads exhaustion. That's a good sign, at least; if he isn't off enough for Sasha to push the matter, it's much less likely he was off enough for anyone else to notice. It may be a cult all about finding things out no matter how badly someone wants to keep them hidden, but people can be very willing to accept the picture they want to see.

He waits until he's sure Sasha is asleep. It feels like a rotten thing to do, but this is something he needs to do on his own. He slips out of his rooms barefoot and bareheaded.

The chapel is eerie in the dark. There's enough moonlight to come down like a curtain through the dome, but it's nothing to what things look like in daylight. Jon perches on the edge of the top row. It's wider and steeper than the other stair stepped levels; its purpose is practical, and anywhere else there would probably be a railing to keep people away from the edge, where it plummets to the first row of actual seats. Those seats are the most worn; the upholstery was replaced around the time he was kidnapped, but the flooring and solid parts show the wear. His friends say that these used to be the most sought after seats, up where you can see everyone else in the chapel.

Now the most sought after seats are the ones at the front, particularly those near the "box" put into the front row in renovations, where he and Gertrude and additional babysitters- usually Gerry and Michael, but often someone Jonah wants to particularly reward as well, to keep him and Gerry from getting comfortable enough to start whispering mockery to each other- sit when the event of the day doesn't revolve around him. Usually Signings. Jonah was smart enough about how horrified Jon was when he found out about them to avoid involving Jon in the ceremony. He probably can't convince the teenagers Signing not to, but if he had a public outburst he might sway the children too young for their Signings or those already inclined to rebellion.

(He wouldn't. Danny was still largely loyal to the cult when he broke Jon out, he just didn't think what they were doing to Jon was right. If he was still that loyal, no one who doesn't want to hear it is going to note Jon protesting as anything worth listening to, rather than a sign he's ill or stressed or confused. Jonah is skilled enough to pin Jon into unavoidably bending to his will; he doesn't expect a fourteen-year-old to do any better.)

(There's always a meal after a Signing, and the honoree gets to sit up at the high table with Jonah and Gertrude and Jon. He hates it. It's sickening. It's the first time in their lives that they've felt what Beholding wants them to about Jon, instead of just knowing the dogma. Knowing intellectually that he's the subject of innumerable first crushes is bad enough without seeing it up close. Small mercies, they're usually too overwhelmed and starstruck to say much, and the chatty ones can usually be diverted by asking a few basic questions about their interests and letting them ramble. He'll take adolescent passion for cooking and research and the color aquamarine over the handful over the years who refused to adopt a topic other than him any day.)

He stares up at the dome, the enormous green eye staring down from it, color washed out by moonlight. He swallows nervously. He rubs the tattoo over his heart without thinking. This seemed like the most appropriate place to do this, but that doesn't make the shadows stretch less ominously or the quiet fall less dissonantly on his ears.

"Please," he's never done something like this, so uncomfortably close to prayer, but he needs this, "please let me meet them tomorrow. I'll be straight back, I won't go anywhere you can't See me. I'll come back, just please let me go without sending everyone chasing after me the second I step outside."

He swallows again and wipes a hand over his eyes, trying to banish the harbingers of actual tears before making unsettling eye contact with the sky again. "Please let me go to see Georgie. I'll come back. Please, just let me have this one thing." He pauses, catches his breath, knows he'll probably regret it but has to say, "I'll do anything you want when I come back. I- anything."

His skin crawls the way it always does when the Eye is particularly active. It seems to intensify until it almost burns, then turns chilly the second he thinks as much. It's probably the closest to a response he's going to get.

He wipes away the tears he couldn't quite stop and looks down, almost shy. "Thank you, I suppose. I hope."

-

When he wakes, it's early enough to spend some time perched in his window seat watching the sunrise. It's a clear day, though he's completely lost his sense for how warm it might be outside. A convenient time of year for a meeting in an outdoor seating area, he supposes. He doesn't know why that was what they chose, but it's lucky for him. Being outside is something, at least; he's afraid that he might get lost, or going into another building might be what sends the cavalry on his heels.

He cuts things as close as he dares. He manages to pretend everything is normal to Sasha and everyone else all morning. He spends some time with the cats before closing the hatch that lets them leave his rooms and going. He doesn't know what, if anything, will come of his promise last night, but he has an idea of how Jonah might react to him leaving the Institute; better to spend time with the cats while he can. He works his way lazily toward the public Library. By the time he leaves, he'll have faded out of Rosie's memory enough to slip out.

It's difficult to keep himself from checking the clock so many times it draws notice, but he thinks he manages. The public Library, at least, is less fraught than the hidden one. Being cleared to interact with the public, as little as that actually happens, means being able to pretend to be normal, a skill most assuredly not prerequisite to the other Library. If he settles down he still tends to draw a bit of a crowd, but Diana is able to keep them from actively following him around.

His disguise feels a bit silly, but he couldn't think of any other way to minimize his risk of being noticed. It's just a hoodie, one that he wears often. He's lucky that Jonah had to let him have real shoes instead of slippers at the same time he decided Jon could go into the public half. Institute reputation is exactly that much more important than controlling Jon. That and Gerry was going to get Jon shoes if Jonah didn't.

He doesn't put the hood up until he's nearly ready to go. Doing it simultaneously is too risky when any change in state gets disseminated, and often peered in on, almost instantly. He's already more conspicuous than he wanted to be; he was almost immediately asked if the cats are alright, since he didn't bring any yesterday, either, and barely managed to extricate himself from the conversation politely. At least he has a good sense of how often he needs to pick up books and how broad their subject matter needs to be to keep anyone from approaching him. Too infrequently, and someone will ask if he needs any help. Too specific, and he'll have at least one person come to tell them they know just the book for his research on graveyard ghosts, even if the book they recommend is actually about castle ghosts. Too broad, and they'll decide he's just reading for enjoyment without a specific end in mind, and he'll gain an entirely different set of recommendations of their favorites. He's more deliberate about his choices than he was with Martin and Melanie yesterday, but only just.

He's too recognizable. Bad enough everyone is on high alert for him, but he isn't allowed outside his rooms without a bullseye in the middle of his forehead. A hood is a cliche disguise, but unless he was going to acquire an even more ridiculous hat in less than 24 hours it was the only option.

Rosie, god bless her, takes her lunch break fifteen minutes early. If someone alerts the powers that be to the sticky notes correcting her "at lunch from 12-1" sign, he's going to have to become her best friend to keep her from being punished for it. If he's still allowed to talk to people after this.

He's walked all the way up to the doors most times Melanie and Martin leave, but he hasn't actually gone through since the Web steered him into a meeting with Annabelle Cane. It's terrifying.

He walks close to the buildings, with his head down. He must look suspicious, but he's afraid that being any less careful will have him spotted and dragged back before he gets to his destination. He follows Martin's directions, such as they are, and tries not to run. Maybe if he gets close enough for them to see before being yanked off the street and back to the Institute they'll all put a little more stock in his pleas to keep Georgie away.

Probably not. Georgie's never had a problem calling for a manager when something was wrong, whether it was done by the employees or to them, and she was equally fearless with professors and administrators. If she's as concerned about the Magnus Institute as she was about getting kicked out of Oxford... once, a series of loaded pauses, her expression, and a slight ambiguity in what she said had a teacher's assistant convinced she was threatening to beat him up instead of raise her complaints about mismarked assignments to the professor, and if the professor hadn't already had her for one semester and liked her, she would've been in hot water. She'll probably do it again, but on purpose this time.

He doesn't think wrought iron cafe furniture has ever looked less inviting.

Only one table is occupied.

He sits.

Chapter Text

If Martin and Melanie had tried to say what they said over the phone, Georgie would probably have hung up. If they didn't wait until they were in her bedroom, she might have stormed out of her own flat. She might not have ever spoken to them again.

It's still too much to believe. She's attached to the subject by a harpoon through her heart, now, but it doesn't seem real. It's too cruel to be a lie. It's too cruel to be true.

She's never shared what happened to Jon with anyone who wasn't there except a therapist. She doesn't even go to that therapist anymore. She was doing well. She was stable.

She has to go, though. Before she could scream at them for taking something so horrific and personal and vulnerable and turning it into some kind of sick joke, Martin had the video playing.

It's in a small room, with a window in the door and a book cart against the wall. Martin filmed it. Melanie is facing mostly away from the camera, and it's at an awkward angle like Martin was trying to hide what he was doing. It's short. Melanie is audibly suppressing herself, but gets louder and louder.

Melanie says, "This is you, isn't it?" She holds something out, advancing on the person in front of her. Georgie can see a flash of her own handwriting on the back of a photograph.

He looks different. He looks the same. He asks, "Where did you get that?"

Melanie lies, "She gave it to us."

And Jon says, "You know Georgie?"

There isn't any more, but it's enough. They opened with an apology and the return of the photo, but the frantic, angry seconds intervening may as well not exist. There's no way that they could have faked the video. And if they did, why make him look so different?

It can't be real. She has to find out if it is.

By the time they tell her, the Magnus Institute is closed for the day. She understands why they waited- she wouldn't have believed them if the absurd statement, "Melanie's Library Nemesis is Jon," hadn't had video evidence- but it's awful. Even knowing that, whatever this is, it'll be cleared up tomorrow... it's unbearable. Why say she can't go the the Magnus Institute if he's still willing to meet with her somewhere else?

She barely sleeps. They don't have much to say once she knows where and when they're meeting (her flat, half past 10, and then a cafe, noon). Melanie is angry, and it tangles up the explanation. Martin is barely better. He says, "You'll have to ask him that," and doesn't manage to expound any further on Jon's reaction after the video ended.

She knows they wouldn't withhold something important, thinks they're probably trying not to badmouth her friend until his guilt has been proven before a (three person) jury of his peers, but the questions keep her up all night.

Martin has her spare key, because someone needs to and Melanie loses her keys constantly and only sometimes finds them again, under the couch or in a jacket pocket. Technically, the emergency she envisioned was more along the lines of losing her own keys or letting the police in after she's been murdered (they wouldn't have even called the landlord to try to look through Jon's things if she hadn't had a key and permission by virtue of living together), but she supposes this isn't the sort of emergency she envisioned was possible. She isn't suitably grateful for waking up from the little sleep she manages to a flat that smells like breakfast and a terrifyingly tall stack of waffles waiting on her kitchen table, but they don't say anything except to offer her the equally overabundant assembled topping options.

Getting dressed has her briefly convinced she's unrecognizable as the person she was in uni. She's changed far less than Jon evidently has, but there isn't anything else she can work herself into a state over this close to their appointment and her brain feels fried.

Melanie stomps into the cafe to get them food- hopefully working sufficient anger out against the floor to spare the employees- and Georgie and Martin sit awkwardly, waiting. They're early; half desire for the advantage of establishing the terrain ahead of time and half anxiety. The sandwiches and multitudinous desserts Melanie returns with are probably objectively delicious, but no one manages to do more than listlessly pick at their food. At least the desserts came in individual cartons in a plastic bag, so they'll be easy to take home.

It's a nice day, and there are people crowding the pavement, growing denser as lunch hours free office workers to fill the street. She keeps making accidental eye contact with strangers, looking for Jon.

She doesn't manage to make eye contact with Jon when he arrives. She doesn't even realize it's him until a few seconds before he pulls out the fourth chair at their table and sits, hood over his head and eyes fixed on his shoes. A ghost, right across from her in plain daylight.

"You're late," Melanie says. It's 12:03.

"I'm sorry," Jon says. It sounds strained. He wraps his arms around his middle and shrinks in on himself.

"Do you want to go get something to eat before we start talking?" Stilted scripts she usually pulls out for the awkward stage in between agreeing to collaborate on an episode with someone and being comfortable enough to converse freely are all her brain has on offer at the moment.

Jon shakes his head. He still hasn't looked up. "I don't have..." he trails off.

"Time?" Melanie says snarkily. "To call people so they know you aren't dead, or just to talk to us now?"

Martin elbows her, and she darts a glance at Georgie before crossing her arms and slumping back in her seat, moody but apologetic.

"Money," Jon says faintly.

Georgie must have one hell of an expression. It definitely includes the "say something?" eyebrows from the same collaboration discussions.

Martin is the one who takes her eyebrows up on it. He is usually the one to move awkward colleague conversations along. They aren't usually this adversarial. His meeting voice is strange when what he's saying is, "Too good to eat with us?"

Jon stiffens, either offended or not having intended them to hear. He straightens up, but instead of looking at any of them he darts a glance over his shoulder and slumps down again. "Ever," he says, though whether he never has money or is too good to ever eat with them is unclear. It's a strange thing to say either way.

Melanie clarifies it by grabbing a dessert carton at random and slamming it and a wrapped set of plastic utensils and napkin in front of Jon. The little blueberry tart fares poorly in the impact.

Jon startles, staring at the tart like it's something terrible. His eyes dart back to them, like he's reassuring himself of something, then back to the tart, then back to them. He glances over his shoulder again. He opens the carton and the utensils, but regards the tart like it's a live bomb. Georgie can't entirely tell if he's anxious about her reaction, or something else.

She takes a deep breath. There's still the possibility she couldn't stand to think of before he was right in front of her. She's always said that it would be completely out of character for Jon to just leave without a word. Just because he isn't dead doesn't mean nothing's amiss.

Jon glances over his shoulder again. "Expecting someone?" she asks.

He swallows. He looks like he wants to fold himself into smaller and smaller shapes until he's small enough to evade detection without a microscope. "Hopefully not."

She has no idea what to say. Martin and Melanie promised they'd let her take the lead once things got going. They also arranged a signal for if she needed someone to step in- or needed to get out of here immediately- but it's her prerogative.

"I'm sorry," Jon says again. "I'm so sorry, Georgie."

"For what?" It sounds obnoxious and aggressive as soon as it's out of her mouth, but she doesn't know what any of this is!

He glances over his shoulder. "Please don't come to the Magnus Institute."

"Why am I the only one who can't go?" After all, if there was something actually dangerous, presumably the others shouldn't go either.

"I- They- It's-" Jon stammers, "You aren't, probably. It isn't. Safe. There."

"Safe enough for you, though," she points out. Is it? She can't tell. How did he end up working there? It's not like he finished his degree. Where has he been in the meantime?

Jon shudders. He looks like he wants to cry. He glances over his shoulder, then glances at the line of people walking by. He lowers his voice. "It's safe for me. It's not safe for you. No one- nothing there is going to hurt me. But that doesn't apply to anyone else."

It's an academic institute. It isn't even a bad boss he's talking about, it's the whole building. If it were a person, he sounds uncomfortably similar to someone in an abusive relationship.

Georgie just stares at him. He keeps looking furtively at the people passing, the people behind him.

There are differences, and she takes the time to take them in. She has no idea what to say, so she might as well try to catch all of them.

Melanie and Martin described the crown- still present, just under the hood- in hysterical, laughing detail, before they knew about Jon. She's surprised to find that in person, it really wasn't an exaggeration. It looks real. Real gold, real stones, though she has no idea what kind. His hair is longer, and grayer. The years haven't been kind. His glasses are the same, but the eyes aren't, creased and bagged and nervous and darting. There's a scar, very faint, on one cheek. A straight line. There's another, blotchier one on his hand.

He glances over his shoulder. He fiddles with his plastic fork, but doesn't go so far as to take or even just lift a bite. The tattoos were described as well, also in less exaggeration than she anticipated. The whites of the eyes are stark against Jon's skin; they'd wondered about how often he had to be getting them touched up to stay that way, but in person she's more interested in what kind of ink looks like that on skin as dark as Jon's, even fresh.

There are green eyes folding in his palms, and one brown one peering out of his hoodie from the base of his throat, and blue ones on the backs of his wrists. That's as much skin as she can see.

"How many tattoos do you have?" It's not the sort of thing this is for. It's the sort of thing she'd ask an acquaintance.

Jon, true to form, glances over his shoulder and then shrinks in on himself. Is he scared of the conversation, or something else? She can't stop trying to find the answer in his demeanor and she can't. "Too many."

"Why get them, then?"

He doesn't say anything. His voice doesn't say anything. His face crumples, and it's a long, gasping moment before he manages to come close to normal again.

"I still have your quilt from your Gran," she says suddenly, desperate to change the topic. "And your favorite jumper. And- well, a lot. A whole tub of things."

He looks startled. "Really?"

She wavers for a moment. "If we go back to my flat, you can have them. And we can talk without anyone around." She wasn't worried when they got here, but Jon's twitchiness has her worried about someone overhearing. That was a feature of this plan initially, because it meant they couldn't make a scene (too much of a scene; if they didn't want a scene at all they would have met inside the cafe), but maybe to get answers they need a scene.

Jon gives her a wide-eyed look. He glances over his shoulder. He stays silent long enough she's worried he's going to say no.

He stands.

Melanie and Martin are the ones who grab all their things and hail a cab. Georgie's scatterbrained from trying to sort out the litany of concerns about the whole situation and Jon doesn't look up to the task at all. And possibly doesn't have any money. How he gets back from her flat is a bridge to burn when they come to it, she supposes.

An extra cab fare is cheaper than all the things she said she'd be happy to replace if he was alive.

-

Martin and Melanie not only hail the cab, they maneuver everyone into it so that Jon is squashed between her and Melanie in the backseat, like they're worried he'll try to throw himself out of the vehicle.

They don't say a word during the ride. Her stomach churns; Jon can't have been worried about being overheard. Not exclusively. He's still looking behind them like he expects to see something.

As he does once they're inside her flat. He has to stand on his toes and crane his neck to see through her bedroom to the window there. They're on an upper floor; the only pursuer he's going to spot through the window will have to fly in.

"I'm sorry, Georgie," Jon says as soon as Martin's trooped in and shut the door behind him. "I- I don't- please don't go to the Institute."

"Why?" she asks again. "Why are you there in the first place? What happened to you?"

Jon works his jaw open and shut, stares at the wall like there's an answer for him there.

"What happened the night you disappeared?" she asks. Five years and change is so long she didn't know where to start asking questions; it's unlikely that living them is any easier to define. The beginning isn't a bad place to start, and Jon has never been the best at knowing where to start attacking a problem on his own.

He sways in place until she walks over and physically steers him to the couch. She doesn't want to interrupt whatever internal ordering he's doing by saying anything else. She sits beside him, and Martin and Melanie hover at the edge of the room like vengeful ghosts.

Jon leans down, elbows on his knees, with his shoulders hunched to his ears. He sits up, wraps his arms around his middle, slumps back. Glances at the door. "I... do you remember who the speaker I went to see was?"

She has to ransack her memory in search of the answer. She's gone over all the details so many times that she should be able to say right away, but it was clear early on that Jon attended and left from the lecture just fine, and other avenues were more pressing.

She's about to admit that she doesn't recall when the answer rushes in on her with numbing horror. "It was someone from the Magnus Institute, wasn't it?"

It doesn't explain anything. If anything, it makes everything less understandable.

"The Head," Jon confirms quietly. "I- I'm sorry. I don't know where..."

"Did you leave deliberately?" she asks. The list of questions she ordered her investigations around unspools in front of her like it was yesterday.

"No." He doesn't look at her. He flicks the hood off his head and takes the crown off, spinning the circle between his hands.

"Why didn't you ever reach out? Why now? Would you have ever gotten in touch if they didn't make you?" She can't keep her frustration and pain and directionless anger out of her voice.

"I wouldn't," he says quietly. "I'm sorry. But I wouldn't. I tried-" his voice breaks, and he clears his throat, a long moment passing before he resumes, "I tried. I tried so hard to come home but I couldn't and, and you were better off with a clean break."

She jumps to her feet, pacing up and down the room. Martin and Melanie are bearing more than a passing resemblance to a pair of gargoyles. "You don't get to decide that! You don't get to make that choice for me."

"I-" Jon looks up, then freezes. "You... I'm sorry. Something... real... happened, didn't it." She doesn't have time to ask what the hell that's supposed to mean before he adds, "A- heh- a Magnus Institute sort of real. Was it... was it before or after we knew each other?"

It's a stupid way to define something, but the second he says it she knows he's talking about Alex. "How did you-"

"I'm sorry!" He ducks his head. "It's none of my business. It's just... funny, I suppose. If it was before and we could have swapped stories."

"How do you know that?" She's trying very hard to keep a hold of her voice, but she can't. Why this of all things?

"I..." he trails off. He's less jumpy now than he was in the cab or outside, but he's still checking the door every so often. "Actually," he says, shoulders straightening with purpose, "I think it could be. Instructive, I suppose. Illuminating. Answer more than one question at once. I wonder..."

He doesn't say what he wonders, just starts squirming out of his hoodie. The hoodie and crown rest with equal dignity on her coffee table. Jon stands and turns to face the wall. "I wonder if any of them look. Familiar. Just... yes or no, for the moment."

He pulls his t-shirt most of the way over his head, exposing more eye tattoos. They aren't like the others, though. Those are all unremarkable human eyes, almost generic. There's a line of eyes all the way down Jon's spine, but they seem off. Above and beyond the ways they're different, splintering and swirling and creeping, each with at least one clear difference from the normal eyes.

It takes her a moment to see what he's talking about. She steps back without thinking when she spots it, one eye that fills her chest with the same cold dread as that day with Alex. "Yes."

Martin and Melanie lean forward, both looking worried about anything that could have her change so suddenly, sound fragile and small.

"It's the cloudy one, isn't it?" Jon asks. When she doesn't answer, he adds, "Cloudy as in clouded over, not as in containing clouds."

"Yes."

Jon pulls his shirt back down before turning, and seems just as lost as she is in the treacherous country he's wrenched them into. "I'm sorry," he says, for the dozenth or hundredth time. "I don't want to pry. It's just."

It's certainly a way to make it clear that something more is going on. "You said we could have traded stories..."

She doesn't want to do any such thing. But the implication that not only was there someone out there who could understand what happened to her, emotionally if not literally, but it was Jon...

He's a bit younger than her. For him to have had a story before they met it would, almost by definition, have to have happened when he was a child.

He sits back down, staring at the floor. "Mine was a book." He glances up, gauging her reaction; she doesn't have much of one, but supposes that if hers was a book as well there would have been plenty to see. "I was eight."

She sucks in a breath. Eight. It would have had to have been when he was a child, but he was a child. A little kid. A baby.

"Mine was why I was coming back from a year off. It caused the breakdown, I mean."

Melanie and Martin are being very obvious about containing their curiosity. She knows they won't ask, but she almost wishes she could bring herself to say more just so that if she ever wants them to know it'll be done with.

"You shouldn't tell me anything else," Jon says, removing the decision. Again. Removing a decision that's hers. Again! "I don't know if... well, there are risks that I can't give you a real picture of. Might be nothing at all, but if it isn't... you wouldn't want to find out firsthand. Believe me."

"Alright," she says like she isn't living in her body. With the hoodie gone, there's another set of eyes looking at her from his collarbones, and another over the creases of his elbows. "I need some water."

She flees into the kitchen, with a passing bit of guilt for leaving Jon in the lion's den without her buffering Martin and Melanie. She just needs a moment. Just a moment.

Better a moment than five years.

Chapter Text

"I can't," he says again. "I can't, I cannot. This is the third time I've been outside the Institute, and if I stay too long someone is going to come find me."

He's trending hysterical by the end, vision blurring. It hurts. It hurts to reopen old wounds, it hurts to see Georgie, it hurts to be faced with all the things he's missing out on, it hurts to know he'll probably have to walk back into the Institute on his own because he doesn't want anyone there to remember Georgie exists.

"Don't be ridiculous," Georgie says, too heated to be dismissive. "How would they even know where you are?"

"It's in me, Georgie. That's what the tattoos are for, that's why I stopped trying to contact you. I didn't join a cult worshiping the fear of being watched on purpose, I do not have a choice, and I know of a grand total of two places on Earth where it can't see me! As soon as they find out I'm gone, they're going to start looking for me and they will find me."

"We'll call the police," she continues stubbornly.

Chapter Text

Jon stays pressed to Gerry's side all the way back to the Institute. He stares down at his lap, picks at his cuticles, and shudders a trailing sob every few seconds, even though Gerry can tell he's trying not to cry at all.

He wants to demand to know what Jon was thinking, but it isn't the time. Not while they might not make it back quickly enough to fly under Jonah's radar, and not while they're in mixed company.

They weren't even supposed to be back today, they were just here a couple days ago. There was a cancellation, and Jonah decided it was more convenient to haul their current string of recruits back to the Institute than bring them when they move on to the next gig. Said recruits are offering enough busywork to, hopefully, keep Jonah occupied until well after Jon is safely inside.

He doesn't understand how Jon got out in the first place, though the shouting inside filled in the bare bones of why. He can't imagine Jon has many acquaintances named Georgie. If their party hadn't returned to the Institute when it did, he has no idea how long it would have been before Jon's absence was noticed; he can't imagine why Beholding didn't alert everyone the instant he was over the threshold. The memory of waking up in the middle of the night feeling like his skin was on fire under his tattoos is still vivid.

Their timing is the only reason that the news hasn't spread yet. He ran into Sasha on his way to Jon's rooms, carrying up a tray because Jon didn't come down to lunch and no one had seen him for a bit, so it was assumed he was hiding there. Sasha might have gone right back down to the mess hall when she found Jon's door locked and her knocks unanswered; she would just have assumed that he wandered off somewhere remote enough that a cursory survey of the Institute missed him.

Running into him meant that when they couldn't get a response to their knocks, Gerry stretched the definition of "emergency" and unlocked the door himself. He doesn't know what, but something felt wrong, not like Jon is just holed up because he wants to be alone. He'd feel more guilty about it if stepping inside wasn't what finally gained him the Knowledge that Jon wasn't in the Institute at all. The Eye was happy enough to direct him after that. Sasha locked the door behind him, so that everyone will hopefully assume she's keeping Jon company while he eats.

His guts are still churning with anxiety. Jonah is going to seek Jon out sooner rather than later; that's always his first action after any length of time away from the Institute. And now Gerry's responsible for not just one race against time, but two. He doesn't trust Jon's friends (are they all? or just Georgie?) not to call the police, and that will definitely get Jonah's attention. Jon's arguments against doing so will only hold sway for so long.

The cab stops a couple buildings away from the Institute; hopefully that's enough for no one to bother paying attention to the occupants, but still close enough to have Jon in the doors as soon as possible. Jon helps the ruse by trying to meld into Gerry's side.

Rosie's desk is empty; the whole group of them came in to find it unmanned, with the sign indicating she's on her lunch break amended with sticky notes. Luckily for them, Jonah cares about the appearance of discipline, particularly in front of the new recruits, more than he cares about minimizing the time the desk is left empty. Jon sticks to Gerry's side through into the main part of the Institute anyway, the only concession to their arrival setting the circlet back on his head. Gerry's stomach jumps every time they turn a corner and he's sure someone will be there to ask what they've been up to.

Jon unlocks the door to his rooms, but Gerry walks him inside. The moment they've gained the relative privacy of the closed door, Jon pelts across the scant space that had time to drift between them to wrap him in a hug. "Thank you."

Gerry hugs him back, holding tight. They lost him. Jon feels so alone; even though he knows it's probably the Eye speaking, the idea that Jon's loneliness might be supported by the knowledge that no one noticed he was missing is sickening. "I still want to know what made you decide to do something so stupid, when I get back."

Jon sniffles. "They were going to tell Georgie, and bring her here."

Ah. That explains it.

Well, not the bizarre lack of reaction to the lack of Jon, but you can't have everything.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." With an unknown quantity and quality of mementos of Jon's pre-Institute life. He tries very hard to be less curious about those than he is.

Jon nods, stepping out of the hug. Quietly, he says, "Georgie has an End mark. I showed her the tattoos and she could tell which one it was."

Because the only thing that could make his day better is adding a little more tinder to the oncoming blazing row. "I won't let her come back to the Institute," he promises, and then he turns to go and Sasha flings herself at Jon to start demanding her own explanations.

He makes a detour to track down Michael, hovering around the edges of Jonah's haphazard orientation in case someone needs his help with something, or to make the newbies feel welcome, or whatever. They're attuned enough to having each other pop up suddenly in their periphery to make getting Michael's attention without also attracting Jonah's relatively easy, at least.

Having Michael in Jon's rooms already will decrease the odds of Jonah coming up with a pretense for seeing Jon in the next couple hours. There's a limit to how much time you can spend with Michael before losing your mind a bit, and the conditions of this period of aggressive recruitment mean that Jonah's overdosed on Michael whenever they return to the Institute. He thinks even Michael is overdosed on Michael.

Gerry unenthusiastically sets out to have whatever kind of conversation this is going to be.

-

When he knocks on Georgie's door again, it swings open like she's been leaning against it, waiting for him. Her eyes are even more swollen and red than they were when he left, so she's probably been crying. Because dealing with crying people (other than Jon, he supposes) is such a skill of his.

He goes into the flat, but doesn't actually bother to say anything. If they want information, they're going to have to figure out how to use their words. He walks over to the coffee table and picks up his wallet.

"You can't seriously think we're going to let you just go without a word," the woman who is not Georgie says acidly.

"You're the ones who had questions," he says. "All I care about is making sure you don't come to the Institute."

"Then tell the truth about whatever it is that's going on!" Georgie shouts, temper loosed after having time to stew and someone she doesn't hold any affection for to aim it at.

Gerry leans against the wall, picking at his nails. His nail polish is chipping; maybe he'll suggest painting each other's nails as an activity to help Jon calm down and take his mind off this mess. Michael bought at least a couple new nail polishes to bring back. They didn't use them last time they were at home, and he thinks Michael's gathered a fairly sizeable assortment of new colors.

He lets them simmer in furious silence for a moment more. He doesn't have to think about the words; they just reworked their messaging to include Jon in the overarching explanation of what the world is like and what the cult's role is, since this year is the first time they've done this sort of big recruitment trip since Jon's kidnapping.

His version isn't exactly Jonah approved, sure, but he doesn't actually want to recruit anyone here, so who cares? They'll probably assume he's some kind of deranged ideologue no matter how he says it.

Chapter Text

Big conversion trips make Michael anxious. He knows that Jonah places a lot of trust in him to make them actually work, and he always worries that he's doing a bad job. And he doesn't want anyone to join based on a false idea of what things here are actually like, and he isn't sure that the talking points given to him always manage that.

(It's gotten harder since Jon came to them. Explaining Jon's role in things is weird, because there's no way to do it without explaining why. Jon doesn't actually do anything that an Outsider would consider relevant, and explaining what Jon is just makes them leave the conversation as quickly as possible. And that's before getting into the things he's had to acknowledge aren't as aboveboard as he used to pretend, with the Signings, with the professed disinterest in having anyone here who doesn't want to be... It's harder to pitch a situation he isn't sure he would want to remain in, if there were a choice.)

He hovers at the edges of the crowd whenever they bring a group back. Most of these people have spoken with him at least a couple times, on less recruitment-focused visits where the goal was developing relationships that eventually lead here rather than bringing anyone back home; for some of them, he's been the primary or even the only (because Gerry was supposed to be his partner and wandered off) contact they've had throughout the process. There isn't actually much for him to do, but he feels guilty leaving.

Gerry appears at the edge of a hallway, probably too far from the corner to be visible from Jonah's position, and Michael feels a lot less guilty. Gerry doesn't actively seek him out unless it's to do with Jon.

Gerry doesn't join him as he heads for Jon's rooms, which is odd. It looks like he's headed for the public part of the Institute, but that can't be right. He shakes his head when Michael tries to follow, so he goes to Jon's rooms, but that's even stranger. If there's a pressing need for Michael it almost always means that whoever came upon Jon first got him back to his rooms. They don't leave Jon alone anywhere else if he's upset; it's more important to get him some space than it is to gather reinforcements.

Sasha opens the door when he knocks, her eyes a bit red. He steps inside as quickly as he can. Sasha doesn't cry just because Jon is upset. If Sasha was crying, something is wrong.

"What happened?" he asks. Jon is curled up in the corner of the couch, like he wishes the right angle of back and armrest were a better substitute for being held. Michael moves toward a chair, not wanting to overwhelm Jon, but before he can Jon shoots an arm out and makes a grabby gesture in his direction.

Long, awkward, silent seconds of adjustment follow, until Michael makes an executive decision that they can't comply with Jon's attempts to be as close as possible to both of them at once and remain curled in a tight ball comfortably on the couch. Gerry Jr. follows as he picks Jon up and carries him into the bedroom, and while the humans are still arranging limbs he jumps up to join them on the bed. Jon ends up squashed between Michael and Sasha in a sort of triangle, with the cat curling up on and around his head like a hat.

"What happened?" Michael asks again once they're settled.

Jon makes a sad noise in his throat; his face is dry now, but it's obvious he's been crying, and much harder than Sasha.

"We told you about Melanie and Martin, who keep coming to use the Library?" Sasha says.

Michael nods. It's been such a popular topic of discussion that he wouldn't be surprised if even the converts who've only been in the Institute for an hour and change have already heard some version of it, or will very soon. The private telling is a bit different, and the plan is that as soon as he's here long enough that they and Jon are all in the Library at the same time, Michael is supposed to do some reconnaissance.

(They haven't told Jon that's the plan. Michael is the most sociable of the three of them, and Sasha isn't even allowed in that Library, and doing damage control for things like this is something they've learned is best accomplished proactively. If Jon wants his opinion, he'll ask.)

"One of them hates Jon and the other might have a crush?" he asks, partially so Jon, who's closed his eyes, isn't left out of what's going on.

"Apparently," Sasha starts with the delicacy of facts she hasn't confirmed for herself and isn't entirely sure of, "they know Georgie."

It takes him a moment to place the name. A glance shows that Jon's eyes are still closed, luckily. He doesn't need to see the exaggerated and dramatic reactions being traded between Michael and Sasha.

"Oh?" Michael asks, in the most normal tone he can manage.

"And somehow they figured out that she knew Jon. And thought he was dead? Apparently?" Another unsure fact. It's no surprise if she did; Jon has mentioned that he's sure she decided as much a long time ago, when he's in a melancholy mood and his defenses aren't up because of something else (or, more realistically, someone else.)

His only response is to hold Jon a bit tighter and watch as a couple more tears slip out from Jon's tightly shut eyes. Jon hiccups in a breath like he's gearing up to say something, and Sasha pauses.

"They were going to te-ell G-Georgie, and bri-ing her here," he says, visibly becoming more miserable at his inability to make it through words without his voice breaking. He's been crying hard enough- and, as the situation becomes clearer, Michael feels confident in surmising long enough- that his voice doesn't sound right. If he weren't too entangled to do so without disturbing the others, Michael would be heading back into the other room for one of the boxes of tissues they keep there because Jonah's decreed that they aren't allowed to add things like that to the regular shopping lists, lest someone wonder why Jon is crying and/or sick so much.

(They're lucky tissues don't go off, because that particular command had Gerry so peeved that he immediately found one of the Institute cards and ordered the most expensive tissues he could find, in bulk. So much in bulk that he had to get Michael to come with him to go to Pinhole Books, get them back to the Institute, and, unasked for, disguise the package with a number of other assorted items so that Gerry didn't get in trouble for violating the spirit of the decree. The tissues wouldn't have even come up if Jon wasn't having a genuinely awful week, half a dozen different indignities and frustrations of various intensities piling up one after the other; Gerry getting himself sent to the other side of the country on a stupid errand would have made things worse.)

(Once Gerry's tissue bounty and Michael's overzealous acquisition of as many things as he could think of that might, possibly, improve Jon's mood even a little bit had been assembled, the purchases had required a very expensive cab ride- at a premium because they might damage the car moving everything in and out of it and because it had had to wait outside the Institute for them to find, test for latent sinister properties, and haul into the lobby one of the rolling hand carts Artefact Storage uses.)

(If Michael's enthusiasm hadn't resulted in a polaroid camera that Gerry and then Sasha were willing to use to blackmail Jonah with the threat of sad Jon pictures posted around publicly, Gerry might still have been sent away for that stunt.)

One of these days, he's going to figure out whether cats can be trained to fetch tissues.

"Did they?" he asks, even though it's probably a stupid question.

Jon shakes his head, visibly struggling to get his voice under control.

He takes too long, and the explanation is dumped into Michael's mind wholesale instead.

It isn't an unfamiliar feeling, Jonah does it all the time, but Michael can count on one hand the times it's been done to any of them on Jon's behalf. It takes longer to sort out the important bits, without a human mind involved to order them before transmission. Things come through out of order, with odd bits taking up far more space than they should, like a memory of Jon looking up and meeting his own eyes in the rearview mirror of a cab dwarfing why and how he ended up in a cab in the first place.

It's the wrong thing to say, but the first thing he manages after sorting through the mess is, "Does Jonah know you left?"

Sasha reaches over with the arm that isn't holding Jon to pinch him, hard. Whether using Jonah's name causes him to actively take notice of something, or he just enjoys flaunting the times he's already looking when someone mentions him, is an ongoing debate, but it's not the time to test the theory.

No one speaks for a long moment. Jon doesn't cringe like Jonah's watching, and he can usually tell; Beholding isn't going to withhold that information on a day it's also let Jon leaving the Institute go without hue and cry. Probably.

Michael curls a bit closer to Jon and crushes down his questions. "Gerry will make sure they don't do anything stupid."

Gerry will certainly try. There's nothing safe left to say, so they fall into silence. Jon is too anxious and upset to fall asleep, but as they lie still in the darkened bedroom, the other two cats eventually take notice and join the pile.

Chapter Text

Georgie slumps out of anger almost as soon as Jon is out the door, winds up curled on the couch and sobbing.

She shouldn't have let him leave. He's been lied to, or brainwashed, or he misunderstood, or something. His disappearance can't resolve into a single afternoon where they mostly yelled at each other and then nothing else, forever. Jon doesn't get to decide what she thinks is a worthwhile risk, particularly when he won't tell her what the danger actually is.

Her fear and aching, torn-open grief for Jon doesn't entirely abate until there's another knock at the door. Until that man returns.

She can't be angry at Jon anymore, she can't stand it, but that doesn't mean she can't be furious at him.

She's glad that Melanie and Martin speak before she has to, that they get him talking and keep him there with an onslaught of questions. If she opens her mouth she's going to scream and he'll leave; they need to get as much out of him as possible before that.

It makes her stomach churn, listening to him.

Fourteen. Fourteen.

He tries to talk about what could have happened with Alex, the kind of thing that would impart such an apparently obvious mark, to back up the rest of it and then move on to what's most relevant to Jon, but Martin and Melanie hound him into talking about the other twelve as well. She wouldn't be able to stomach asking those questions, no matter the circumstances.

Her mind drifts a bit; she needs to be angry, not slowly suffocated in a fresh layer of nothing. Martin and Melanie have the reins of the conversation, and Martin is scribbling notes, and they set up some of the recording equipment for the show as subtly as they could while they waited to see if he'd actually keep his word and come back. No reason she needs to stay so gut-wrenchingly present through the entire conversation.

When it finally comes back to Jon, she focuses, because these thoughts aren't dangerous. They stoke everything inside her to flaming life, fueling layers and layers of heartbreak and grief and rage.

It's hard to hear, but not in the same way the prelude was. Jon opened the door and was suddenly all slumped shoulders and quiet obedience and clinging to his kidnapper like he's the only source of light in the world. Martin and Melanie told her, once she was under control enough to contribute to a haphazard strategy meeting with tears running down her cheeks, a story they'd left out of the high-spirited recounting of their interactions with Jon before he was Jon. He has three cats- the least he deserves, an obvious comfort glaring enough that all Melanie's opinions on cats in libraries died away in a moment- though they've only ever seen two.

The third is named Gerry Jr. Is named after a human Gerry. Is, surely, named after this Gerry.

It's quite a position he's set up for himself, describing why Jon was kidnapped. He doesn't acknowledge the subtext, the way that being close with someone in Jon's position, if that isn't just a lie, would have knock-on effects on his own social standing.

He's no happier about the conversation than they are, and it's obvious. He bites out his words and glares and clenches his fists, even though he doesn't make a move toward any of them or raise his voice significantly. It makes her sick, seeing their anger at the horror that's been inflicted on Jon reflected in his anger at his victim taking unsanctioned action to speak to them.

She saves her anger as he winds down to the end of what he intended to say. They may have steered the conversation, but it's nothing to what's waiting if they can just keep him from leaving. She didn't dare ask Martin to take the bin down from her closet; if that's enough of an enticement to keep him in the flat a little longer, it's better to leave it there. Even if it means he may leave without, may never give it back to Jon.

How many times has that happened, over the course of years? How many times has Jon been promised some small luxury, and been lied to?

"Why come here to talk?" Martin asks as Gerry falls quiet and makes the beginning of a move to shift off her wall and onto his own two feet.

The shift plays in reverse until he's lounging against her wall as casually as ever. "Excuse me?"

"Why come here to talk?" Martin repeats. "I mean, if you're so concerned about your omniscient eyeball god taking notice, why come here at all, Gerry?" He slants at the name with venom, the first time any of them has actually addressed him by name.

"Gerard. My friends call me Gerry," he says, and it's such an juvenile turn that it's all Georgie can do not to laugh. "Jon told you why. You need to stay away from the Magnus Institute."

"But he said that there were places it couldn't see, too. At least two of them," Melanie says, managing to control her tone and expression better than Martin, a strange reversal of the usual dynamic of Martin taking the lead talking their way in somewhere and Melanie generally being kept in reserve as their last resort, when it's clear that it can't hurt anything to edge out of assertive and border on aggressive.

Gerry, as Georgie viciously keeps him in her mind, actually laughs. He recovers before any of them can process the shock of it, though only just. Martin looks positively murderous. "I assumed it wouldn't go over well to invite you to my house or some spooky secret tunnels," he says.

"Thought you said you were supposed to sell all your stuff and donate the money when you joined," Melanie says.

He sighs. "I'm a special case."

Melanie scoffs. "I'm sure."

"No one else at the Magnus Institute had tattoos, and they're all supposedly in on it," Martin points out, flaunting skepticism and counting on a stranger failing to see from his eyes that disbelief fled a while ago.

Georgie didn't even notice the tattoos until he came back, and then only because Melanie spotted them and told the two of them in the interim, so she was looking for them. They're tiny, but are, sure enough, eyes. Always more eyes. She can't imagine how sick of it Jon must be.

"That's part of it," Gerry says, scorchingly sarcastic, as though they ought to have known that without having to ask.

"Why?" Her voice comes out clearer and calmer than she expected, the smooth surface of a pond without ripples, without any sign of the things writhing beneath. "Why are you special and why tattoos? For you or Jon."

It's like he recedes into himself from a stretching shadow she hadn't noticed expanding to encompass the room, force of personality dwindling until there's nothing but exhaustion and a hint of anger in his eyes. "People who join instead of being born into it aren't usually allowed into the public part of the Institute, let alone outside," he says. "And everyone signs a contract, when they join or sometime in their teens. A symbolic gesture of commitment. Only it's not. That's part of why Jon didn't make it out of London the one time he escaped; the other two got sicker and sicker the longer they were away from the Institute. Would've died, eventually.

"My dad was born into it. Worked in the Archives, he was the one who was supposed to handle visitors who actually knew what it was all about when the Archivist was too busy, and go with when she was on a trip somewhere and needed an extra set of hands. Mum was a visitor, never would've joined in a million years, but she liked the Institute's Library plenty. Cheaper going there than dropping a couple thousand on a rare book. My dad figured out a way around the contract, ran away with her and had me. Dunno how, but Jonah and Gertrude wanted some extra insurance that I wouldn't do the same."

"Couldn't you just ask your dad? And why join, if you actually think it's as awful as you say you do?" Martin gives the previous animosity in his voice a good effort, but it loses something in the face of the first hint of Gerry's actual personality beyond anger or whatever sick obsession he has with Jon.

Gerry laughs, once, bitterly. "Mum killed him when I was a toddler. Only started to learn about him as a teenager, and then I only waited as long as I did to join because I knew if I left before I was eighteen she'd kick up a fuss."

It's a jarring shift, but she can see the others aren't any more sure it's a lie than she is.  

"Jonah would've been able to keep the police out of it, but she would've put up her own posters if it meant she got me back again, make sure I'd catch hell any time I was in public. A kid moving out as soon as they turn eighteen doesn't get the same sympathy she could've if I left while I was still underage. I knew Jonah, for all his flaws, wouldn't just fold and hand me over if she came looking." 

He shakes his head disgustedly. "It's a good story- 'Look at the awful thing that happened to Eric because he left, look at his son, look how he came running back because it's so awful out there.'" He scoffs at the sentiment, looks like he might spit if they weren't in her flat. "I had a better idea of the Powers going in than most; those Mum could talk about all day and half the night if she was in a mood, and she usually was. I had that on my side, not just the hot air and dogma everyone else gets. They wanted to make an example of me more than they wanted to make me follow the usual rules. I can come and go as I please, and I kept the house when I inherited it, and I'm tied by something harder to slip than paper and ink."

Her stomach drops like a stone. "Is that why Jon has tattoos, too?" Her voice is faint.

His expression drains into something resigned and grim. "Yeah. And insurance against the other Powers, a bit. He said he showed you those, on his back."

How much does Jon report back to him? How many things does he get to keep for himself, unknown to anyone else?

"But he didn't have those until he'd been there a while," Martin says. "Or he wouldn't have been able to escape in the first place, according to you."

"Couldn't do it without the designs finalized," Gerry says, a bit hollow.

"And with, what, a couple dozen, a hundred people working at it it took so long?" Melanie asks, seeming to take strength from Martin becoming more subdued.

"There's only one of me," Gerry snaps. "Imbuing things like that with a bit of the Powers takes a knack, and I don't know how to teach it, never mind on short notice."

"And how long did it take, how long was he there before you- you tied him down, or sedated him, or whatever so you could do it to him?" Georgie starts loud, but tears diminish her voice by the end. She swallows, trying to choke them down.

"It doesn't work that way," he says. "You have to choose it."

Melanie and Martin start talking over one another at that, but Gerry's eyes are fixed on Georgie, on what she's able to choke out under the din of the others. "He wouldn't choose that. It was obvious how much he hates it, even now. Why would you do that to someone you all pretend to love?"

He shakes his head. "It isn't pretend. Or imagined, or anything else. Jon didn't feel it until after the Binding, so you'll forgive me if I can't produce a demonstration. And it cares about choice, not about preference."

Binding. Binding! It's accurate, she supposed. Literally tied to his captors, more effective than rope could ever be, if Gerry is to be believed. "He wouldn't choose that. I don't know what you did to him, but he wouldn't choose that."

He droops against the wall. "I'm not your enemy. I know what you must think of me, but I'm not. I came back because it's important to Jon that you stay away from the Institute."

"Why!" It's more exclamation than question. "You keep saying that and you won't say why, neither of you will say why!" She shouting through tears and at her wit's end. It's over. They've already lost. Jon was permanently trapped years ago, probably well before she even gave up on finding him. She couldn't save Alex and she can't save Jon and it isn't fair. They're good people, neither of them deserved what happened to them and once again Georgie is trapped on the sidelines watching helplessly.

"It was a choice," Gerry says again. "Jon escaped and he got hauled back to the Institute and Jonah and Gertrude made sure he knew exactly how bad things could get without actually killing him. He had a Leitner when he was a kid and Artefact Storage is full of Leitners and they're maybe a tenth of what's in there. They showed him one artifact."

She shakes her head. "Jon wouldn't just- just give in. You're lying, you did something to him!" She doesn't know if that's true; how far can you push someone before they break? How much would it take to convince her to agree to anything, no matter how awful?

Gerry just shakes his head. "That's what I'm saying! They hurt him and then Jonah told him he could agree to the Binding of his own free will, or they'd have to find a different way to keep him from leaving."

"He said you already had him locked up!" She doesn't know what response she wants from him, just knows he's missing her point. Maybe she wants to see him die, see him suffer like Alex did between sneaking into the Medical Science building and taking Georgie there, see him suffer like Jon is suffering.

"The Eye wanted him Bound," Gerry says. "Jonah wanted him Bound, and he's good at making people do what he wants."

"What could he possibly do to make Jon actually agree to that? You might've felt like you didn't have any other options, but Jon had friends. He had people looking for him, he had a place to come home to and you ruined his life!"

"He threatened you!"

It's the last thing she expected him to say, ice in her veins. He isn't even looking at her, teeth gritted and glaring at the floor. She doesn't know how to make sense of it. "You're lying."

He scoffs. "Maybe you lie about things like that, but I don't. I had to take shifts sitting in Artefact Storage so that no one would come in and hear him screaming. Knowing that they wouldn't let him out until I finished designing his tattoos, and they wouldn't approve the designs until they were perfect. I was there when Jonah said it, because Jon was too terrified of him to be alone in a room together." He levers himself off the wall and starts pacing, height made frightening the moment he stopped trying to slouch and make himself small. 

"He's still afraid that having outside friends will make Jonah jealous enough to do something. He liked seeing them in the Library because Melanie hated him, but he probably would've stopped going when Jonah's finished traveling in a couple weeks." He rakes his fingers through his hair, turns on his heel, starts back across the room just short of a stomp. "He almost stopped before that, because he couldn't tell if Martin had a crush on him. And if he did it would be Jon's fault, or Jon would think so, because that happens. Constantly. And he couldn't get a second opinion because he trusts three of us, and the only one not traveling with Jonah isn't allowed in that part of the Institute at all!"

It feels like they should say something to stop him, but she isn't sure they can stop this torrent of words now that it's been unleashed. Martin's gone gray, and looks like he wants to apologize.

"Jon wasn't allowed in that part of the Institute at all!" Gerry waves a hand, building up steam for a proper rant. "That changed months ago. Less than a year! Because Jonah had a party. We host people from other temples of the Eye all the time, because they all want to see Jon. Constantly. And we had a party, with representatives from all of the other temples. Multiple people from every single one. Because Jonah wanted to have a party for the anniversary of Jon's kidnapping.

"And I spent the lead-up arranging over email for someone we trust to make a comment about letting Jon into the public Institute at the right moment to get the political pressure for Jonah to think about allowing it. And it still took months, and only because Jon was depressed about the anniversary and I spent the entire time pestering Jonah and getting people abroad to write emails pestering Jonah."

He stops, sits abruptly on the couch. She's at the far end against an armrest and he sits practically on top of the other armrest, but it still makes her start. He leans forward, head in his hands. "All the same people came two years before that, for Jon's birthday. He hated it, and we had to establish a buddy system just to keep him from being cornered somewhere. He was miserable the entire time they were here. And Jonah did it again."

They sit in silence, because what do you say to that?

Should she believe him?

"When you say tunnels..." Martin says, a century of silence later. Melanie gives him a Look. Georgie gives him a Look in spirit; she's too puffy and tear-stained and caught in a crying jag to do it properly.

"That's what you're focusing on?" Gerry asks. He doesn't sound angry anymore, just tired.

"Where are they? And why did Jon know about them?" Martin continues like he didn't say anything.

Gerry sighs. "Under the Institute. They're how Jon got out when he escaped. No one's supposed to know they're there; the second he got through the trapdoor and it couldn't see him anymore Beholding had everyone falling out of bed in panic. Everywhere. Jonah wouldn't have told anyone else if he didn't have to, or would've put it off much longer at the very least. Took ages to search them all."

"But it sounds like you know the way around them," Martin says.

Gerry shrugs. "I guess."

It wasn't a detail that caught Georgie earlier, but she thinks she sees the shape of what Martin's getting at.

"I told Jon I'd get you all to promise not to come back to the Institute," Gerry says. Georgie squashes her instinctive contradiction; it can wait.

"On one condition," she says instead.

He just looks at her.

"Come back here for lunch day after tomorrow. We have more questions."

Martin stands before the incredulous silence gets too awkward. "Come help me get Jon's things down; it'll be easier with someone else tall."

Chapter Text

Everyone flinches when someone knocks. Before Jon can untense, he knows it's Gerry. He mutters a string of consonants that could be loosely interpreted as such and Sasha starts extricating herself from the pile, because Jon's migrated over to using Michael's stomach as a pillow.

He hears the door open and then, a bit too loud to be muddled the way he clearly intends, Gerry says, "This close to trying to get Rosie to send someone to fetch Michael. Thought I was going to have to fight people off to keep them from helping carry this thing." The words are punctuated by the sound of something big and heavy landing on the floor. Tibby perks up at the noise and runs out to see whether it's something she eat/play with/destroy, but the other two cats don't even twitch.

The object is left behind when Gerry and Sasha come into the bedroom, Tibby evidently deciding that whatever Gerry brought is too cat-proof to be worth her effort (or worth her solo effort; they've teamed up for things like that before, even if the teamwork isn't generally very effective) and trying to trip Gerry instead.

"It's nearly dinnertime," Sasha says. Jon slumps into the mattress and Michael with new, additional bonelessness.

And Jonah is back. Lucky them.

"Who looks least like they've been crying?" Gerry asks, stuffiness apparent now that they're in the same room.

"I do!" Michael says, sitting up so fast his knee becomes acquainted with Jon's temple. Before he can start apologizing, Jon laughs. It's normal and good and this is a day that feels sorely lacking in both. When his skull fails to crack open like an egg, Michael returns to his previous course, racing out of the room. It's hard to tell if it's his typical enthusiasm or if the rest of them really do look that bad.

The Baroness abandons ship; Michael did cry some, and he's turned the faucet on to splash some cold water on his face.

They don't leave the bedroom until Michael's come back with food and a grimace that says Jon should expect to be required at a meal in the near future, even if no one's kicking up a fuss right now. Jonah will probably leave again in a couple days; he'll want to see Jon before he does. Sasha manages to get herself in order enough to answer the door and take the trays from whoever Michael roped into helping carry things up, and then Gerry and Jon move into the main room.

Dinner is a quiet, tired meal; they all droop over their plates, unsure what to say and unwilling to ruin it by trying until they've all eaten. Jon's head feels hot and tight, aching from all the crying.

Michael scrapes together enough composure and energy to return the dishes to the mess while the rest of them begin readying for bed. It isn't the sort of evening to have them up chatting past dark.

There's an alien shape on the rug, just inside the door. It's an ordinary storage tub, unremarkable save for the fact that Jon hasn't seen one in at least five years. It's the sort of dull quotidia he never thought to remember, so didn't know to miss until it was placed in front of him. His name is written on the end in marker, Georgie's blocky handwriting hinting at the contents. Gerry really must have had a hell of a time getting it up here; it's doubtful that anything inside could be passed off as something innocent, especially put together; some of it will no doubt have to be hidden away and only taken out behind a locked door when he can't feel Jonah's eyes crawling over his skin from afar. A box with his name on it would have attracted curiosity and attention- hopefully not enough to reach Jonah or Gertrude's ears- and volunteers who couldn't be trusted not to try to peek at the contents.

"We don't have to look at it tonight if you don't want to," Gerry says softly. "None of us has anywhere we have to be in the morning."

It shouldn't be something Jon wants to get out of, but he's desperately grateful for the offer. It was all well and good to follow Georgie home for the idea of it, but the actual contents make his chest tighten with panic. What's in there? What would she have saved? What if he doesn't remember what something is? What if there's something he's tried not to hope for, and it isn't there? Losing it all the first time is a pain numbed by time and greater troubles; failing to find things he wants or remembers now threatens a more isolated, piercing grief.

They fall into bed with little mind to arrangement or order, squirming through a tangle of elbows and knees until everyone's comfortable. It's nice to fall asleep with such a tangible reminder that he isn't alone, isn't even close. He may have missed Gerry and Michael primarily for their conversation and jokes, their easy understanding and welcoming distraction, their reciprocal care, but he longed for their simple physical presence, too.

-

Jon forces himself awake and out of bed early; he'd like a lie in and privacy, but Jonah's waited for the greater part of a day to seek him out and being at breakfast will help diminish the threat of him peering in at them while they go through the things Georgie saved. He knows Michael gave enough excuses last night that no one will question the remnants of redness in his eyes; Sasha cried the most aside from him, because she knows the ache of having friends you'll never see again, but that, too, is easily excused. Sasha is the most likely of his friends to be moved to sympathetic tears; the greater part of the population has rewritten it into an inherent part of her personality out of discomfort with the notion that the two of them feel something as friendly as grief for the Stokers. Michael was able to disguise that he'd been crying before getting a night's sleep, and no one ever looks at Gerry closely enough to see the lingering hints that he was crying with them.

He sees their sidelong glances and subtle strategizing, but none of them raise objections. They know as well as he does that Jonah will want to see him sooner rather than later, and can probably guess at his reasoning.

Jonah only eats in the mess for dinner, and then only half the time, excluding formal occasions, but he's been watching for them; Jon can feel it the second he's past the threshold. He has the decency to let them eat in peace, at least. He only looms up alongside them as they're finishing.

"Jon!" he says, smiling. "Can I have a word? In my office."

It isn't a request, and they both know it. Oh, Jon could decline, could even do so loudly and honestly right here, but he's learned that it isn't worth the cost Jonah will extract as penance as soon as is convenient.

He slips his key to Sasha under the table; she spent most of yesterday hidden away with him, and she won't head to Research to work when she knows he has the specter of what Georgie sent and would rather all three of them accompany him, so it's good for her to be seen around the Institute while he meets with Jonah. Better to have her do something pertaining to him, so no one will bother to ask why she didn't go to work, and Sasha's good at coming up with errands to run to that effect regardless of whether they're necessary or not.

Michael will do his best to be seen around the Institute as well, probably making sure the recruits they've brought back so far are settling in. They don't know how much Jonah and Gertrude still believe that he's on their side just as much as he's on Jon's, but the illusion of trusting him less than he trusts Gerry and Sasha is valuable enough not to risk it with things like giving him the key.

Gerry follows them to Jonah's office like a tagalong thundercloud, an excuse for Jon to safely lag a bit behind Jonah instead of walking alongside him.

He moves to follow them into Jonah's office, but Jonah says, "I'm sure Jon would like to have some privacy while we speak." The illusion of ease and reasonable politeness is more than enough to hide the annoyance and tension in his eyes from a casual observer.

Jon nods minutely in agreement, and Gerry lounges against the wall opposite instead. "I'll be waiting," he promises.

Being alone with Jonah still fills Jon with fear. It's expected fear, though; no reason to question whether it comes of a guilty conscience with a more obvious alternative to hand.

The office is large enough for multiple seating options; Jonah only brings him over to the desk if it's needed to show him something on the computer or he wants to heighten Jon's anxiety by summoning the memory of being hauled in with the Stokers after their escape attempt, of the last time he saw Danny and Tim well and fighting. Today, Jonah leads him to the cozy looking arrangement of armchairs and side table instead, as though he's planning to pull some volumes from the adjacent bookshelf and have the two of them read in quiet companionship for a time.

The armchairs are comfortable and lovely, but they're also visibly, obviously expensive; it may not be the whirlwind evoked by sitting before Jonah's desk, but they still make Jon nervous. They're functional items, too functional for his apathy toward the survival of Jonah's more absurd fripperies to come easily, and they aren't his, so objections might be raised for damage to them. It's a nauseous recollection of being taken along visiting with his grandmother and being warned to be careful not to stain or tear or break other people's things, though his hands seemed perfectly clean to his eyes and he harbored no destructive- or even just careless- agenda, and he's never been able to get over it.

Jonah waits for him to perch at the edge of the armchair he always sits in before sitting himself and saying, "How are you, Jon?" His voice is warm and friendly and Jon's never known it not to hide a trap. It's the first tone Jonah ever spoke to him with, and it's grown no less treacherous since.

"Fine," he says, staring at his lap and trying not to shudder at the feeling of Jonah's eyes on him, nowhere near as forceful as it was immediately after his Binding but also nowhere near absent.

"Are you?"

"Just a bad day," Jon allows in deference to the implication of dishonesty. Danny and Tim come to his mind easily here, the threat of tears pushing against his weakened control of his emotions with them. He doesn't have to look up to know Jonah is displeased.

He lets it pass, for now. "I thought you might like to know when we expect to depart again," he says instead. "It should be tomorrow or the day after, and when we return after that it will be for good. I intended to be away longer for this last leg, but as there was a cancellation yesterday we returned then, instead. I'm glad that I could be here, if you're having a difficult time."

Jon stares at his lap and says nothing. He isn't up to doing anything more, and Jonah won't expect it. This sort of transient teariness has little to offer Jonah but silence, so he won't find it odd that it doesn't resolve into a screaming match. Jon tries not to get into fights with Jonah when he has something to hide, or when he's counting on privileges that could be taken away.

Eventually, Jonah has enough of looking at him and accepts that he doesn't intend to engage any further. He stands, stepping to the side of Jon's chair quickly enough to cup a hand over his hair before he tries to stand, holding Jon's head softly to his side, as though imparting comfort or strength. Jon freezes like a mouse that's heard a hawk on the wing.

"Don't hesitate to let me know if there's something that might cheer you up," Jonah says. His hand waits an extra heartbeat to move, and Jon scrambles to his feet.

Jonah escorts him to the door and Gerry on the other side. Over the years, Jon has honed the timing of wide, watery eyes staring up into Jonah's own to an art. "When you leave again, can Gerry stay? If you'll only be gone a few days anyway?"

Jonah's expression can't hide his distaste for the idea- not from Jon, who's spent years learning the slightest twitch that might spell danger- but he did just offer to cheer Jon up, and Jon only asked once the door was open and nothing protected their conversation from eavesdroppers less immediately visible than Gerry. "Of course, if it will make you happy," Jonah says, almost convincingly. "There are a number of people who should be able to replace Gerard."

Enough to replace Gerry and Michael, if Jon asks. He lowers his gaze and lets Gerry draw him away. Gerry is a security blanket; Michael is a potential spy. That's all Jonah ever needs to know about the matter, regardless of how much Jon would like to have all his friends with him as he tries to silence thoughts of Georgie and what he's lost once more, and to gird himself for the fuss Jonah will surely make of welcoming the new members, the fuss he makes of any occasion that could be remotely interpreted as formal.

Gerry lets them into Jon's rooms, and leaves again when they find Sasha absent. Knowing that both keys are out there, halving the effectiveness of the bolt he throws the moment the door is shut, is a troubling prospect, but it's never yet resulted in anyone getting inside.

He stays in the main room, unenthusiastically pouring a jigsaw puzzle onto the table and beginning to set out the pieces. He can feel Jonah's eyes on him, still; Gerry kicked the tub across the carpet into the bedroom, in case that happened. Jon- and the others, if Jonah is still watching when they return- is supposed to act normal until Jonah looks away and the tub can safely be brought into the main room and gone through. 

Gerry and Michael were whispering about things they can claim were inside, as Gerry was seen bringing it in and at least some of the contents are sure to be incriminating. Gerry had the presence of mind yesterday to say that he'd been keeping it at Pinhole Books and putting things inside as he acquired them, whenever he couldn't easily bring them straight back, at least providing a halfway-plausible reason for it to be so heavy and to have Jon's name written on the side.

The cats decide to help his casual charade by inserting themselves in the middle of his puzzle. He doesn't have to pretend to be amused and a bit irritated as he scoops them off the table only for them to immediately hop back up, and eventually stands to find the cat treats and something else for them to play with. The attempt fails utterly, and he ends up putting the puzzle away to play push-the-cat-off-the-table with them.

He can't help flinching at the sound of the door, even though the Knowledge of who it is follows a split second later. Sasha doesn't make him say anything, just locks the door behind her, hands over his key, and sits beside him to wait.

-

It takes a half hour after Gerry and Michael return and they start a board game for appearance's sake for Jonah to stop watching. They play to the end of the game and start a new one once he does; when Jon doesn't feel his eyes return, they move sit on the couch and armchairs instead and Gerry glides the tub out of the bedroom and over to Jon. The Baroness takes a flying leap from a wall platform to the couch so she can drape herself around Jon's shoulders, and Tibby wanders over regally to weigh down his feet. When the tub is delivered and Gerry sits down himself, his namesake slinks over to curl in his lap, almost invisible against Gerry's clothing.

Jon pops the lid off with his heart racing. Two objects stare up at him, covering everything beneath. One is an unlabelled binder, thick with papers. The other is a sealed bag with a piece of crumpled plastic taped to the front. He doesn't realize it's a label until he picks the bag up and notices Georgie's handwriting.

He opens it out of morbid curiosity about what could possibly be indicated by "FOR WHEN HE COMES HOME," already suspecting that it'll have him in tears. The moment he does, the air is filled with a scent he'd forgotten. He swallows, but he can hardly stop breathing.

The cult uses unscented products for the laundry. It was hardly the most distressing thing after he was kidnapped, even when the category is narrowed down to the most distressing things about his clothes and bedding specifically, and he didn't give it more than a passing thought among the catalog of things he doesn't get to have anymore. He'd feel absolutely miserable asking for special fabric softener, even though he knows everyone would be happy to comply. It isn't the sort of comfort he wants; some things are safer kept separate from how he did them before, and everyone taking up the same fabric softener because he likes it would have been awful, like they were mocking him.

But he remembers it the moment he smells it, and he already has tears in his eyes.

The smell is stronger than it should be, like she poured loads of it in. The clothes he slides out of the bag are completely unremarkable, the kind of things he half forgot he owned even then, until he came upon them in the closet or dresser.

He's sniffling as he clumsily tries to replace them into the bag, mind already spinning with what he can possibly do with them, with the bag with an ancient scrap of another taped to it. It isn't something that could've possibly come from anyone else, and he can't keep it.

Sasha takes the clothes and bag from him, neatly refolding them the way his shaking hands can't manage. He picks up the binder.

Stuffed into the inside pocket are pictures, the one Melanie and Martin confronted him with at the top. As he moves it to the back of the stack, he realizes they all have Georgie's handwriting on the back.

Midway through the stack he makes a wanting gesture toward Gerry, sitting in the armchair so that Jon isn't crowded. He doesn't know what he would say, what makes him want to show him an unremarkable picture, but Gerry shifts over the to couch with the cat cradled in his arms, and now he can look without Jon having to move or get his attention. Jon repeats the gesture, and ends up sandwiched in the middle of his friends.

He goes through the photos slowly, turning each one over to read what Georgie's written on the back, the little memories she attached to each. He manages to laugh at some of them, through the tears, and sometimes the others make little comments to show they're paying attention, teasing and joking and sympathizing.

Eventually, he moves on to the rest of the binder's contents.

No one jokes about the rest. It takes him eons to read through the tears in his eyes, going through reams of tissues in an effort to keep them from falling onto the pages.

It's every step of the search he sort of assumed never happened. Not just articles, but all the emails Georgie sent and received, the missing posters, screenshots of Facebook groups, the notes she kept for no apparent audience but herself. Even the revelation that she didn't notice him missing for days feels wonderful, a forbidden pleasure in a life so entirely observed.

Midway through, Sasha coaxes him into putting it back in the bin and drinking some water while she and Michael leave in search of lunch and Gerry hides the contraband in the bedroom. His head hurts, dehydrated from the tears that he can barely keep up with. Gerry comes back to the couch and holds him until they hear the others knock.

He's just glad that it's nothing unusual for them to get caught up and eat lunch in private, more than any other meal. Dinner is a daunting enough prospect, but Jonah will almost certainly be there and expect to see Jon there.

They play the board game while they eat, and as if on cue he feels Jonah's eyes again. They're all a bit harried and damp, but probably not so much as to be noteworthy.

He has a stone in his stomach when they can finally return to what they were doing, knowing that eventually the binder has to end. Its contents slowly trickle off, the fury of Georgie's early missives about how he wouldn't just leave without a word more subdued as police who finally allowed that he had probably met with foul play stopped searching and started giving her the cold statistics that said that he was dead. Her efforts limp along a bit longer, but eventually she gives up on finding him, dead or alive.

There are more pictures in the back pocket. He goes through them more slowly, trying to savor them. He can't keep these. Maybe if he'd thought of it years ago he could have convinced Sasha to try to drag them off Georgie's phone remotely, or to pretend to have done so, but it's too late now. They're incriminating, and he can't keep any of them.

The binder is heavy on his lap, and his heart aches. His life was so good. All the social anxieties and annoyances, the drudgery and frustrations, seem rosy in retrospect. He had a best friend who'd do anything for him, and he for her, and a home that belonged to no one but the two of them, schoolwork he was challenged and excited by, a beautiful campus he could wander around at his leisure, trees and grass and sky, buildings that housed nothing he needed that he could walk into and get lost in, surroundings that changed with the weather, and familiarity that never dulled to boredom.

He can see it, with Georgie's binder on his lap and his friends pressed against his sides, the life he should have had- they all should have had. Imagination rewrites the world, and he can picture Gerry at movie nights, picture Sasha steering their study group with a firm hand, picture Michael sloshed at a party, picture Tim and Danny enrolled in enough clubs and organizations between the two of them to exhaust six men. Picture himself watching and teasing and egging Georgie on to test the soft glances he caught Melanie giving her, picture a world where Martin looking at him the same way gave her a chance to pay him back in kind, where it wasn't a threat.

This shouldn't have been his life, but it shouldn't have been theirs either. It seems impossibly cruel that none of them got to live in that world. None of them, now that Melanie and Martin know who he is and probably even before, got a life untouched by supernatural terror, not one.

He can't picture himself without the scaffolding of Mr. Spider shoring up and snagging parts of his personality, can't rightly say what Gerry would have been like if he had different parents, but he can picture the three of them, him and Gerry and Georgie, relating their stories in hushed voices. Gerry with the knowledge to advise what to watch for, what to avoid, and he and Georgie with the conviction to insist that if his dad was worth anything he'd be proud of who Gerry's become in spite of his mother.

His friends gather round him as he sobs, and his heart insists there are half as many bodies as there should be.

And then he forces the tears down, counts his way through deep, even breaths until they don't shake with sobs anymore, and half begs Gerry to take the binder and clothes back to Georgie, since Jon can't possibly keep them.

They go down to dinner, and he tries desperately to hide his shattered heart.

Chapter Text

"Why not just take us there?" Georgie asks sharply.

He takes a deep breath. "Because Jonah pays attention when I go there. Just because he can't See inside doesn't mean he can't watch the street. I'll leave you the address; don't leave here for at least a quarter of an hour."

They don't look impressed.

"What, do you want my wallet again?" he asks, more caustic than he promised himself he would be. They're Jon's friends, Jon likes them, they're only acting like this because they're worried.

"You had time to take anything you actually need out of it this time," Melanie says.

"Melanie," Georgie says, not adding anything. Gerry reads it as agreement that Melanie is being obnoxious partially because she wants to be difficult.

He sighs, gropes around his pockets for a bit of paper and a pen. "There. Don't rush to follow. I don't have to go back until, I dunno, half four? As long as you show up before then I'll be there."

Chapter Text

They keep shooting each other looks, unsure what to make of Gerry's chatty mood. This... this is not the man they were shouting with two days ago. Is it an act? That would be too easy to prove, surely, assuming his goal really is to keep them away like Jon said.

The image on the table is footnoted and cross-referenced and cited within an inch of its life, multiple sets of handwriting crawling over the unillustrated expanses. Most of the plants have citations under them, usually one for the appearance and one for the meaning. Some of the meanings are uncited, the ones that march over the page in black that would stand out against the rest from the other side of the room. An argument plays out in three different hands debating whether the eye at the center should have an iris blending all naturally occurring eye colors together or a full rainbow. Harsh red pen cuts short a trailing artery, noting that it ought to stop at the mark rather than the drawing's three extra centimeters out.

"Who... did them?" Georgie asks, unsure of how or even whether to ask.

"The tattooing? Me, mostly. A couple others."

"How long have you..."

Gerry's head darts up, open with surprise before slamming shut with an ironic almost-grin. "Oh, no, I. We all learned for this. Mine were done professionally. Simpler, hardest bit was explaining all the places I wanted and picking an artist who could do them that small. The Signing is 'symbolic,' but plenty of people know they're tied to Beholding permanently now. They volunteered- we needed to practice. Jonah was picky about the flowers and the spine tattoos, wouldn't let the unwashed masses volunteer for those. Never a bad time to make it clear who the favorites are."

He shifts in his chair as he speaks, like he wants to get up and pace, or like he's afraid they'll start pelting him with spitballs and he'll need to dodge.

"Why so talkative today?" Martin asks, the lightness wedged into his tone with lethal force fooling no one.

"Can't be watched," Gerry says, which confirms their original motive for asking to meet here, at least. They'd been hoping to be taken to the tunnels, but agreed that a suitable opportunity to ask was unlikely to appear and they'd probably have to make do with the house.

"You had questions..." he says, like he's just remembered.

"I mean..." Melanie says, too lost in thought to say anything meanly. Her finger swirls around and around the little pink blooms.

"I- Anything you need to know, to stay away," he says, taking the wrong meaning from the words. "Anything at all. Jon- Jon needs to know you won't just turn up and try to confront Jonah."

"What exactly was the threat?" Martin asks. He's calm and icily detached. Georgie almost shudders at the implicit cruelty Martin can frost onto his voice.

Gerry's face is stormy, sad. "Jon... spent time in Artefact Storage, after the escape."

"Sounded more like tortured in Artefact Storage, the way you told it last time," Melanie says, finger stopping so it almost entirely covers the hidden sprig of flowers.

"Yes," Gerry says, looking a bit queasy. "The excuse was that he didn't understand how dangerous the world is. He came back with scars from Mum, even if she didn't kill him. Jonah likes that sort of efficiency- a demonstration of danger, a punishment for escaping, and a way to keep him from running away before the Binding all wrapped into one."

"What did he do?" Georgie has to ask, even though she's sure she'll regret knowing.

"It was the Buried," he says quietly, and it takes her a moment to connect the correct explanation from the other day. "Jon was buried alive. Only buried alive. For as long as Jonah wanted to leave him in there. He spent so much time scratching and hammering at the lid that his nails were all torn up, one fell off. I started volunteering to be locked in with him at night, because he couldn't bear to be alone."

"They were going to do that to Georgie?" Melanie asks, voice uncharacteristically soft and small, finger lightly tapping on the paper.

Gerry shrugs. "That was the implication, at least. Jon couldn't leave without her, because if he escaped alone there would be no reason not to hurt her. The Institute has plenty of hidden corners, but an artifact would be the easiest way to ensure she couldn't get out. Lots of ways to make sure there was no lock she could pick, that she couldn't persuade anyone to let her out. That was the choice: Georgie as permanent prisoner, or the Binding as a permanent tie."

It feels unreal. The others are looking at her with concern, but she can't make sense of it as a genuine threat. Like her brain is devoting all its energy to trying to light up the circuits that should spell fear, and finding them just as broken as always.

"How long did it take for Jon to go back to sleeping alone?" she asks instead. It feels weightier than the threat to herself, more real. Jon liked cuddling, when they were dating, but not necessarily overnight. They shared a bed, but half the time they ended up constructing a pillow barricade between them so they didn't keep each other up with a hundred tiny annoyances and distractions.

Gerry grimaces, raises one shoulder in a twisted-up equivocation. "He was alone after the Binding, because he couldn't be as alone as he wanted to be. Since then? Never, if you count the cats. Less than a quarter of the time, if you count us."

"Who?" Melanie asks. "You keep referring to other people, but you haven't said anything else. Who helped Jon escape? What happened?" She isn't angry, but the pace of the questions is just as fast as it would be mid-rant.

Gerry's cheek hollows as he chews on the inside, considering his response. Georgie sits in the empty chair, because her legs are starting to feel numbed by the escalating horrors Jon has been subjected to.

"Danny was friends with him first," he says eventually. "He was always a bit odd, comparatively. He wanted to explore too much for Jonah to ever agree to assign him something that would take him into the public half of the Institute, never mind anywhere past that. Kept bouncing around different jobs, never found anything that fit. You know the book deposits libraries have? The ones you can pull out, but the other side is covered until it's completely shut? Both rooms Jon's lived in have one. He got past me, once, because people started piling up little tributes and gifts around his door, and after that... yeah. Danny would sneak out after lights out, and they'd pass a piece of paper back and forth through it, mostly talking about the differences between growing up in the real world and growing up there."

"It sounded like the people who broke him out were related, earlier," Martin says, affected distance set aside for the moment.

"Danny was really close to his older brother," Gerry says with a nod. "Tim. Danny was the one who decided to help Jon escape- Jon didn't even ask- and he was the one who picked the lock on Jon's door. Didn't get much further than that- he was planning on going through Artefact Storage to get to the public Institute, but Jon got too close when he slipped me and Jonah had the security measures revamped. And Jon was terrified of Artefact Storage, even then. Tim knew about the tunnels, and he was the one who turned up trainers for Jon somewhere, and the bags and a couple quid."

"What happened to them?" Georgie asks through numb lips. If they tortured Jon for escaping...

Gerry looks at his lap, rubs the back of his neck with an inappropriate smile. "Guess it's good you wanted to talk here. Jonah was going to make a big show of being merciful- letting them leave to make their way in the world instead of being killed."

"I thought you said that would kill them," Melanie says.

He nods. "Most people didn't know that, though. He miscalculated. Jon knew, and he folded dealing with the Stokers into showing off that Jon was alive and functioning after the Binding, no thanks to him, and welcoming visitors from our sister temples visiting to see if Jonah was telling the truth. Jon begged him not to, and they offered to have the contracts signed over. Jonah made out that Jon was terrified of them and wanted them further away."

"Are they..." Melanie doesn't finish the sentence. Georgie feels it, too: a nonsensical certainty that saying it would render the men dead somehow.

Gerry shakes his head. "Tim's in Beijing, Danny's in Washington, DC. They're both doing work they enjoy more than anything the Institute would've offered them. They weren't supposed to have contact with each other, or Jon. Quincy and Xiaoling make sure their letters get to Jon, though, and vice versa. Being the guy who stole Jon is an unpopular position here, but being the guy who's friends with Jon goes a long way with people who've never met him. They're both doing well."

That explains the odd remark about the location, she realizes. If he's telling the truth, Jon has some secrets, at least.

"Three of us Jon's close to here," he continues. His face turns grave. "Michael and I were on recruiting. He drove, and I carried Jon out to the car and got hold of something to knock him out. Sasha found him when he got past me and brought him back. Jonah kept roping them into things with Jon, because all three of us were able to more or less function around him. Shine went off sometime while we were listening to Jon scream to be let out on shifts, for both of them."

"Why didn't you let him out?" she blurts. She grimaces, expecting exactly the kind of answer she gets.

"It was locked, and there was no way we were getting the key. And we probably wouldn't have been able to get him out of the Institute, especially in the shape he was in. They'd just throw him back in."

The three people Jon trusts are the ones who kidnapped him and kept him there. The ones he's friends with.

It feels stolid, heavy, less like a lie. There's too much. It's too much. If they accept part of the story, it's made up of interlocking truths. If Jon is in contact with people who helped him escape, Gerry and the others keep his secrets. If they keep his secrets, they must be the closest thing he has to friends. If they're friends, he doesn't see them as threats.

If milkweed means "let me go," Gerry inscribed his disapproval of the situation onto Jon's skin permanently.

"How is Jon getting letters from the Stokers?" she asks, moving her hand to rest on Melanie's, flowers sprouting between their fingers. 

Chapter Text

Jon doesn't leave his rooms after Jonah leaves. He spends most of his time with his senses jittering, trying to tell whether he's being watched.

He wishes Michael were here. 

Gerry vanished for a few hours when he took the binder and clothes back to Georgie. He must have been drawn into another conversation, explaining why he was bringing them back, and probably a lot of other things. They don't talk about it. But when he comes back, Jon can't stand to wait any longer to continue looking through the tub of his old things.

Nothing is as intense or time-consuming as the binder and clothing, but it's an overwhelming kaleidoscope of memories. He wishes Michael were here because he misses him, but also because overwhelming kaleidoscope distractions are his specialty. Gerry and Sasha do their best, but nothing short of brass band assertiveness is up to taking his mind off of what Georgie saw fit to save.

He'd forgotten his favorite jumper, blue and fitting like a second skin, comfortable and sleek. He made himself forget the quilt Gran made him when he got into Oxford, one of the last gifts she gave him before she died. He sets aside the hoodie he lost in the breakup, when Georgie pretended not to know it hadn't been hers in the first place and he pretended to be upset about that, the electric feeling of being in cahoots breaking the pretense with smiles they couldn't hold straight. He doesn't like the idea of Georgie having nothing of him. Now that he's been given the chance to plant little flags of himself in the outside world, he needs it. She'll probably toss it- probably tossed the binder and clothes, too, less sentimental about him alive and refusing to see her than she was about him dead- but he can still pretend.

The others only leave to get food and when they hit the bottom of the tub, the sum remnants of his life before exhausted. Gerry goes to take the things he can't keep back to Georgie, and to dispose of the tub. The contents are hidden around his rooms, slipped between other clothes and at the bottoms of drawers, with the most precious the most hidden. Having the quilt, the ugly beanie Georgie knit him for their first anniversary, the snippy note from an old flatmate who turned out to be a sleepwalker about them supposedly eating all her olives every time she bought more that they'd spent hours laughing over, matters more than being able to use and look at them.

Everything is assigned a backstory, too. Gerry buys him things from secondhand shops anyway, but he goes on a spree so that there won't be a suspicious gap around so many things suddenly populating Jon's space. He didn't keep any photos, but he does have a few papers, like the note, that he can't stand to part with; Sasha starts an entirely innocent, Jonah-approved scrapbook, and they slide contraband between the pages, kept safe out of sight in plastic sheet protectors, hidden behind scrapbook pages of Jon, alternately stiff and on display and smiling behind locked doors, of the cats and the friends he's allowed to acknowledge. She starts taking scrap paper from various places, announcing a desire to incorporate tangible aspects of the cult that store-bought paper and embellishments just can't provide, plausible deniability if the hidden pages are ever pulled out.

He discovers when they present him with a hideous set of stuffed mice that every time one of them has left his rooms to fetch things or make sure they're seen frequently enough no one will come knocking with ensuring their welfare as their excuse, they've been sitting down somewhere visible and teaching themselves to knit so that they can claim to be the origin of Georgie's lumpy, lopsided hat. They spend the rest of the evening taking turns letting him cling to them and stain their shoulders with tears.

When they've done their best to make it look like nothing forbidden was ever here, the three of them curl up together on his bed, sapping some of the tears from him just by being there, sensory proof that he isn't as alone and bereft as he feels.

-

Jonah's return has them all trying not to act anxious, but between every breath Jon can feel the anticipation of being found out. Jonah, for a mercy, seemingly attributes his anxiety to the official welcome for the newcomers, approaching with the surety of an oncoming freight train. When he thinks about it, Jonah's almost right.

Everything feels new and frightful with the ghost of Georgie freshly prominent in his memory.

-

Formal occasions are the exception to the general rule that Jon's rooms are safe from Jonah. He's still sore about Jon giving Gerry the spare key instead of someone who would let Jonah requisition it any time he pleased. He won't relinquish the latest batch of ridiculous clothing and accessories to anyone, and Jon stopped trying to call his bluff very quickly. Jonah will let him attend in normal clothes, let him hide away in his rooms and not attend at all, but there's hell to pay after. 

The only time he tried the latter approach, Jonah told everyone he was ill. The next time he left his rooms he was swept off to the Infirmary for a week and a half to "recover." Lesere had no illusions about why he was there, and runs the Infirmary with an iron fist, but she couldn't give him more privacy than the curtains between the beds when people started sustaining real injuries to get inside to gawk.

It's fortunate that Jonah rarely tries to delve deeper if he thinks he knows what Jon is reacting to. He isn't that much more afraid of Jonah coming into his rooms and discovering something from Georgie, and either taking it away or forcing him to admit where he got it, than he is of Jonah coming into his rooms, period. And he is more worried about this time than usual.

Every time there's a Signing Jon sits in his box in the audience, and suffers overeager teenage puppy love at dinner. Recruits are handled differently. They've all signed their contracts already; the welcome is less about procedural practicalities than it is an opportunity to eliminate any doubts they have with fountains of affection.

But they'll still all be looking at Jon. They'll still all be invited to eat dinner at the high table, expanded for the occasion.

He can't possibly distract dozens of adults the way he can distract a single teenager.

(Michael tries to give him a pep talk by pointing out how fatalistic "dozens" sounds. The ensuing argument about whether the plural can be appropriately applied to a group of twenty-six does distract him from worrying for a bit.)

They stick to Jon's rooms when the day arrives. The morning is all laughing preparation, eking out safe and private moments before Jonah descends.

At the back of Jon's closet is an old-fashioned folding screen. Behind it is the vanity Jonah always sets him before, drawers cluttered with expensive products he never uses and more expensive jewelry he never wears. He makes enough concessions to Jonah's externalized ego in the crown and the products that he isn't allowed to replace with cheap, familiar alternatives that keep his hair and skin healthy and soft in anticipation of the next imposition of ceremony. He isn't going to wear perfume and makeup and glittering ornaments when he isn't forced into it, isn't going to sit before the vanity and face his reflection on any occasion Jonah isn't there to make him sit with his back to the mirror until he's whirled around for a grand reveal Jon hasn't appreciated once.

Jonah is constantly choosing new hairstyles for him, and it's Sasha's job to enact them. They're constantly increasing in complexity. Their running theory is that Jonah is hoping to eventually corner her into asking to practice on Jon ahead of time, saving the planet from days Jon leaves his rooms with hair messily caught by cheap, soft scrunchies from Gerry and Michael.

When his imprisonment was new and his hair short, she was more than skilled enough. Sasha's done her own hair since her parents' passing, with help that was just as often hindrance from Danny and Tim. As Jonah's selections have escalated, as Jon's hair has grown, she's been pushed increasingly out of her comfort zone. Sasha's hair is too tightly coiled to give a clear picture of how well she's learned a skill intended for Jon's. She practices new methods with knots of shoelaces until the rhythm is second nature. Then she moves on to Gerry's hair, long enough to fiddle with but straight and short enough to be easily combed out.

Michael's hair is similar to Jon's in length and curl, just a bit thinner, and he's always happy to let her practice. He wears styles destined for Jon at least once a week, and without artifice gushes over each, over how much nicer his hair is with Sasha saving it from elastic and breakage

Three years ago, Jon and Gerry managed to obtain funding and permission to gift Michael lessons; the three of them kept it secret from Sasha until the course ended, and he was able to offer, haltingly, blushing, uncharacteristically shy, to return the favor and help with her hair. Sasha had burst into tears, and five seconds later practically crawled into Michael's lap to hug him. Jon and Gerry received the same treatment when she was done wrapping herself around Michael's neck, the two of them bouncing thanks and compliments back and forth.

They start preparing after breakfast, cushions pulled behind the screen so they can sit on the floor and tangle together. He and Gerry spectate and ransack the vanity; Jonah can't argue with Jon loaning accessories to his friends for occasions like this, much as he'd like to. Jon has just enough contact with people outside the Institute for a report that he's been barred from something small and harmless and temporary that makes him happy to be a genuine threat. Sasha looks far better with gold threaded through her hair than him, in Jon's opinion.

By the time Gerry returns from a brief sojourn to obtain lunch, Sasha looks like a star-spangled goddess and Michael's glass and plastic rainbow have been replaced with the versions intended for Jon, in a style from months ago so Jonah won't get bent out of shape about him stealing Jon's thunder, bright and beaming at his reflection. The two of them are the only regular members who have formal clothing; Gerry dresses the same no matter what the occasion, but he irritated Jonah out of punishing his appropriation of funds to outfit Michael and Sasha with the reasoning that they're often placed beside Jon in his box, or bracketing him while he waits for Jonah to say a few words before he's to take up his seat dead-center, and should complement him rather than pulling him down with drab mundanity. 

They each have a small section of Jon's absurdly capacious closet for the half dozen outfits apiece Gerry furnished. Jon had to insist to them that he's happy to see them happy; they both take more joy in the clothes than he does in his own trappings, and seeing them eases some of his own discomfort. It's a tiny benefit, a reason to keep himself in order aside from Jonah's power to punish him for acting out; if Jon does this, his friends get a little flake of happiness.

Jonah is in fine form today. Jon's sure his planned speech can't possibly run much longer than an hour, an hour and a half at the outside if he introduces each new member by name, and dinner is always at the same time no matter what the circumstance, but Jonah knocks on his door just after lunch.

They expected he would; Michael has chosen to "show initiative," and he and Jon are already tucked away with the Baroness. Sasha lets Jonah in, takes the dozen-odd concoctions Michael's supposed to use in Jon's bath, and races around through the closet. They've locked the door into the main room, because that's the one Jonah is likely to try first, but the door that faces into the closet is unlocked until Sasha's delivered her burden. By the time Jonah realizes the deception, both doors are locked and won't open until Jon is safely wearing a robe.

-

Jonah tried to press for icons of eyes being as great a presence in Jon's rooms as they are elsewhere in the Institute, allowing him to peer in anywhere he likes. Gerry and Sasha were able to push back on most of his desired additions, and Gerry carefully defaced several between the rooms being finished and Jon moving in. Jonah didn't realize they were gone until Jon was here, and Gerry made sure everything is in harmony with the general level of careful quality of the rooms, so he wouldn't be able to insist on grounds of the absence in and of itself constituting an objective flaw.

They didn't get them all, though. Several, the most hidden, are left uncovered elsewhere, so that Jonah thinks Jon either doesn't know they're there or is too cowed to shut him out entirely. Here, though, is different. Jonah was decent enough that he didn't insist on a large number of eyes, but there are some. Again, Jonah is decent enough to allow them to remain covered practically all the time without complaint, where they haven't been removed entirely.

Jon can feel him watching, though. Michael can't cover them up when Jonah is watching, because he's supposed to be Jonah's eyes and ears in Jon's inner circle. Jon has to be the one to search out all the places where eyes are hidden to discover which has become uncovered. 

Jonah pushed for marble here the way Gerry wouldn't let him push for gold or gemstones anywhere. None of them realized that Jonah had picked through mountains of it until it was too late. There's a tile on the floor and another on the wall of the shower stall where the stone's gray veins swirl into a passable depiction of an eye, impossible to remove without tearing up and re-laying all of the stone. There was another set into the hot water knob of the sink. A fourth was hidden among the waves of the nautical painting that had hung on the wall, a fifth carved minutely into the frame. The last is on the door; none are as heavily carved as the exterior door, but all Jon's doors are carved beautifully. The loo's doors are covered in flowers, the same ones in Jon's tattoos, but half hidden behind an oak leaf is a single bright-eyed bird.

Sasha personally replaced the knob with one she had Gerry buy, a misfit, mass produced silver answer to the stately black, custom cold tap and faucet that makes Jon smile every time he sees it. The ship painting was disposed of near immediately, the place it hung eventually filled with a photo of a moody, overcast beach, the sort Jon associates with his childhood far more than the tourist crowded summer months; Gerry traveled to Bournemouth especially to take it, and its frame cost him less than the ice cream he bought himself as a stubborn adherence to his announcement that he couldn't stand to look at Jonah any longer and was departing on a beach holiday.

Sasha, still in possession of all of the necessary information from the purchases for building and outfitting his rooms, went straight back to where the original bath mat was purchased and bought him a new, bigger one, so large that it covers half the floor, including the offending tile. The bird has been blinded half a dozen ways over the years, from cloths duct-taped over its head until Jonah ordered the tape's removal lest it damage the wood, to clay shaped into the inverse of the bird capping it over. Currently, Sasha and Gerry's ongoing adventures in knitting have produced a tightly-knit blindfold that wraps all the way around the door, just thin enough where it passes around the edges for the door to open and close smoothly.

Today's culprit- the usual culprit- is the tile in the shower. Duct tape hasn't been banned there, but between the humidity and the coolness of the stone it often loses its grip. It's also the most onerous to replace.

Jon repeats to himself that he isn't upset. It's convenient, even, that he has to reach out to snag a towel and drag it underwater. The Baroness keeps the water churning and translucent enough for him to convince himself it's fine, at least. If he wasn't already in the bath, Jonah would have demanded he go out to speak with him first, but it's been long enough that it's no longer quite hot enough for some of the products Jonah insists be added. By the time the towel is secure around his waist, it's had more than enough time to ensure that he takes a significant amount of the water with him as he climbs out and roots under the sink to find the roll of tape and marches over to the shower to slap it over the tile. Wet hands mean he'll need to replace it again after dinner, but it'll hold for now.

The room stays sharp with the feeling of being observed, though. Jonah getting a look inside always seems to remind Beholding that it can watch him closely here. His tattoos are a fizzing presence on his skin, the Baroness's eyes feel heavier than they should. Michael's eyes go glossy and his smile stretches, no longer entirely his sparkling, spirited friend.

Jonah's never been able to use those eyes, at least. Beholding reserves his skin and pets and friends for its own exclusive use, settling this heavily infrequently enough that it always gives him a jolt of surprise, like he's walked up a flight of stairs and expected an extra once he's reached the top.

Jonah insists he has no ulterior motives, but Beholding's gaze feels less prurient, less humiliating. Maybe he's even telling the truth; it's far easier to attribute such motives to a human than to this.

The laughter and camaraderie are gone, though. The Baroness is too loosely tied, or not intelligent enough, or something that means she remains herself when the Eye sets up shop behind her own. Maybe she just loves the bath too much to be distracted from it by anything. Michael isn't so lucky.

He smiles, and smiles, and smiles. It would be equally uncanny if he didn't, but it cuts deeper that it's so near what he'd choose to do with his face, uninfluenced. It's a hair too wide, too fixed. He doesn't joke or chat with Jon anymore. He directs Jon when he needs him to move and occasionally he sighs dreamily. When Jon laughs at the Baroness trying to climb onto the rim of the bath so she can dive back in from its superior height and sliding straight over it onto the mat, Michael laughs a second too late and far too hard, and doesn't pass her to Jon until he asks.

He doesn't have his friend back until he's wrapped in a robe and shuffling out to be installed in front of the vanity. Then Michael gives his arm a squeeze and picks up his train of thought almost where he left it, chattering about all the new people they've brought in over the last few weeks. He hasn't brought it up before now, but with Jon already drawn into the preparations he's anxious enough that Michael can't make it any worse. It's better, actually; Michael has a good idea who might be easy to redirect and who's more likely to forge on no matter how Jon tries to distract them.

And knowing the names and Michael's implicit assessments ahead of time, Jon can use dinner to commit to memory the faces of those most likely to seek him out and corner him in the near future.

Sasha preempts anything Jonah might say with the hairdryer. Jon's hair is too long now to be dry in time otherwise. Michael moves slowly, managing as much as he can one-handed so that he can hold Jon's hand and keep him calm and out of trouble, keep his hands in his lap and his shoulders lowered. Jonah hates it when he hunches or slaps his hands over his ears at the noise.

With his hair dry, Michael is able to help Jon into the base layer of clothing. He can tell from experience the sort of outfit he can anticipate; Jonah regards every element of ceremonial clothing as single use, but there are recurring themes. Today, it's probably a skirt that brushes the floor if it doesn't trail behind him, no matter how many times he's come close to tripping on them. He recovers and adjusts before he's put in front of people, and that's good enough for Jonah. Less tentative is the realization that his chest tattoo will spend today on full display, not a scrap of the base layer extending above his navel.

Sasha works quickly. He gets to keep his head lowered while she works on the back, watching Michael fuss at his nails. Gerry is long gone; he cleared out the moment Jonah arrived, because historically Gerry's presence while Jon is decorated like a doll has lead to conflict. Jonah is immovable on this subject, so it's better for everyone if Gerry's ability to keep a civil tongue is removed from the equation entirely. He has better things to spend his objections on.

Too soon, Sasha progresses far enough that Jonah gets to tip Jon's chin up and start making him up. He has a difficult task before him today: Jon's eyes are red with on and off tears he still hasn't managed to entirely shake. It's a tiny snub, an imperfection Jonah can't will or threaten away. The only other victory Jon has on days like today is the fact that Jonah has never made more than theoretical gestures toward making him give up his glasses for contacts that would allow the shimmering colors around his eyes to be shown off uninhibited.

Jon makes no comment when he's shown his face in the mirror, just picks up his glasses and shoves them on. Then his hand is in Jonah's and he's being drawn off the bench for the next stage of the farce.

He doesn't know if Jonah ever peeks into his head for his assessment of the clothes chosen for him, but if he does he's disappointed by what he finds. Aside from his distaste for being shown off like art up for auction, aside from the humiliation that's the only reaction he can muster when he gives thought to how much the materials must cost even before factoring in labor and skill, Jon finds most of the things Jonah dresses him in ridiculous. In his opinion, he usually winds up looking more like an alien in a film commended for its costume design but quickly forgotten due to the failings of every other part of production than any of the lofty roles Jonah is clearly aiming for.

He feels a pang for his secondhand suit, mended with nothing but thread, needle, and his own hands. He has to struggle to keep his eyes from filling with tears; he can't cry, he can never cry once they're so far into the process. He doesn't want to be sent back to the bath to start over.

He thinks he could curtain a floor-to-ceiling window with the material pooling around him, soft, heavenly pale silk. He has to hold back tears again when it becomes apparent that he won't even be allowed the plunging necklines or open vests of previous costumes, just bands around his upper arms, loose, fine necklaces, chiming bracelets. His face is hot at being so on display.

Jonah shoos Sasha and Michael away; they're to run on ahead and install themselves in the box while Jonah escorts Jon, his eyes glued to the floor by the fear of tripping and the weight of the staring band settled on his head.

Chapter Text

All eyes are on Jonah as he enters the chapel though, of course, they aren't really meant for him. Jon is a shining presence on his arm, beauty drawing the eye above and beyond the natural response to him entering the room. The usual circle of seats that would settle the new recruits facing out into the crowd they're newly part of has been altered; for the first time since Jon's arrival, the dilemma of a large number of recruits has arisen, and Jonah and Gertrude agreed that it would be preferable to tighten the arrangement; better to have the atomized spacing of the usual arrangement broken by packing them shoulder to shoulder in a half circle than to have someone turn backward so they can see Jon.

Their steps are traced by one of Jon's pets. Jonah only thanks his luck that it's the American cat, the only one with the regal air to accentuate Jon's dearness rather than detract. It frays the provocation of the animal's presumptuousness a bit.

The flicker of annoyance at seeing Michael and Sasha wearing adornments meant for Jon is still there, but he must admit they set off the spectacle beautifully. Gertrude fades into the corner of the box, the better to observe their new arrivals and identify likely problems and uses, but Michael and Sasha bracket Jon's sides like the moons to his sun, enrobing Jon in an aura of unearthly luxury. When Jonah hands him up into the box Jon is a primordial vision, bare chest giving an elemental air to the pool of silk and glimmer of gold, the asymmetry of the looped braids marching lower and lower across his forehead until the last dangles before his left ear ethereal. The cat settles peacefully at his feet.

By the time he's seated, the recruits have all gotten an eyeful of the tattoos that trace his spine as well as the life-giving eye that sprawls into arterial, botanical vibrancy proliferating out from his sternum the same way the crowd slowly thins from the densely-packed seats around Jon outward, gathering again where those who could not find seats near him have selected those opposite, offering them the clearest view of the nearest thing to deity on the face of the Earth.

Jon folds his hands in his lap and holds his spine straight, eyes darting curiously between the newcomers but always coming back to rest on Jonah. He feels overwhelming pride for the man who once shrunk and curled where Jonah stands now. For all their differences, for all the fear that bubbles up inside Jon like an inexhaustible spring, for all the modesty that still sets Jon to blushing whenever he sees how the eyes of others are eternally drawn to him, he's blossomed under their care.

Jonah's speech contains little of interest; he hardly alters the words for each occasion, only throwing in mention of any particular points of interest in either the Institute's needs or the newcomers' skills. Always there are the references to whatever of the Powers those in this batch have encountered; there are always a few running into the Eye's welcoming embrace to escape from other tormentors, and acknowledging that reinforces to them that their decision to join has secured their safety, and to the others that far more danger lurks in the world they've to this point called home than they ever imagined.

Poor Jon flinches at the mention of the spiders that dogged one young man into Beholding's service, and Jonah makes a mental note to observe their interactions closely, to ensure that the starry-eyed recruit doesn't press the topic to the point of shaking Jon's confidence. With the Web as both the infuriating Power of Jon's first encounter and the only one to manage to draw him out of the Institute, he turns as delicate as bone china when the topic is allowed to linger.

When he closes his speech and collects Jon, it falls to the other three inhabitants of the box and Gerard, appearing from out of the woodwork, to herd the newcomers on ahead of the rest of the congregation. The cat tags along behind her master for a ways. Jon bends, held upright by Jonah's counterweight, and runs a hand from the animal's ears down to the tip of its tail. He peers behind them through one of the eyes in the molding and sees the expressions of the newcomers softening with renewed adoration at the scene. A few hallways later, Jon pets the cat a second time and it departs for its own dinner. 

Jonah is merely grateful that he won't have to suffer food scraps being slipped under the table for the animal; not only is it inappropriate for Jon to display such behavior on an occasion such as this, he has no idea what bits of dinner might be dangerous to it, and doubts many of the recruits do, either. Little as he likes it, Jon would be heartbroken over the premature demise of his pet, and Jonah wouldn't know where or whether to begin to protect the culprit from the consequences enforced by their peers. They've all sat through the portion of their orientation outlining the proper way to behave around the creatures, but it's far harder to maintain such discipline if faced with Jon himself pampering it.

Jon sits neatly at Jonah's right hand, hands in his lap and eyes lowered, curiosity momentarily dimmed by the visual noise of the clamoring crowd all trying to secure the best seats. It's why Jonah allows him to take refuge in his rooms so often, that sharp increase in anxiety he can sense by barely skimming Jon's thoughts whenever too much sensory input has hammered against the delicate instrument of Jon's mind.

Jon handles the press of strangers beautifully, giving no outward appearance of stress or irritation that might poison their new peers against them, the wringing of his hands in his lap visible only to Jonah, banished once he has allowed Jonah to fill his plate and takes up his fork. His eyes dart up, peering through his lashes, fleeting emotion flickering over the placid surface of his expression.

Jonah ties the pace of his own dining to Jon's, ensuring that he can signal for the next course without either of them having to wait or being cut off too soon. The table hushes whenever Jon speaks, no one making any sound that might mean he needs to raise his voice above a shy murmur. 

Jon holds the whole enterprise together in a way Jonah and his Archivists have never managed, binding hearts to Beholding with his care to take interest in any who settle quietly before him, providing a mutual purpose more concrete and allowing for more individual ingenuity than any Jonah has ever instituted. He takes such care to ensure that none who do nothing to entirely deserve his fear or ire catch wind of his displeasure, kept gated in the privacy of his quarters and the faithful confidants Jonah has chosen for him.

When the interludes between vague efforts at the half-eaten dessert on Jon's plate have grown longer and longer with conversation Jonah can see beginning to wear on him, he sets his own fork aside and stands, offering a hand to Jon.

"Might I speak to you in my office?" he asks.

Jon lowers his gaze and sets his own utensil down, drawing a swarm of eyes to his movements as he takes Jonah's hand and stands.

Jon stays sweetly at Jonah's side until they're behind his office door. Then, he pulls away with violent speed, wrapping his arms around himself as he whirls out of Jonah's immediate orbit, silk swirling around his feet. At the first shudder of his shoulders, Jonah steps-to and wraps his arms around Jon, resting his chin over the younger man's head and holding him gently to his breast.

"You're alright," he coos as Jon begins to cry in earnest, silence dripping away like slow-melting ice. "You did wonderfully, Jon, but it's finished now. I'm so proud of you."

Jon shudders against his chest, making no move to shift away. Slowly, Jonah manages to guide him over to an armchair, where he sits and draws Jon onto his lap, curled against his chest with one of Jonah's hands cupping the back of his head.

A glimpse into Jon's mind reveals heartache and fear, fear Jonah solemnly accepts as a necessity of his role. Jon desires so many unsuitable things, the grasping fervor that draws Beholding to him often straying below his station, drawing him toward plebeian objects and occupations; Jonah must play the malevolent obstruction some of the time. Jon has no idea of how strongly other forces would seek his end, how many would snuff out his precious light or entangle him inescapably in base and dreadful happenings.

Jon is still so young; not yet thirty, practically a child, with barely a tenth of Jonah's experience. He has years yet to mature and grow into his role, years to accept the necessity of Jonah's actions, to realize that, ruthless as they sometimes are, they have never worked toward anything but his comfort and safety. Perhaps he's stunted Jon holding him so close, reluctant to allow that sweet naivety to fade. Even so, they've all the time they could ever want for Jon to stretch and grow and explore. Given all that time, someday Jon's bad influences will End and he'll grow to see the world with the same impartial humor Jonah does, see the sharp, clear line through all the petty concerns of ordinary people to their own higher purpose. 

Jonah is happy to wait and nurture the growing pains, to protect Jon when he refuses to protect himself, soothe the wounded kindnesses that decades will bring to someone as trusting as Jon. He is happy to humor the quirks and follies that may never fade, to give the Institute's halls over to successive feline generations and ensure Jon always has the option of the simpler adornment he prefers to the glittering alternative upon his brow tonight.

Slowly, Jon stops shaking and presses back against Jonah's hands. He allows him to sit upright, and rather than pry into what so overwhelmed him starts taking off the jewelry that weighs Jon down, setting each piece on the side table to tangle together while he has more vital concerns, plucking away Jon's glasses to rest atop the hoard.

When Jon is once more bereft of any adornment but his own precious self, Jonah scoops him into his arms and stands. Jon is fine-boned, a frail weight that led Jonah to double the efforts to maintain the fitness that will allow this body to last until he could take it easily in his arms, eliciting a squeaking gasp at the movement. Jonah sets him on the divan and kneels at his feet, removing the soft slippers flecked with staring beads and carefully helping Jon wrap his arms around his neck so that Jonah can lift him just enough to slip silk back down over his hips, leaving him in his soft, simple base layer. He guides Jon, smeared makeup and all, hair half-loose with only the non-decorative fixtures remaining, to lie down so that Jonah can take the soft pillow and blanket he keeps tucked away for such occasions and cover and cushion Jon, leaving him half dozing while Jonah strides over to his desk to give his attention to other matters.

He gets little done. Jon wavers between going heavy-lidded and verging on sleep and staring wide-eyed around the dimly lit office, listless in the exhaustion that follows tears.

Jonah masters his jealousy at peering into Jon's mind to see thoughts of the traitors who would have had him waste himself on the world he still longs for. The poignancy of their memory will fade someday, as details blur and the wisdom of age sees the imprudence of consigning Jon to such a life. Jonah has always prided himself on being a patient man.

Eventually, as he watches Gertrude draw the night to a close from afar, he leaves the pretense of work to sit on the floor beside the divan. Jon stares dully at him, sleep clouding his mind and dismay beating in his chest. Jonah threads fingers lightly through Jon's hair. "You'd be wasted on them. You'll understand what I see, in the end."

Jon's shoulders creep up as he bows inward. "Will I?" he asks, scratchy and sour.

"Yes. You'll recognize why men like us take what we want from the world without becoming strung up in all its futile convulsions. See what it owes us."

"I'm nothing like you," Jon says, speeding heart betraying the doubt he feels.

"If you say so," Jonah says indulgently, leaning forward to press his lips to the crown of Jon's head and, ever so gently, pushing a view of how changed London is, how little his own youthful preoccupations matter in the face of that change.

Jon doesn't voice dissent again, just lets his eyes go distant with thought until Gerard makes him jolt with his knock on the office door and impudent entrance without waiting for Jonah's invitation. Eric was such a bright, steady boy; Jonah supposes it's in the blood, though, the mother's insolence persevering in the son.

Gerard lifts Jon into his arms rather than trying to locate his shoes or help him stand on tired legs; it's a point of chivalry Jonah is amused to see Jon allow without the squirming that met him. It's another sign of what Jon will grow into someday, easy acceptance of the consideration he's due that will eventually encompass more than his bosom companions.

Jonah shifts to rest his arms on the divan, his head on his arms, not bothering to rise from the floor as his sight follows the pair through the halls. Outside Jon's door Michael and Sasha wait, gone on ahead of Gerard because Jon prefers company after the exertion of ceremony. Jon makes a mumbling move to ask Sasha for his key, and she produces it and lets the little quartet in, the key reverently unused before its owner arrived and carefully placed in its place anticipating his next departure. 

He gains a little flash of Knowledge, a scene from a time when he wasn't observing, and realizes that before, she's always carried the borrowed key on a bracelet on formal occasions. She drew it out of a pocket, tonight, and he Knows that Jon sat in concentration, carefully picking out the seam of her dress and stitching pockets into it, stitching snaps to the pockets so they can be securely closed, hiding the key without the faintest hint, safe from the curious hands of someone with more affection than discretion. A charming reflection of the methods of Jonah's youth.

Jon vanishes behind a door with Michael, running a fresh bath to ease him out of the increasingly-mussed makeup and hair product. When they emerge, Jon's hair dripping in a braid down his back and the gray cat dripping in his arms, all retreat to the bedroom, curled up together so that Jon always has a reminder of his worth near.

Chapter Text

Rosie flicks open her compact to check her eyeliner again. She knows it was her own fault, but being reprimanded for taking a non-standard lunch break still has her feeling a bit shaken and teary. It's essential that she keep her makeup neat, and she put too much effort into teaching herself how to use it to err in that arena now. Her eyes are still a bit red, but she sets aside her compact; it's more obvious to fidget with it than to act as though there's nothing unusual to see, she's positive.

She hears the door behind her open, just out of the line of sight from the space in front of her desk, and doesn't turn around. She's always careful to maintain to herself that it's probably just one of the researchers or librarians moving between the halves of the Institute. Being observed observing them renders that part of her job moot, and appearing hopeful would be humiliating.

She can hear footsteps pattering over, and her heart lifts a bit. It's rare for any of the employees to walk so quickly or unevenly.

Finally, when she sees a shape in her periphery, she turns her head just enough to confirm who it is. She smiles at Jon, wondering a bit why he's carrying a cushion and preparing to write a note to report to Gertrude that Diana is running the Library laxly enough for Jon to feel he needs to bring outside seating.

Jon smiles at her, and she tries not to blush. He skitters sideways, toward her desk, but instead of standing to the side to ask a question he ducks to the floor, shoving his cushion beneath himself and settling with his back against the drawers of her desk. "Hello!"

"Hello," she says, a bit wispily, heart pounding. "Is there something you need?"

Jon ducks his head. "I thought you might. Like a little company? I have a book. Or if it'll bother you I can go."

He doesn't move to stand in the second she sits speechless, trying to process what he's saying, so she feels tentatively confident in saying, "If that's what you want..."

He raises his face and beams up at her, making her heart skip. "Thank you!"

She turns back to refresh her email, in case the ten seconds of conversation have disguised one arriving. She does her best to see to each, whether that means drafting a response herself or forwarding an inquiry on to the correct person to help, within one minute of arrival, excepting her lunch break. She doesn't know why she decided to leave for lunch early that day; it's so unlike her. Her reliability is why she has this job in the first place, and many of the Institute's contacts must depend on knowing when an answer will and won't be prompt. If she had a mobile she would check on her lunch break as well, but as she doesn't leave the Institute she doesn't need one, and eating at her desk would be unprofessional. Another reason she needs to be here when she's expected to be: the phone! She's supposed to take the cord with her on her break, so that no one uses it without permission.

It takes a moment to check the four quarters her monitor is split into, windows for the emails for the Institute generally, Jonah, Gertrude, and the in-house messaging system. She's meant to ensure that messages are passed on to the Head and Archivist only when necessary, and for a broad list of topics she's tasked with sending along a drafted reply for them, too.

Nothing on her screen, she sneaks a glance back down at Jon, who is sitting cross-legged on his cushion, having pulled a book out of his messenger bag. It's lovely, buttery leather with a beaded eye on the flap, the strap padded where it rests against his neck. The golden circle securing the splay of the jeweled eye on his brow winks in the light.

He's tucked safely into the curve of her desk; it hides him from the entire lobby, and she thinks someone coming through the secret door would only notice him if they were looking, or if they came to the side or back of her desk and tripped over him. She keeps alert for the sound of the door; it isn't something that's ever happened before, aside from Jonah occasionally coming down the staircase on the side opposite Jon to speak with her, but it wouldn't do to fail to warn someone off before they could disturb Jon if it did.

She feels quite warm toward the intimidating dark wood and black stone sweep of the desk, an amputated eyebrow raised toward the lobby. It's always felt austere and glossily chic, the perfect armor against the errant glare of the world, but with Jon nestled behind it it takes on the character of an embrace, holding him cupped behind its bulk, safe from greedy strangers' curiosity.

She feels a bit sad when she has to wind up the phone cord and unlock the drawer with her lunch and the brass out of office sign inside. Jon is unlikely to want to stay alone, and has his own meal to leave for.

When she stands from her chair, Jon's head shoots up and he scrambles to his feet. Her stomach sinks at the thought that he finds her unwelcoming.

Jon ducks his head, holding the book to his chest with his arms crossed at the wrist. "Do you mind if I eat with you? I have lunch in my bag."

"If you're sure..." she says as she moves toward the room where she takes her break. It's a tiny little storage room, full of the cleaning supplies for the custodial staff and the extra pens and printer paper and paperclips it's her duty to dole out, though they're  portioned out for distribution from her desk first so she doesn't have to leave it. There are two rickety chairs at the lopsided table, at least, though she's never once had a lunch companion.

Jon doesn't say much, and she doesn't try to engage him in conversation. A good bit of the inclination to pry into his life fled when the Web pulled him from the Institute. She wasn't reprimanded then, though it was only possible for him to leave unnoticed because she wasn't at her desk; Gertrude assured her that they were well aware that if the Web could pull Jon from the Institute, it could pull Rosie from her desk.

It isn't her own feelings at all that killed her desire to ply Jon with questions and conversation, terrible as the yawning horror of having him appear before her, her gaze diverted until he spoke, was. Jon with a loop of flowers dangling crushed from his fingers, eyes glassy with lingering shock and fear, her name falling from his lips like it had been torn out of him.

She hadn't even realized that he knew her name, before then. She supposes he could have read it off the nameplate on her desk, but he didn't seem in a state to manage that. He barely managed to choke out scattered fragments about the Web.

He thanked her, after. When the fright faded enough for him to venture out of his rooms, though he kept pressed to Gerard or Sasha's side for days even then. He was alone when he approached Rosie; it was the first time anyone had seen him alone since his encounter with Annabelle Cane.

No one was rushed in getting to dinner, as word had gone out through the Institute's rumor mill that its preparation was delayed by a small fire caused by one of the teenage girls interning in the kitchen, and no one expected Jon to be there at all. Rosie is rarely privy to that part of the gossip, though, since she spends so much time in public and alone; it makes her anxious, wondering what people might be saying about her, confident that she's less likely to find out than the average disciple. She was alone on a stretch of table, barely a dozen others there so early.

Jon had slipped up to her before the murmur announcing that he'd been sighted at the door could disperse across the thin crowd. Gerard hung back, well out of earshot, though once she processed Jon's presence and looked for him he gave her a severe, warning look.

Jon had thanked her. Not for running faster than she's ever run in her life to fetch Gertrude, once he was safely away, but for what she'd done before then. He thanked her for walking him to his rooms, for prying the crushed clover from his numb fingers before they got there, for easing out as much of the story as she could, and telling what she learned to Gertrude. The Archivist, uncharacteristically, hadn't pressed Jon for a proper Statement because of what Rosie already coaxed out of him.

He thanked her for her discretion, a skill anathema to the ordinary duties of her position. He thanked her, voice thick, for making sure that Jonah wasn't the first to hear of what happened, and that by the time he had Jon was hidden in his rooms with his story passed on. She doesn't blame him; Jonah was unusually demonstrative in his distress, and poor Jon spent weeks shrinking away from noise and crowds.

He told her he didn't think he would have made it another step, when the lines pulling him along went slack, if she hadn't chivvied him along. He thanked her for ensuring the first version of events to spread was that he had been victimized, though he didn't use that word, rather than that he was out of bounds in the public shell of the Institute. He chewed his lip, eyes lowered anxiously, still unable bear eye contact with anyone so soon after his experience, rocked on the spot, and raced back to crush himself against Gerard's side before she could say a word.

Jon, she learned that day, will chatter out far more if you make him feel safe and cared for than if you press for details. Rosie, for all the grim acclaim it gave her, is one of the only people to know as much as she does about what happened that day. Jon let slip even more details in his gratitude than he had the day it happened, in an empty island where no one but she could hear.

It happens the same way now, though far less frightfully. Jon starts to poke at her with little questions about her life, her job, what she likes to do, and he says things about himself in turn, anything that her answers remind him of, without her having to ask. 

He learned to pay attention to repeat perusals of a book for school, but when he was small he wouldn't read anything that felt familiar, even if the book itself was new to him. His grandmother bought him stacks of books secondhand and, if Rosie doesn't miss her guess, the way he quickly veers off that topic, as though surprised at himself, indicates the likely cause of the Leitner encounter he's rumored to have had long before coming to them. He took an astronomy class at uni and wished he had the talent to have taken more, though now he rarely ventures out to stargaze, dizzied by the Vast tinging the sky above the lower courtyard and shy of the weather that often pummels the upper. He'd like, someday, to see Rome, and to hear the show the Outsiders he insists on spending so much time with come to do research for.

He reacts with just as much interest in her own disclosures as she does his. When the hour is mostly spent and the food all eaten, he pulls out another box from his bag, and a fistful of cutlery. He carefully splits the slice of cake in two, and pushes the spare fork on her with too much bright-eyed, happy hopefulness for her to dare decline.

He tags along out of the storage room when she returns to her desk, and scoots his cushion infinitesimally closer to her.

-

She doesn't expect to see Jon again the next day, much less to be joined by him. He comes darting out just the same way, though, with the same cushion and knapsack, though he pulls out a new book. He follows her to lunch again, too, and sits out the hours before closing at her feet. She offers him a real chair, but he insists that he's perfectly comfortable on the cushion. He seems to enjoy being nestled out of sight behind her desk as much as she enjoys having him there.

He doesn't come the next day, but she's ready if he does. It's terribly foolish, and Jonah probably wouldn't approve at all, but she digs through the lost and found, kept in the storage room and her responsibility, until she finds a set of headphones she knows have been there far too long for anyone to come back for them. She spends her evening fretfully cleaning them, and at her desk dares a single moment to hold one of the speakers next to her ear, afraid to muss her hair or dull her senses by wearing them properly, to ensure they function. Her internet history is rarely ever the subject of much scrutiny, she's fairly sure, and she keeps a guilty tab hidden next to the Institute's main email inbox, the one that most frequently requires her to look things up to decide whether they deserve the Institute's attention.

When, two days later, Jon once again darts out and skids to a stop next to her, he gets wide-eyed and misty at her offer of the headphones. She turns on the show for him, and he slowly shifts his cushion closer and closer, eventually, hesitantly, resting his head against her knee. He hugs her tightly before they part ways for the evening.

-

Jon is an irregular but not uncommon companion, after that. Sometimes he reads, sometimes he asks shyly for the headphones and the playlist of What the Ghost? episodes, but he always seems happy to see her.

Two weeks after he started appearing next to her desk, he teeters on his toes after setting down his cushion instead of sitting. Before she can ask what he needs, he flips the flap of his bag open and pulls out a package wrapped in red tissue. He stutters a bit, explaining that it made him think of her, and Rosie is entirely too flustered to actually open it. She immediately regrets locking it in her drawer, wonders nauseously what Jon must think of her, being so ungrateful, though she did at least remember to thank him.

He sits down as happily as ever, though, and doesn't mention it again. He looks up with bright eyes when she opens the drawer at closing and takes it with her to her bunk.

She hides it in her footlocker before she freshens up for dinner, and double checks the lock. She has no intention of broadcasting that she has so rare and precious an artifact as a gift from Jon until she's good and ready, if ever.

She slips the package into her pillowcase, under the pillow, when she gathers her things to put her hair up, wipe away her makeup, and prepare for bed. She slips her hand under the pillow, grazing its hard lines ever so lightly to keep the tissue from whispering. When she's sure that most everyone is asleep, she takes it out as quietly as she can, slips it up her nightgown and holds it to her chest, pretending she's cold and headed to the loo.

She doesn't; people pay attention to what goes on in the stalls, who's there and what they're doing. She does, at least, as did all her peers when she was a girl and too recently out of the nursery to have discovered any of the less obvious, superior places for illicit activity after dark.

She goes to where one of the classrooms is recessed from the main hall a ways. It's too far from the nursery for the teachers to make note of, but too close to it for adults without children to go by at all. It's perfectly positioned, the favorite nighttime hideaway of her childhood returning to its place as soon as she learned how closely monitored the loo is, even if it seems otherwise. She sits on the floor, and she does feel like a girl, though she never had such an exciting treasure then.

The tissue is held to the package with string, making it easier to open quietly than if it was fastened with tape. Rosie folds it reverently and wraps the string around it before looking at the contents.

Her face heats the instant she sees what Jon's given her.

The Cult of Beholding has very little use for fiction. There are a handful of books used to teach the children, though the majority are the sort of improving Victorian children's tales that hardly count as fiction at all, but if anyone out of school reads fiction she's never heard of it. Books are quite uncommon as items of contraband, and a significant amount of those that do circulate are pornographic. Little else is counted as worthwhile, when books by their nature linger among the owner's belongings, hidden or overt.

Generally, contraband is consumable, like chocolate, or could plausibly have entered legitimately. The heaps of clothes that are bought intermittently by the bale sometimes contain nicer items, in amongst the stained and stretched and torn. It's why people who interact with Outsiders are generally given first crack at them, as it's more efficient to pull out the business casual and occasional formal wear from what they purchase anyway than to continually assign funds for those who must dress nicely because all the good things have been snatched up by those who can do just as well in oversized t-shirts. But sometimes something is missed by the first to dig through the knee-high piles in the musty storage room the clothing is dumped into, or it doesn't fit any of them. It's perfectly plausible for something really nice to be added to your wardrobe once or twice a year, but there's no way that books can get into an individual's hands that way. Either they go to one of the Libraries, or they're unsuitable.

Except, what no one but Rosie seems to realize is that they do show up in allowed materials. The Institute doesn't purchase them, but there's no need to exchange favors and stashed luxuries, either. At least, not for Rosie.

It's hardly unheard of for people to forget things. It's where a significant amount of her nicest things have come from; technically, the person who turns in an item to the lost and found is entitled to claim it if it isn't asked after by the original owner after a month, but most seem to think about handing her something the same as they'd think about throwing it in the bin. If another month goes by, that person loses their claim, and if anyone else noticed at all they can ask for it any time after that.

They don't, though. Rosie's meticulous log of items and dates goes almost entirely toward furnishing her own creature comforts and supplying items to barter for things she can't get on her own.

She doesn't claim the books and magazines; it isn't allowed. Technically, she ought to throw them out if no Outsider arrives to request them, but she half-tricked Jonah into agreeing to let her keep them in the storage room. The teachers like to have books to throw at the older students and demand they furnish an essay taking lobby salvage as seriously as Shakespeare, or to give the younger students for arts and crafts, so Rosie is allowed to keep them safely out of the hands of the reading public in anticipation of such requests.

She reads all of them. She isn't supposed to, but they're right there, things she's perfectly justified in having, if not reading, and nothing to do but eat and stare at her watch (also from the lost and found) on her lunch breaks. She isn't even allowed to go back to her desk early anymore, after an Outsider made noise to Jonah about seeing her when she ought to have been eating, and whether that could get them in legal trouble for reasons she isn't entirely clear on. She even reads the ones that eventually get reclaimed. She starts the day they're turned in and goes through as much as she can before they're taken away from her.

And as little as her forbidden habit would meet with approval, her favorites would even less. Science fiction, she can practically hear Jonah or Gertrude saying, is trash, corrupts the mind with absurd fantasies when it should be focused on work. She was miserably sure Jon would say the same the moment she admitted as much.

The books in her lap are nothing like her split-spined, ruffled favorites. They're glossy and new, without so much as a fingerprint marring the cover art. She has no idea when she'll find time to read them in private, where she could hide them. No one would believe her that Jon, the pinnacle of everything they're supposed to be working for, would gift her... anything, really, but especially this. The shy secrecy of his visits ensures it.

There are three of them, titles she's never heard before. Wonderingly, she tips the topmost toward the shaft of moonlight from the window across from her hiding place. It isn't enough to read by, but she opens it anyway.

Her heart skips. She doesn't even make it to the table of contents. There, in smooth black ink and sloping cursive, is an inscription. Her eyes focus on the most familiar words in the low light. Her name, and Jon's signature.

She opens the others without reading the first dedication, and practically faints when she sees two more notes in Jon's handwriting.

She holds her trove to her chest openly and goes back to the barracks. The books are set safely- openly- in her footlocker, waiting for morning. She doesn't need to read the inscriptions now.

No one in the world would ask her to give up something marked in his own handwriting as a gift from Jon.

Chapter Text

Sasha and Michael take every other Saturday off from their usual assignments to help Jon with his mail. It's gotten more and more ridiculous over the years- he knows that Jonah had to reluctantly shell out for some sort of arrangement at the Post Office, because they didn't have anything big enough to hold everything, but he doesn't know the exact details. If it weren't for the variety and stature of people who have come to expect an ability to reach Jon without going through Jonah by the time they gave Michael a talking-to about the impracticality of such a regular deluge, Jonah probably would have used the cost as his excuse to suspend Jon's Jonah-free mail privileges. He still grumbles about the cost, but they all know that if he actually did anything about it there would be multiple offers to cover it, likely accompanied by digs about whether the Institute is suitable to house Jon at all if the cost of receiving mail is too much for them.

Sasha and he are seated across from each other, both with their heads on the table. It's dull to wait for Michael to arrive, it's nerve-wracking to wonder whether they'll have new letters from the Stokers, and it's entirely awful to consider how many things they'll have to go through today. The things Jon, Michael and Gerry will have to go through, that is. Sasha managed to shrug off her share years ago, on the justification of her notes on packages and an unusual susceptibility to paper cuts.

Jon knows Michael was overheard ribbing her about the paper cuts a while back and now she catches occasional lectures on being so selfish about helping him, but none of them see her doing anything that requires paper rather than a computer. Even aside from the fact that Sasha being free to sort the opened mail into the boxes that they use to carry it back out makes the whole process move faster, it's a legitimate concern. He didn't know you could bleed that much from a paper cut.

Gerry isn't participating in the exchange of whines and moans being muffled into the table. He's reading on the couch, and when Michael knocks Gerry is the one who goes to open the door. Jon and Sasha sit up abruptly, because the one time someone was accidentally in the way of the avalanche being dumped out of the mailbags Sasha had to take Michael to the Infirmary to be checked for a concussion.

The cats try to slip in along with Michael, and Jon has to stand to run them down the hall so that Gerry can be ready to slam the door the second he's back inside. Once the kittens were old enough, and Gerry Jr. was comfortable enough, to wander freely between rooms they stopped being able to shut them in one of the other rooms, the one flaw in the many platforms and tunnels that were built in for them. The best they can do is leaving them outside Jon's rooms so they can close the opening the cats use to go in and out.

They act so upset to be locked out that Jon can't bear to do it until shortly before Michael gets back, even though he knows that by the time they're done with the mail the cats will be long past the desire to add even more disorder to the piles and too busy being spoiled by whoever comes across them to return.

The volume of mail is embarrassing, but somehow it's even more so when there's something he likes in one of the packages. It feels, even now, like he's a bad victim, like the tears and escape attempts were an act. But it feels equally dreadful to try to hold himself at a remove from any but the absolute worst gifts, from anything that isn't so bad that he has no idea what the sender was thinking. Like he's being ungrateful.

The boxes are mostly pulled out and stacked at the end of the table for Gerry and Sasha to dig through, though more will no doubt surface as there are fewer envelopes to hide them, like finding the last few edge pieces of a puzzle after half the center's been assembled. He and Michael mainly check senders and rifle through envelopes for less bulky gifts. If there's something inside, the envelope goes into a basket set on top of the pile so that Sasha can record it before it's removed. Quincy and Xiaoling are the only names they stop for; there are a few others that Jon has become regular correspondents with over the years, mainly out of boredom, but those usually get pulled when Sasha starts sorting them into boxes.

They're a well-oiled machine by this point, but even though it's barely ten they'll be lucky to get through everything before dark. It would be outright impossible without the quartet of well-honed letter openers. There was an unholy, multinational row over whether Jon could be allowed to keep them. The set has two sent by Xiaoling (one secretly chosen by Tim rather than her) and two from Quincy (with one secretly chosen by Danny), but there were at least three other temples involved by the time the dust settled.

Gerry got poisonous looks and boring, time-intensive errands for weeks after, though Jon isn't entirely clear on how he was the one ultimately responsible for the expanding cast of the argument. He never said a word about the punishment; Jonah lost a considerable amount of credibility over the whole thing, with Gerry known to be Jon's closest friend and contradicting the implications that he couldn't be trusted with sharp objects. Eventually Jonah got bored of his non-reaction and stopped. 

They have enough experience now to work without much need for conversation. It's just intensive enough work that unnecessary chatter would slow them down, and the main topic of conversation is usually what to do with gifts. They evolved some rules of thumb inside of the first year for how to sort those. Gerry and Sasha are well acquainted with what Jon likes, what the other three like, and what Jon doesn't want to see at all. Nothing is shown for the evaluation of the group unless it's particularly exciting or bizarre. Deciding what to keep, and what to consign to a circuit of visible display and summary fatal accident, is a job for tomorrow, when they won't be so mentally exhausted.

"Quincy!" Michael says, flapping the envelope across the table. Jon snatches it and Sasha zips over to sit in the chair next to him.

Usually, there's a letter from Quincy, a letter from Danny for Jon, and one from Danny for Sasha. They're confident enough by now that Jonah doesn't pay enough attention to the mail sorting to notice that there are almost always two letters from Quincy, and Jon doesn't blame him for the lapse. Quincy marks the one addressed to Michael because he's the name on the box and the one addressed to Michael because he's the intended recipient differently, though.

Today, something extra falls out when Jon pulls the sheaf of papers free. He passes them to Sasha so he can investigate.

It takes far too long for him to process why he recognizes it; it's the sort of elaborately folded, secure packet that all the girls at school were seemingly obsessed with when he was thirteen. Well, it's hardly unusual for Danny to incorporate his newest discovery into his letters.

The note has Jon's name written in marker, and it takes him a moment to figure out how to pull it open.

"Gah!" A fountain of purple glitter falls out, and he leaps up too late to keep it out of his lap, managing instead to disperse it heavily across his trousers and the floor. They all sit frozen for a moment, looking at the carnage.

Eventually, Michael stands and darts out to find a vacuum. Jon is still frozen; he has no idea how to resolve the assault on his clothing without making the mess worse. Sasha isn't as heavily affected as Jon, but she'll probably manage to spread as much glitter if she moves. It'll be hard enough to get it all off the floor as is, and Jon doesn't especially want glittery cats because they didn't get all the mess up. 

Gerry stands a moment after Michael, fetching Jon's second- and third-least favorite trousers and second-least favorite shirt from the closet. Jon is already wearing his least favorite trousers and shirt. He always wears them when they go through his mail, so that if something like this happens he'll have an excuse to dispose of them. It's far from the first time someone has gotten overenthusiastic with glitter or glue, or on one truly regrettable occasion been under-enthusiastic about the padding protecting a bottle of maple syrup; it's a bigger surprise to find it in Quincy's letter. Jonah is constantly fighting the attrition of business casual clothing with new articles, and keeps the things Jon would really like to throw out locked up somewhere Gerry's never been able to find, but at least sometimes the replacements are less odious than the casualties.

Gerry and Michael dress the same as ever; the packages are usually less fraught than the envelopes, since it's easier to examine the contents before taking them out, and because things like maple syrup can usually be washed out, and Michael's wardrobe isn't materially altered by glitter and occasional dots of paint. (Though paint, at least, is less common, after a genuinely terrifying email from Gertrude reminded everyone hoping to send him mail of the proper amount of time to wait for it to dry before sending it off; Sasha printed out a copy for a dramatic reading at their next mail-opening session, and they've never been able to agree on what exactly she was threatening; Jon's gut instinct is decapitation, but Michael makes a strong case for flaying alive.)

They don't even know where the glitter on Michael's clothes comes from half the time. Sometimes it's mail, or buying classroom supplies for the cult's children, or spending time with the children, but periodically they end up suggesting he take his clothes to Artefact Storage to be checked for glitter-magnetic properties. It's not entirely a joke.

Sasha does excellent trade in least favorite clothes more generally. Clothes are generally worn until they're only suitable to be cut into rags, which are in turn used until they literally can't be anymore. There are a handful of sturdy but terrible items that circulate like chain letters, taking one the last resort for those who need a favor and don't have anything else to offer. Sasha volunteers to take the worst of them as her mail-day clothes in exchange for favors no one in their right mind would offer her otherwise. She ends up with disastrous packages and unexpected fits of clumsiness just infrequently enough for the service to maintain its value.

Today's sweatpants somehow lost their elastic years ago, and without are so wide she had to wrap them around herself and pin the edges together in the back to make them stay on. He's sure she's already planning what to ask for in exchange for ushering the next monstrosity of fashion on its way to eventual doom.

By the time the glitter is dealt with, the clothes wadded up into a thirteen-gallon trash bag lest their infection spread, he's almost forgotten about the note. Even with the table wiped down and the paper brushed off, it's still covered in a clinging layer of glitter.

He recognizes the handwriting. It isn't from Danny.

Jon-

Your friend said that if I sent a letter to an address in America it would make it to you, unread, so long as the first had a note explaining what it was. I poured four or five spoonfuls of glitter into it. If it's gone, or if it looks like there are two types of glitter on the page, it's been read. If I receive an answer in the same fashion, we'll both know it's a trustworthy way to communicate.

The Admiral

He reads the note to the others. Michael runs off to find a bottle of glitter they can borrow, wisely deciding that Jon may as well write his response while they already have the vacuum handy.

He turns the note over so he can reverse the creases and fold it into the same configuration. It sends a small flurry of glitter over the table. Sasha leans over to watch, accidentally laying across the new spill and getting it all over her shirt.

Gerry gives an aggrieved sigh and makes for the closet again.

Georgie-

Is the Admiral your cat? He didn't want to come close to me when I was there, I think he could smell mine on me. If we didn't trust Quincy implicitly Gerry wouldn't have given you his address.

You sent four shirts and three pairs of trousers to their deaths. I hope you're ashamed of yourselves. There's really no guessing what sort of favor Sasha's going to extort for taking hideous clothes someone can't get rid of any other way off their hands.

The all-time Mail Day Glitter Casualty record is eleven shirts, sixteen pairs of trousers, two pairs of pants (I have no idea how), a very expensive dry cleaning bill for Gerry's jacket and Sasha's bra, miserable baths for two cats, one very happy bath for the Baroness, and an additional shirt shredded by Tibby.

Jon

On the back of the closed note, between the visible lines of Georgie's handwriting, in clearly different handwriting:

PS- Do not take this as an excuse to send more glitter in the next letter. I need at least six months before I can afford to toss more clothes -S

Chapter Text

Petty as it is, Georgie is a bit miffed that, the first time Gerry walked into Pinhole Books to find them already there, he didn't react particularly effusively. Melanie went to significant effort to grab his key without him noticing, make an impression, and return the key without being observed!

Now he only meets their presence with an unenthusiastic eye roll. He can't even commit to being annoyed at them!

She would probably care less if their discussions weren't stalling out. Melanie and Martin have respected Gerry's request- allegedly from Jon, though his reaction that day in her flat was dramatic enough she can't even doubt that as strongly as she'd like to- that they not return to the Magnus Institute. She's had a letter from Jon, which is promising, but it didn't mention the subject. It's equally likely he hasn't realized the matter isn't closed as it is that he doesn't agree with the warning, at this point. She asked explicitly in her second letter, but according to Gerry Jon gets his mail every other week, and having to travel across the Atlantic twice may be too far for her letter to arrive before the next pickup. Gerry has refused to play messenger, as apparently Jon doesn't know he's still in contact with them.

Gallingly, before the subject of What the Ghost? could even be brought up as a reason they needed to go to the Institute, Gerry volunteered to check out any books they needed for research on their behalf if it would keep them away. At the simplest level, the three of them want to go to the Institute, and Gerry wants them to stay far, far away.

They have him on the ropes, though. If they didn't, he wouldn't have agreed to keep meeting with them so many times, though the appointments are frustratingly irregular, as he claims that coming to Pinhole Books on a regular basis would invite further scrutiny from "Jonah". He certainly wouldn't have added two more chairs to the kitchen table somewhere around three meetings in.

"If Jon can't come to us, we need to go to him," Martin insists. They take turns trading off being the one to press the issue, the one to take notes on all of Gerry's responses (frustratingly consistent), and the one to act bored, annoyed, or as if they're at that very moment planning a trip to the Institute, depending. The last is her job today, and she isn't making much effort to listen, because they all agree that sometimes having his answers read back afterward provides an angle that hearing his intonation in real time obscures.

"You can't do either of those things," Gerry says, voice tense. "You just can't. Have you even considered how Jon would feel about having you just show up?"

"Did you even consider how Jon would feel about being kidnapped?" she says, the conscious decision to do so taking a backseat to infusing her voice with as much venom as possible.

Gerry looks at her, but it clearly didn't have the desired effect. He just looks tired. "Yeah. I did. I do. It was out of my hands then and I can't change it now. This is all there is to work with."

"Why should we believe you?" she asks, his answer and his expression and his stupid reasonable facade making her angrier. "It's easy to say that now. Like you said, you can't change it. There's no way for us to know you're telling the truth, but we do know your actions."

He rolls his head back, looking pained. "I won't take you into the Institute," he says. Before she can respond he continues, adding, "I'll take you into the tunnels. Once."

She grinds her teeth, but stands. "Let's go."

He goes from hanging his head backward to rocking forward to hold his head in his hands so fast it looks painful. "Not today. What part of 'Jonah will notice' are you not getting?"

"The part where we believe you," Martin says. It isn't angry or mean, just flat.

Gerry sighs. It's the wall they've been banging into the entire time they've been meeting. She doesn't actually expect this time to see a result. "I will take you into the tunnels. If you promise to follow instructions. They're dangerous. Going off on your own is more likely to end with you falling into a pit than finding the Institute."

"Why are there pits?" Melanie asks, voice rising on the tide of mutual frustration.

Gerry stretches his arms straight out, palms facing them in an expansive, immobile shrug, his eyes wide. "I didn't design them! I don't know!"

She waits for him to slump back into himself to ask, "When are we going, then?"

-

The three of them agree before setting out, three days later, that if Gerry is lying to them they're heading to the Magnus Institute. It seems the more likely outcome, when he gives them an address that leads to a random alley a significant distance from the Institute and a time, saying that he'll let them in from there while using a different entrance himself.

Standing between dumpsters and walls that have seen far too many drunks, Melanie and Martin seem to be increasingly anxious. Georgie doesn't know who would come into an already-occupied alley to cause trouble, but standing around in one just waiting is weird enough that she doesn't blame them.

They all jump when one of the doors lining the alley, all of which are graffitied and rusted like none of them have opened in decades, swings out with a horrific screech.

Gerry just raises his eyebrows at them, holding the door open with his fingertips so only his hand and about half his forearm are outside. He makes a hurry-up motion with his other hand.

Meeting in the tunnels sounds like a significantly worse idea than it did a minute ago, but Georgie is hardly going to back out now. Martin and Melanie follow half a step behind her.

She wonders if anyone's ever been murdered down here. Non-supernaturally, that is.

Gerry lets the door swing shut with an airy groan, and the only light is the torch dangling from one of his wrists.

The three of them all start digging around for their own torches, cursing about having forgotten to find them when they were out in daylight. She doesn't think any of them want to find out whether they can open the door, or if they're locked in until Gerry decides to let them out.

The light seems weaker than it ought to be; their torches are all brand new, bright and durable enough for them to be more expensive than any of them would buy normally, and they seemed much brighter when they tested them in the darkened recording room, where they assumed the lack of windows would provide an adequate analogue for the tunnels. Gerry doesn't say a word as he sets off deeper into the tunnels, and they all scramble to follow.

If she had to guess, Georgie would have said that he was walking aimlessly, trying to confuse them or just without a set destination in mind. When he stops and looks back to make sure they're all behind him, though, it's outside of a place where the wall invisibly gives way to a little room with a camping lantern in the center. If it weren't for the lantern, the darkness of the tunnels would obscure the opening entirely, if you didn't know to look for it.

There are chairs here, which look like they've been salvaged from four very different secondhand shops. Gerry doesn't speak until they've all taken a seat.

"Here it is."

"Here what is?" Melanie asks, irritation covering nerves.

"Nothing," Gerry says. "There is nothing in the tunnels that you want to see."

"Except for an entrance to the Institute," Martin says.

"No."

"Why?" Georgie asks, too frustrated to be patient. "Why is it safe enough for you to see us, and for Jon and I to write each other, but not safe enough for us to see him in person?"

Gerry rubs his hands over his face in a gesture they've become very well acquainted with. He sighs. "Fair enough. Jonah doesn't care what I do, most of the time. And I spend enough time down here or at the house, or just picking up takeout or whatever, that it isn't worth it for him to monitor me unless he suspects something. He does care what Jon does- part of why any of this worked is that Jon's tied to Beholding closely enough that he can usually feel when Jonah's watching him. Going to see Jon would get his attention. Even in the Library, you have no idea how much gossip the two of you generated."

"Why?" Martin asks, looking a bit alarmed.

Gerry's voice goes tired and flat again. "Jon spoke with you. Jon kept Diana from banning you. Jon kept looking forward to seeing you after the first time. Melanie hated him and no one could figure out why he liked that. Martin may or may not have had a crush on him, but it was noticeable enough to be passed on either way. The three of us generate an unholy amount of gossip for being close to him, and everyone's known us forever."

Martin looks like he's glad the lantern doesn't give off enough light for it to be obvious to Gerry that he's blushing. They still haven't cajoled a solid answer about that out of him, though given the circumstances they haven't tried as hard as they would normally.

"If your god's whole thing is having people find things out about you, wouldn't it be a holy amount of gossip," Melanie says ponderously.

Georgie buries her face in her hands. "Melanie."

Gerry laughs. It isn't just a pity laugh, either; he audibly tries to stop and can't. He clears his throat three times before it sticks. His face looks malevolent and gnarled with the lantern lighting the stubborn smile he's trying to suppress from below, the orange of the lantern turning his glee wicked.

"The letter?" Martin prompts.

Gerry groans, but not the way he does when he's frustrated with them. "If you had opened mail with Jon, you would understand why we weren't worried. Aside from having written the Stokers for years- and Jonah absolutely would have put a stop to that if he knew- he doesn't watch."

"Why?" Melanie asks, sounding more curious than anything.

Gerry looks quite sad. Georgie doesn't think this particular hangdog expression has made an appearance with them before, just the weightier, tired sort of sadness. "It took. Eight. Hours. We lost some time to the glitter bomb, but that's not actually that bad. If I can't stand up and count everything still on the table without touching anything or moving when we break for dinner, we stop until morning. Actually deciding what to do with all the gifts is an entire additional day."

The way he says it sounds so authentic, even though she can't picture what that could possibly look like. There are ways the scale of what's happened- what is happening- to Jon keeps hitting her; she hadn't given thought to what an ability to receive mail and deep enough obsession to kidnap him existing on a global scale must add up to, before.

"Why is there a Glitter Casualty record?" Melanie asks. She's wanted to know since Jon's note arrived, and Georgie supposes that this isn't technically breaking her promise not to pull them off-topic to ask.

She thinks they might actually be watching Gerry age before their eyes.

His answer does make them all- Gerry included- laugh hard enough that the thought of the tunnels being an excellent place to hide a body feels a bit less pressing.

-

Gerry keeps talking as he winds down his recitation of mail disasters past. "I came down here, after the Binding. After Jon came back to himself. I didn't have time to think when I found him and the Stokers, but...
Georgie can think of half a dozen things that might fill that space. But he felt guilty? But he was scared? But he regrets letting them go?

"I wanted to know if it was real," he says. "Jon. I let him go because-" he clears his throat, and Georgie realizes he's getting choked up, "because he's the first friend I ever had. I knew it was wrong, and he was my friend, so... But I didn't know if it was real. I knew that it was for Jon, but I was afraid it wasn't, for me. That it was imposed on me by the Eye."

"Would you have done something, if it wasn't?" Melanie asks morbidly.

Gerry shrugs, face grimly shadowed. "I think I was afraid of that, too. Jon latched onto me fast- we're closer than he is with Sasha or Michael, even more so then."

Georgie's surprised he's still going. They've gotten the sense, in the past, that he regards his relationship with Jon as something close to holy. Whether they mean that positively or negatively depends on the day.

"Being able to act normally around him is a bigger deal than you'd think," Gerry says. "It's a low bar, but hardly anyone manages that much. I was the only person who didn't do anything at least moderately awful to Jon before the escape- other than the kidnapping, but he was unconscious for that and obviously more concerned about Jonah's role. Jon wanted someone to treat him like a person, and... so did I. Everyone knows what happened to my dad. And most of them aren't afraid to be nasty about what he must have been like, if he was willing to leave. I was a cautionary tale to them, not myself. Jon didn't know any of that, and for some reason he actually seemed to like me. I knew why Jon would want to be friends with me, intellectually, but I didn't know if I wanted to be friends with him for the right reasons."

"Did you?" Georgie asks. "Do you?"

"I do my best," Gerry says. He always sounds so tired when he says things like that. "Jon is my best friend. No matter where I am. If anything, being connected to the Eye dampens that. There are too many things it doesn't want me to do."

"He was my best friend, too." She doesn't know if she intends to say it aloud, or if she intends for him to hear.

She doesn't like the look he gives her, open and dreary. "Yeah. I know."

They sit in silence for a while. Georgie doesn't know what to say to that, and Melanie and Martin seem afraid to break the moment.

Gerry slaps his hands onto his thighs loud enough to make them all jump and stands.

"Come to the same door and pretend to be talking about exploring what you found. Urban exploration, kind of thing. If... I think Jonah has a meeting with the Institute's donors. He never pays attention to what's going on while he's there. If we're careful... I'll let you know a date and time."

Chapter Text

Sasha should probably ask questions when Gerry does something as suspicious as tell her to make sure Jon is occupied in the bathroom all morning with all the eyes covered, but she doesn't. Whatever it is, Gerry probably has a good reason. He almost always loops her and Michael in more completely if he's afraid there might be a way for what he's doing to hurt Jon.

She gave him a hard time, telling him it sounded like he wanted her to slip Jon something to make him sick, but neither of them took that seriously. It isn't that hard to manage; Michael isn't privy to the initial request, because they usually let him in on things like that more obliquely, but he's an enthusiastic accomplice. He incorporated that goal into the shopping he was sent to do and managed to find a new way to cover the eye in the shower and some cat toys that they're pretty sure will float. Gerry wasn't precise about how long to keep Jon occupied, but they'll probably be here for a few hours before Jon gets bored. Or she and Michael get bored. The Baroness is never going to be bored.

Jon runs the water while they mess with Michael's discovery. It's a plastic ocean scene that's supposed to attach to the wall, with a tray of "bath crayons" Jon weighs in his hand, shooting appraising looks at the marble tile. She wonders how much bath crayon it would take to make the swirl stop working as an eye for Jonah to look through permanently. They add some duct tape to the opaque plastic ocean. Hopefully the dual security of suction cups and tape will keep it there for a good long while.

The Baroness came running when she heard the water. Jon has a stool with rocks in the hollow legs to keep it from tipping over for when he lets the Baroness play in the bath alone, and another with an extra step for the floor beside the tub. They're useful for when she's been in the water long enough for the porcelain to become slippery and send her flying across the room when she tries to jump out. Jon is wearing a thick denim jacket so that he can let her use him as a ladder without getting scratched.

It's nice. It's the kind of normal, low-stress activity that they ought to do more often. It's good to be so focused on something so low stakes. None of them manage to entirely avoid the puddles splashed out onto the floor, but when Michael suggests she go find the polaroid Sasha retires to the counter, too high and too far from the water for the Baroness to bother with her. Michael is trying to cajole her into handing it over so she can be in some of the pictures when they hear the lock.

Things turn icy and scared in the space of an instant. Jon starts to stand and then freezes, unsure of what to do.

Gerry is only supposed to use his key in emergencies, and he's decided that barrier has been reached maybe a dozen times over the years. At least half were things in the middle of the night, when he knew Jon was unlikely to be awake to answer his knock. Her mind races, but she can't think of why.

Gerry planned on them being here with Jon, but if he knew there was something urgent in the offing she can't imagine why he wouldn't be here himself. She flaps an arm at the boys, and they skitter away from the open door. Sasha leans over, peering through the gap where the door parts from the wall.

Her heart practically stops beating when the door swings open and she doesn't recognize the people on the other side. In her periphery, the others are miming questions at her. She turns away from the door long enough to give them a severe look with her finger over her lips.

"Go," she hears Gerry say. There aren't any people in the Cult she wouldn't recognize; even the new converts have been here long enough to be familiar. And Gerry never lets people into Jon's rooms aside from himself, her, and Michael.

There are two women and a man she doesn't recognize, stepping cautiously through the door Gerry opened for them- could it be the Web? None of them fit the description of Annabelle Cane, but she can't be the only agent of the Web nearby, especially given how long it's been since they last heard of her. The strangers look around the room the way people always look at Jon's rooms, curious and a bit awed. Gerry steps inside and locks the door behind him.

"Go!" he says again, shooing the strangers toward where the three of them are hidden. The Baroness is still playing, oblivious to the tension buzzing between the humans. Sasha starts looking around for something heavy to pick up. She doesn't know what these strangers could do to warrant being cracked over the head, but she can't think of any reason for them to be here that would mean they don't.

Gerry urges them on faster and faster, across a space that feels for the first time the length of an ocean. She doesn't know what to do, how to communicate the situation to the others. Normally, Jon would have called out when he heard Gerry's voice, but Sasha must look frightful, because he's small and quiet between Michael and the wall, touching neither and undecided about whether he should meet the disruption head-on or hide. Sasha pulls her feet up under her as the first woman comes to the doorway, hoping it's enough that if something needs to be done they won't notice her before she needs to act.

Her ears start ringing from adrenaline as Jon noisily falls out of his crouch, flailing limbs clattering against the floor with all the subtlety of a parade.

"Georgie?" he asks, very small, and it takes a minor eternity for Sasha to make the connection.

Things resume their usual speeds as she tries to make sense of the situation from her seat on the counter. Gerry bustles the other two into the room and shuts the door behind them.

"Jon," the first woman, Georgie, Jon's Georgie says. She makes to walk over to him, but Jon shrinks back. His eyes are wide, and Sasha doesn't think he's seeing much of what's happening before him.

She slides off the counter, startling the three strangers, though Gerry must have assumed her location since he knew she'd be here. She starts to go to Jon, to hold his hand and coax him back into the present, but Gerry asks, "Are they all covered?" and there's a more pressing task.

Michael's new cover is still in place. He clatters the cupboard below the sink open in a cannonfire of noise, snagging one of the spare towels there across the floor, insulating the edges of the mat against the risk of a truly unfortunate freak of timing. They both turn to the door into the closet. Michael scrambles over to check the cloth, as closely knit as she could manage, wrapped over the carved bird's eyes. When he's satisfied, he maintains his momentum to his feet, practically falling through the door. They can hear him racing out of Jon's rooms, and Gerry sighs, following after to lock the door behind him.

Which means Sasha's alone with Jon, the person Jon's missed more than anyone, and two people who the association with Georgie is jogging Sasha into recognizing fit the rumor mill descriptions of Martin and Melanie.

She shuffles over to Jon, hoping she isn't making a mistake turning her back on the trio. She kneels next to him, wrapping his hand in hers so she can pull him up from where he sprawled onto the tile and froze, head inches from impact with the marble.

"Jon?" she says softly. "Jon, it's alright. Gerry brought them here. Not Jonah."

Jonah's name jolts Jon enough to surge up the rest of the way, collapsing forward onto her shoulder. She wraps her arms around him and his fingers grip jerkily at her shirt, trembling in and out of a hold. She brushes her hand against his head lightly enough to encourage him to rest his face in the crook of her neck. He takes a sobbing breath that sounds like he might vomit, the first noise in the terrible silence after Georgie's name. She holds him while he shakes and cries, murmuring reassurance that Jonah isn't involved, that if he were looking Jon would know.

She drops the second bit when she realizes that without Jon saying anything, she doesn't know whether he can feel Jonah watching.

Gerry pads back into the room from the closet, closes the door, and leans back directly in front of the bird. He crosses his arms with a surly look and says, "I told you so."

"Gerard!" she snaps, because he's better with Jon in this kind of state than she is and he knows these people better than she does and all he can say is I told you so.

He looks hunted and guilty at her, and comes over to wrap his arms around Jon from the other side. Slowly, she cajoles Jon into Gerry's lap so she can stand.

Gerry chose to bring Jon's Outsider friends here- and he must have planned ahead to do it, or he wouldn't have asked her to keep Jon occupied in here- primarily because it's the best place to speak to Jon without Jonah being able to spy, but it helps that the room is far larger than it needs to be. The three of them were relaxed, sprawling all over the floor, but there are other seats. They made sure to find a comfortable stool suitable for Michael, since Jonah was sure to require him to bathe Jon in preparation for something again, and there's a plush bench, a pair of soft chairs and a table wide enough to play cards but not a board game. 

They've joked about Jonah expecting Jon to spend time laying around in a robe with his hair in a towel and cucumbers over his eyes while they feed him grapes, because why else would he have approved the purchase of so much superfluous furniture? They only asked because he and Gertrude- but probably mostly Jonah- let them give input on how many rooms Jon might need, the sorts of things he seemed to enjoy doing most, but they arranged and sized those rooms to their own satisfaction before she and Michael were invited back into the process. The room was so enormous that even with the separate shower stall and tub, each big enough on its own for all four of them to share comfortably if they wanted, and the platforms against the walls for the cats, and the vast expanse of counter space, it seemed too empty and echoing. The only thing she'd do differently, in hindsight, would be to be less cautious about the cat equipment, having anticipated the stereotypical fear of water rather than the Baroness, and to check for hidden eyes more carefully.

She snags her fingers under the rim of the bench, swinging it out with an awful scraping sound so it's perpendicular to the wall. Jon flinches at the noise; he doesn't like it at the best of times, and this is far from that. 

They're making good progress on digging a trench in the tile along the route; they switched the bench with the table and chairs when they decided it was more useful to them day to day, so that the divot would be less of a trip hazard. Eventually Jonah is going to give in and let them retile the room; Jon has a general horror of people besides the three of them being in his rooms, but agreed that the potential for replacement tile was worth that. Jonah would have declared replacement necessary already, she thinks, if Jon didn't also say that it would be a good time to take their sister Temples up on the offer to visit, so he won't need to be here while it happens.

The short nails Gerry drove through the legs mere months after Jon moved into these rooms, when they knew Jonah would be far too distracted preparing in advance of Jon's first visitor from Athens, the first visit ever from someone not already allied with the Institute, help. Sasha still had the upholstery samples, and they don't think Jonah's realized that there didn't use to be strips of the same fabric as the seat glued over the bottom of the u-shaped legs, where the heads of the nails showed. She did make the effort to ensure the job was done neatly.

When she turns, the visitors look like they might be more alarmed at her reckless disregard for tiling integrity than they are at Jon still shaking in Gerry's arms. She sits on the bench and folds her arms, giving them a cool look that threatens to become downright icy.

They don't say anything. They look frozen where they stand, eyes wide.

Someone knocks on the door, and everyone except Jon jumps. He's still so upset Sasha isn't sure he heard, and he definitely isn't in any state to tell her who it is.

If she'd known then that she would be the one deciding whether or not to let people in, she would've looked into adding a peephole to the door. She researches it a bit every once in a while, but without a hard commitment to installing one gets discouraged by the thought of getting permission or inattention from Jonah to drill through the door, and the difficulty of finding an option with specifications detailed enough to assure her that it absolutely would not be able to look in as well as out.

She opens the door just wide enough to peer out, with her whole weight against it in case it's Jonah or someone and they try to push it open. She glances over her shoulder when she sees Michael, double-checking that their visitors aren't visible.

Michael mutters, "It's past lunchtime."

He hasn't technically gathered more food than he would if it were still just the three of them. If it were a bad day. And they'd missed breakfast. Hopefully he let Marlene, in charge of the kitchens, press him to take more rather than asking for it. She hopes that's what happened, and pending contradictory evidence decides to tell herself it did; it's hardly rare for a concern about Jon being too thin to snowball into renewed efforts to feed him more.

She helps Michael take it all back through the closet, once the door is locked. The strangers look alarmed to see Michael, but with more consideration than she feels is warranted she grants that him racing away as soon as he saw them probably looked suspicious.

The Baroness is still playing in the bath, so Sasha supposes that hell must not have frozen over and the tides must continue in their course, though her own emotions don't feel so ordinary and predictable at the moment.

Chapter Text

Jon curls tight against Gerry, and Gerry feels sick.

It was stupid. He should have stopped meeting with the others, should have shut them down one final time and then vanished from their lives. Would they really have returned to the Institute if he had? Or would they have accepted that he was serious? Maybe things got this bad because continuing to meet gave the impression that it was a negotiation, not an edict.

It was a negotiation, though he never meant it to be one. He gave in, and hurt Jon. He clenches his teeth against the hideous looks he wants to give them; he wouldn't be so angry with them if he wasn't so angry with himself. He knows what they're dealing with, it was his responsibility to keep them well out of danger.

But so much of what they say is what he's tried not to say to himself. He let himself be consumed by his own selfish desire for approval, for someone to affirm that he's done the best he can for Jon. To "show by his actions" that he cares about Jon as Jon, not as an object of worship. It brought all his doubts and insecurities to the surface, and instead of handling himself he inflicted the same sick horror on Jon instead.

He rocks Jon slightly and tries not to tense at the sound of people coming into the room from the closet, behind him. Michael starts to mutter and putter, and the tension he couldn't stave off releases. Just Michael, it's alright, it's just Michael.

Jon's crying finally abates enough that he has the breath for his inhales to be hiccupy little sobs, rather that choked silence. Gerry holds tight. "I'm sorry," he says into Jon's hair.

Jon shakes his head, as much as he can with his forehead pressed to Gerry's shoulder. He swallows over and over and finally gains enough composure to say, "He isn't watching."

Gerry doesn't know if Georgie and the others relax at the statement, but he can practically hear Sasha and Michael doing so. Sasha walks over and crouches beside them, and together they coax Jon off of the floor onto the bench. He sags against Gerry's side, eyes glued to his knees. Michael passes Gerry a box of tissues, and Jon picks at one, spending more time tearing it into tiny pieces than using it to wipe his tears.

"Jon," Georgie says into the silence, strangled and pained.

Jon shakes his head. "I told you not to, I don't- I don't understand why you're here, I told you, I told you." The words tumble on like he can't stop them.

Michael passes Gerry a bread roll, still warm from the oven. He passes it in turn to Jon, who starts shredding it instead of the tissue. He does put the pieces in his mouth before they fall to crumbs completely, at least.

The Baroness is still playing, the only sound once Jon's voice fades past a whisper, but draining the bath so she'll stop feels likely to cause Jon to burst into tears again. Gerry looks up at the others to find Georgie, Melanie, and Martin clumped together not far from where they came into the room, with Michael fussing aimlessly at the lunch he brought and Sasha sitting straight and clear-eyed in a chair, looking at the outsiders with a disconcertingly stony expression.

Eventually, the silence presses to the point of splitting the clustered trio, drifting about to take a chair, lean against a wall. Georgie sits on the bench on Gerry's other side- there's no space for her on Jon's other side- and turns toward them, legs neatly crossed at the ankle. Gerry's just glad she sat at the end of the bench instead of trying to crowd against them. Michael has time to distribute lunch before Jon speaks.

"Why?" It isn't clear whether the question is for the others, or Gerry. He doesn't have an answer. Not a good one; not good as in justified and not good as in succinct.

"When you left..." Georgie starts, voice tense with distress.

Jon shakes his head. "I said- I said- I said-" he stalls again, skipping like a record. He still hasn't looked up, looked at anyone since Sasha sat him up and his mind ordered enough for tears to start flowing. He leans hard into Gerry's side, and it makes Gerry feel like the worst person in the world.

He hugs the arm around Jon tighter for a pulse, and says, "Jonah's meeting with donors today." It's as much as he can manage to put his motivations and decision-making into words. Jon relaxes infinitesimally once he's said it, and Gerry feels lower than dirt.

"We were worried," Georgie says softly, Gerry too selfish and busy feeling sorry for himself to suppress the urge to feel poisonous at her having such a weak reason. He should have seen the precarity of the justification or she should have come up with something better, but they didn't and here they all are.

"There's nothing you can do," Jon says. He sounds exhausted. How many times has this happened, has someone wanted to help him, he wanted someone to help, and they've all known there's nothing to be done? Selfish, again, to feel just as tired as Jon sounds.

"There must be something," Georgie presses.

Jon sniffles loudly and his voice comes out snappish. "I told you! The only something you can do is stay away. It isn't safe."

Georgie looks like she wants to say something, but doesn't manage it. Jon stands abruptly and walks over to the bath, scooting the stool closer and leaning over the rim to toss a toy for the Baroness, stroking her head as she splashes past, back turned to all of them and his face hidden.

"So," Melanie says. "I take it you're Sasha and Michael."

The room shifts, because of her sour tone rather than in spite of it. "Yes," Sasha says, but she's a hair less hostile than before. Michael sizes Martin up.

No one looks to Georgie, trembling and brimming over with her arms around her stomach.

The other four exchange limp pleasantries while Gerry and Georgie watch Jon's back, trying not to notice each other. He catches a flash of movement in his periphery, but when he looks it's just Gerry Jr., slipping into the room to give the Baroness a disapproving look. He works his way down the platforms to the floor and pads over to the bench. Gerry tries not to take it as disapproval when he goes to Georgie instead of him, propping his front paws on her knees and staring up at her before bounding onto the bench and nudging her for pets. Cats don't have opinions on things like this, and Gerry Jr. likes to demand adoration from strangers.

When the cat leaves her side and sidles over to Jon, Georgie follows. She sits far enough away to keep from crowding him, but she leans on the side of the bath to watch the Baroness. Gerry Jr. squirms between Jon and the porcelain and bats at Jon's chest to get his attention. When Jon pets him with a wet hand, he meows irritably and leaves in search of better affection, as he always does. He comes in whenever he thinks Jon's been here too long and leaves in a huff when he finds Jon to, invariably, have wet hands.

He goes to Georgie, circling her ostentatiously before sprawling over her crossed legs. She pets him lightly, speaking quietly enough that the others, awkwardly joining their disconnected pieces of Jon, probably can't hear. "What did you need to cover?"

"Eyes," Jon says thickly. "Jonah can see through them."

She looks over her shoulder at the towel Michael flung over the floor, turns to look at the tile closer to herself, finger tracing the swirls of the empty marble closest to her. "The door?" she asks.

"Bird," Jon mutters. "Sasha and- and Gerry made the cover on it now."

Georgie glances over to Gerry, says, "You knit?"

He shakes his head, trying to choke back annoyance so it doesn't show in his voice. "You knit, and Jon needed a reason to have a handmade hat."

Her eyes darken. She turns back to watching the Baroness. "What about the rest of your things? Gerry- Gerry brought some back, and said you couldn't keep them."

Jon nods, chin resting on his chest like he doesn't have the strength to take it back up. "Secondhand stores, for most of it. Gerry buys me things there anyway, because Jonah doesn't like it, so it won't seem strange to anyone. Th-ere," his voice breaks. He clears his throat. "There are scrapbooks, now. Sasha made them for me and we hid the papers I kept between the pages."

"Thanks for giving my hoodie back," Georgie says.

Jon shakes his head, the most energetic movement he's made since they got here. "It was never your hoodie." It has the slant of an inside joke and makes a repulsive jealousy snag between Gerry's teeth.

"Can I ask you something?" Georgie asks. Jon hums. "You said that talking to me was the third time you've been out of the Institute since-" she chokes on the words. "Gerry said that the first was when you escaped."

Gerry feels horror dawning as he sees where the question is going and can't think of how to intervene. They never asked him about this, they should have asked him!

"What was the second?"

Jon's breath shudders. He makes two efforts to speak that choke off before managing a single syllable, wet and tight, before he manages to say, "There was. Gerry... you know about the Powers?"

Georgie nods, but Jon doesn't pause or look to see it.

"There are some that are... allied. With the Institute, at least, if not the Eye proper. That's... those are the donors Jonah's meeting today. And. Others." He pulls up each sentence like a string with beads slipping off the end, managing to catch a single word before seeming to reorder his thoughts and choose a different approach to the remaining information. "One of them. Wanted to see what the fuss was. Jonah drew. Lots of people found out about me, after the escape. And. She wanted to see. So. She made me leave. I didn't know where the doors were, there should've been all kinds of people in the way, but that's. What it does."

"The... Web, right?" Georgie asks, and Gerry doesn't know whether to be furious at her for stifling Jon's scarce, painful momentum or grateful for her giving him a moment to breathe.

The single-movement, jaw-to-chest nod is back. "I couldn't. We ate. At a cafe. A different one. And she took me to a park, and-" he gags.

This, at least, requires no thought from Gerry. It's hardly unheard of for Jon to consider smoking long enough to vomit. Sometimes he does it on purpose, Gerry thinks; it happens when he's deeply, horribly upset sometimes, even if there wasn't anything to remind him. He pulls Jon around with one hand and yanks the basin out of the cupboard with the other, cracking his knees against the marble.

While Jon retches, he says, "Smoking causes cancer. So he can't even think about it. A favor, ensuring he doesn't die prematurely." His mind feels slick and vicious, skating over lists and lists of resentments, most of them piled up on Jon's behalf.

Georgie watches with horror as Jon stays hunched over the basin in his lap. His voice goes high, between gags. "I was thinking- I was thinking- we used to. Together. And she said- and then I was sick."

Jon shudders through another long episode of vomiting before setting the basin aside. Gerry lifts it to the counter, out of the way, and Michael is ready before he can ask with water and another bread roll, probably the safest thing here for Jon to get down.

Jon winds up on the floor and closer to Georgie, when he goes back to splashing at the Baroness. Gerry returns to the bench.

"Jon," Georgie starts, the overture to a teary apology.

"Don't," he says, swallowing dangerously. "Don't want to think about it. Sick."

Georgie seems to brace herself to abandon the topic. "You said... Gerry buys you things from secondhand shops. And Jonah doesn't like it. If you're so afraid of him..."

"Why antagonize him?" Jon fills into the telling pause. He moves a bit closer, rests his head on her shoulder.

Gerry feels like the very image of a voyeur, but doesn't dare look away. Maybe it's Beholding, maybe it's a fear that Jon will need something again, maybe it's his own awful greed and possessiveness that got them into this situation in the first place, but he can't do it.

"It's no way to live. I have friends. Outside the Institute, I mean. And more who I write to, sometimes, and they all know Gerry and the others. If he does something too awful or ridiculous, like trying to punish Gerry for giving me clothes I asked for, we'd write them, and they'd pressure him to stop, or tell their bosses so they'll do it."

Jon sniffs, sits up. He fiddles with his roll, turning over what he wants to say next. He looks surprised when he goes to move a piece to his mouth and finds it all gone. Gerry turns, and Michael's already at his elbow with another, which he passes to Jon.

"They'd all like to have me instead," Jon says, voice bleak. Gerry realizes where he's going; it isn't dangerous, as topics of conversation go, but it breaks his heart to see Jon have to return to it. "I don't want to... there's nowhere better. For being close to home, I mean. I trust Quincy and Xiaoling, but they aren't in charge. If I ever said I wanted to be somewhere else, I could be, but... I don't think it would be better. They might let Gerry come with me, but probably not Sasha or Michael. Everyone knows Gerry and Jonah are at odds with each other all the time, but the others could be spies, so they wouldn't be allowed to go. And keeping them here would give Jonah a way to make sure I came back to visit, so he probably wouldn't sign over any of their contracts anyway."

"Just because he's awful..." Georgie trails off. Gerry gives her some credit for abandoning the question of whether Jonah is actually dangerous, if Jon is willing to defy him in small ways.

Jon shakes his head. They've talked this over a thousand ways already. "I've met them. All of them, they were here... they come for big events. I like Quincy, I like Xiaoling, if I didn't think they'd respect what I want I wouldn't give them so much rope to hang me with, but they aren't the ones who run things. They'd be Michael, not Jonah. And I don't have anyone else I trust, really. I don't think anyone really in charge would be better any longer than it took them to get me to leave."

"How do you know?" Georgie asks, but it's more desperate and teary than combative.

Jon sighs. "They've visited," he says again. "They seem nice enough- well, some of them- but so did Jonah. If I'd made it home... If I'd made it home you would've gotten a rave review of his lecture and half an hour of babbling about how he liked my ideas, actually listened instead of only paying attention to people who were louder and more assertive. And... it tells me things, sometimes."

"What does?"

Jon lays his hand palm-up in her lap, making Gerry Jr. writhe away from water droplets, for a moment before returning to the Baroness. "The Eye. Since the Binding. Usually nothing useful, but I don't ask, so. Probably better this way." He sniffles.

"When people are lying," Jon says, a chopped-up fragment, a blank Gerry hopes Georgie will fill in herself. "Sometimes. And no one meant it when they said I could have more freedom with them. Different kinds, but not more. And... I wouldn't want to go to Athens."

Georgie turns to look at him without the Baroness's antics as pretext, but doesn't say anything. Gerry's insides quake at where he knows this is going.

"They... There have been. Several. To come. From there, I mean. Handsy. They all were. Almost all."

Jon never manages to linger on that thought long in conversation, and he hunches in on himself. Georgie looks at him with naked horror, and visibly wavers over the urge to wrap her arm around him. Jon decides it for her, falling against her side like a demolished wall.

"So some would be worse," he says, voice too upbeat to try to distract from what he said. "I'd rather be here."

Chapter Text

Martin feels sick. He wishes they never pressured Gerry into letting them do this. He should have focused on the memory of Jon in Georgie's flat, falling to pieces as he tried to communicate the urgency he felt, not based his decisions on the Jon he knew in the Library, shy but casual and resolute about bringing power to bear in their defense.

And even then, he hurt Jon without ever knowing. What must Jon have thought of him? He makes eye contact with Melanie as Jon chokes out that some of the international visitors coming to London just for him are handsy, and he wishes he hadn't. Seeing his own dawning horror and vivid recollection of Jon dashing off like he had the devil on his heels when Melanie cracked a joke about the two of them flirting reflected in her eyes does little to make him feel better.

And it shouldn't take this! Jon works at the Institute, at least as far as they knew then. Martin knows how awful it is to be at work, unable to leave or properly tell someone off, and have someone coming in all the time to make advances! At least Melanie had an excuse! Her previous jobs, he knows, never ran to that particular strain; before going full-time on What the Ghost?, she's said she always had jobs where she could tell someone off without her boss taking her to task for it.

He keeps looking at the childish plastic scene taped to Jon's shower wall, cartoony seahorses and starfish that everyone looked to when Gerry asked if the eyes were all covered.

In Jon's shower.

There were two locks on Jon's door. Gerry undid one of them to let them in here, but the other didn't have a deadbolt latch on this side. When the others raced out the other door here, he could hear their steps, gauge the size of the suite as a whole a bit more accurately. It's large, but it isn't that large. The bathroom is bigger than it could ever need to be, but how big is it, really? An entire table and chairs fills out an absurd excess of space, but how long would it take before being able to eat in here instead of at the larger table they passed on the way in felt like a precious bit of novelty? How many other gilded cages are there out there waiting to receive Jon if he ever asks to leave London?

What are they doing? How did they convince themselves that they could talk Jon out of this, or into going to the police, or whatever they were hoping to do? This isn't news, really. They just let themselves consider the freedom to slip out to cafes and backtalk the librarian illustrative of everything else. As if Jon might have been genuinely unable to leave back then, but surely the tattoos Gerry showed them meant that that level of suffering was history? Stupid.

He keeps coming back to eyes. The marble eyes, yes, but his, too. His eyes, Georgie's, Gerry's, the cats'. The eyes all over Jon's body, on his back and chest and hands, the ones Martin didn't know about until today, Jon's joggers shy of his ankles and feet bare so that his arches and the knobs of his ankles are able to stare back at Martin. Are they safe? Is Jon ever safe from prying eyes?

"I'm sorry," Georgie heaves out through audible obstruction once they've all had time to contemplate the implications of worse.

They just charged into Jon's life, made him cry, ate his food while all Jon could manage was crumbs, even before he threw up. And for what? So they didn't feel like it was their fault that he's trapped here? Because they thought they could come up with a solution Jon and his friends haven't managed in half a decade?

"Please don't come back," Jon says, though Martin half-expected an empty it's fine. It isn't, but even in Martin's mind Jon doesn't have the grace of being allowed to be unpleasant. "We can write, but don't..."

How long have they been here? Gerry gave a vague outline of how long they could safely stay, but Martin's sense of time was obliterated somewhere in the tunnels. He doesn't know when they got here or how long it's been. He fumbles his mobile out of his pocket, only now realizing that that might not be safe either. Not like he knows anything about how GPS tracking works, and if anyone has cutting-edge privacy-invasion technology it would be an organization devoted to knowing things it shouldn't as a matter of religion. He has no reason to think that privacy-invasion magic would be any less able to discover the poorly hidden signature of a smartphone, for that matter.

He lights the screen because he may as well, but moves to fumble it back into his pocket before doing anything else, just in case.

"Is that a phone?"

He jumps. They all do, Jon and Georgie turning red eyes on Sasha. She looks like she genuinely isn't sure.

"Er, yes?" He hates it as soon as he says it, how nastily superior he sounds. The way he'd answer a stranger in the street with every reason to know what it is and no right to impose on him for favors.

Sasha and Jon share some wordless understanding across met gazes, both shifting to lip-chewing, eye contact-avoiding equivocation.

"Oh!" Martin startles again, though no one else does, because Michael is just barely vanishing from his periphery. "Danny has a phone, doesn't he?"

It takes a moment to place the name, but his heart squeezes when he does. Jon doesn't ask. He just looks up at Martin, eyes wide, looking afraid to. Even with the damp and redness of crying, he's beautiful.

"Uh," Martin says even though he shouldn't, even though this should be the one thing he can offer confidently. "Do you have his number? What time is it, in..."

He doesn't remember where Danny is. He isn't sure whether Gerry told them which brother ended up in China and which in America.

Jon recites a number, adds, "He isn't due to be at work for half an hour. If it isn't any trouble. If- please."

Martin unlocks the phone as quickly as he can and holds it out in front of him. Jon looks dangerously close to more intense begging, and Martin couldn't bear to hear that, not for something so small. When no one moves to take it he dials in the first bit of the number, then has to ask Jon to repeat the rest.

He puts the phone on speaker. Jon and Sasha are too far for both to hear otherwise, and they both look frozen to the spot. It echoes off the stone, and the tension climbs with every ring.

It connects, and Martin feels like he can breathe again.

"Hello?"

Jon and Sasha scramble closer the second there's someone actually on the line, and Jon finally takes pity on Martin's awkward, sore outstretched arm and takes the mobile like it might shatter. "Danny!" they say, just shy of unison.

"Hello?" Danny's voice is significantly higher than the first time. "Who- who is this?"

Sasha swallows back tears, but Jon says, "Jon and Sasha." After a moment he says, "And others. Gerry... people we trust."

"Where are you calling from?" Danny's disbelief sounds just as teary as things are on this end of the line.

Jon swallows, but this time Sasha jumps in, "We- there are people. Visiting. You... you remember Georgie? Jon's Georgie?"

"Does Jonah know?" The tone is intense, fearful.

"No," Jon laughs. "They'll leave soon, and- you remember I wrote about- well, there's nothing for him to use to look in, at any rate."

"It's so good to hear your voice," Sasha adds.

"Likewise. Are you alright? Doing well?"

This feels too private to be consigned to the acoustics and crowd, but Gerry and Michael look nearly as teary as Jon and Sasha, not at all likely to interfere or move. And the rest of them can't, Martin supposes. Not safely, difficult as it still is to envision a picture being enough for someone to spot them where they shouldn't be.

"As well as can be expected," Jon says. "You?"

"It's a bit hectic right now, there are a few things all coming due at once, but other than that I'm fine. Great!"

Sasha wobbles toward and back from a sob. "Where are you going next?"

"I wish you could see it," Danny says, breathless and sad. "I went with Max, a couple years ago, but the conference I'm headed to at the end of the month is right by the Grand Canyon, so we'll be going again."

"It sounds wonderful," Sasha says, madly wiping away tears as they roll down her cheeks. "Have you heard from Tim? It sounded like he's still feeling a bit run down, from his last letters."

"I was on the phone with him day before yesterday," Danny says.

It makes Martin's stomach churn; it's unkind, but he remembers what Gerry said about Danny and his brother. They've profited nicely from failing to help Jon, and even the restrictions in communication Jon is still subject to don't fall on them.

"He had to put Xiaoling on the line, because I thought there was too much static to hear him! And then I gave him hell for calling when it sounded like he shouldn't be speaking at all. But he's recovered enough that Xiaoling mentioned thinking he was going to die of a sore throat as a joke, so he should be well again soon."

Sasha's voice audibly dies in her throat before she can even open her mouth, a dizzy little twist of a fading whimper. Jon says, "I wish we could call him, too. It's after hours there, he won't be by the phone."

The silence sits for a moment.

"Jonah's recruits doing well?" Danny asks, an obvious stretch to try to steer away from dangerous topics.

"Oh," Sasha says, "I expect so. Michael's been talking nineteen to the dozen about them, and he'd clam up if there were any real problems."

Martin looks to Michael, wondering at his reaction. He's red, but he looks at the pair like they're a gift, and his eyes are just as close to brimming over as everyone else's.

The silence is less awkward this time, like they're all savoring even just the sound of breathing over the phone.

"We should let you get to work," Jon says eventually. Martin's surprised until he tries to imagine not hearing Georgie or Melanie's voices for five years and then trying to come up with enough to carry on a conversation.

"Alright," Danny says, even though the regret in his voice is obvious. "I love you two."

Jon and Sasha chorus the affection back at him, sniffling but smiling. "Give Tim our love when you speak with him," Sasha adds.

"Always. You said Gerry was there? He close enough to hear me?"

"Yes?" Jon darts looks over at Gerry and back.

"Hey Keay!" Danny shouts down the line, loud enough for everyone to jump, though Jon's hand remains too steady to subject Martin's mobile to the ministrations of the marble. "Take care of my best friends, hear me?"

"What d'you think I've been doing, Stoker?" Gerry yells back, though not as loud. "Worry about yourself!" 

The call seems less harsh and tragic when it's laughter that's bouncing off the stone.

Danny doesn't hang up without a few more rounds of pleasantries, all three clearly aware of how the chances of being discovered must stretch with every extra second and still clinging to the connection. The silence that falls after they hang up is less tense than before, at least.

Jon crashes into Martin when he awkwardly reaches his hand out. He buries his face in Martin's shirt and hugs him for a split second before bouncing back and handing back his mobile. As soon as it's secured, Sasha does the same. "Thank you."

"Any time," Martin says, even though he knows it isn't true.

He wants it to be.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in Jon's rooms stays chokingly tense even after his other friends leave. Sasha took no time at all to snap back into anger at Gerry for arranging the whole thing, just a bit less strongly than she would have without the call with Danny. Michael is completely unequipped to solve the problem. Sasha and Gerry are so much better at emotional problems, and there aren't many logistical things for him to solve.

He wonders if he made things worse. He ran out, so worried about the time and whether someone was going to come knocking about Jon missing lunch and becoming solely responsible for guests, of all things, and everything was frozen and quiet. He came back and Jon was sobbing in Gerry's arms.

He makes sure to be seen, same as ever. The worst conclusion to be drawn from his behavior, he thinks, is that Jon had a difficult day. That's hardly unusual, nor is the ratio of food carried into Jon's rooms to food carried back to the kitchens, under those circumstances. Michael wouldn't know if Jon had a secret, but he would know if that secret took over Jon's rooms for a couple hours while he was there. 

Michael goes through a list of evening errands, checking on the newcomers and anyone having a bad time of their own, taking dirty dishes out of Jon's rooms and arranging to take dinner in, then those dishes to the kitchens and picking up his pajamas and  overnight bag from the barracks.

The converts are settling in well, at least. He was worried that Mark and Katharine might pose an issue, but it doesn't seem to have happened yet. It's rare for Jonah to approve of a couple joining together if they're unmarried and have no children, but sometimes he gets set on numbers more than dynamics. It probably helped, too, that they were both running from the Dark, not just one of them. Jonah's favorite sort of recruits are the ones with something to be afraid of.

Michael is just glad that they all seem to have had the sense to avoid the topic during the welcome feast, up at the high table with Jon. He supposes Mark and Katharine might have mentioned something, but if Lydia did he would probably have heard it from Jon, and if Carlos did he definitely would have heard it from Jon. It's something he'll have to remember for the future- warning Carlos to keep things to himself before and after he Signed was enough to get through, so that's what he'll aim for in the future.

He can feel everyone's eyes on him, all aware of where he's sleeping and most of them jealous, as he collects his pajamas and little overnight bag. It's convenient having a place where all his personal grooming items are kept, easier than the usual old traipse of multiple trips or juggling more objects than hands, but he started keeping it because he doesn't have any clothing or essentials kept in Jon's rooms. Aside from his fancy clothes, of course. Jonah knows about those.

It isn't enough, but the errands and conversations are how he knows to help Jon. When he runs into Jonah on his way back to Jon's rooms and Jonah asks what the matter is, it isn't difficult to think of Jon as he left him, letting Gerry sit at the table with a book instead of bathing alone because they were all afraid that between the sobs still rattling his chest every so often and how exhausted he is he might slip under the water and drown. 

That happened once. Jon sat up spluttering and coughing, but it took long enough that the Baroness had pelted out of the bath and through her tunnels to try to jump directly onto Sasha's head, and a couple weeks later Lesere said he had pneumonia. He was sick for weeks. She said that if it happens again they're to bring Jon- or anyone, she felt the need to add, even though Jon is the only one besides Jonah and Gertrude and the nursery with any sort of tub instead of using the shared showers- to the Infirmary straightaway so she could keep him overnight and get ahead of any complications. That's the last thing Jon needs tonight.

When he knocks, Gerry lets him in. Sasha is on the couch, glare following Gerry all over the room. Jon's bedroom door is open, and in the light cast through the doorframe Michael can see him curled up in bed.

It would be nice, he thinks, to add Georgie and Martin and Melanie to their group. They're good for Jon.

Freedom was good for Jon.

It will be days before the group seals up the cracks of the latest explosion. He can tell it's going to be a lasting problem because when they join Jon in bed Sasha takes the end to keep both him and Jon between her and Gerry. Michael's always on the end; the others say he has a tendency to fight them out of mattress space in his sleep. When he wakes up, he usually finds about a meter of space between him and them, so he guesses they must be right.

If Sasha is less worried about him pushing her off the bed than she is about how little she wants to be near Gerry, it probably isn't the kind of argument that a good night's rest can cure.

Jon isn't angry with Gerry, at least. Gerry went in while Michael and Sasha were both securing their hair so that no one gets strangled in the night, and they could hear some conversation. When they went in, Jon was completely curled into the arch between Gerry's chin and bent knees.

Surprisingly, once Michael lays down Jon reaches a hand back and grabs at the end of his hair, tugging softly to get him to come closer. It's easy to tell the difference between him and Sasha by the feel of their hair, but Jon doesn't drop it once he realizes it's Michael. And if that didn't do it, being up against Jon's back would, because he's much taller than Sasha. But Jon just reaches back again, making grabby hands until Sasha lets him hold hers.

Michael listens as the others drop off, breath evening out one by one while he tries to plan for the fallout.

Chapter Text

Obviously, if Jonah asked Gertrude if she knew anything about Gerard's little adventure she would tell him. But he doesn't ask.

Just as he didn't ask about- or research himself- the glaring red flag in the access applications for Mr. Blackwood and Miss King. Even after Jon made his favor clear, Jonah never bothered to wonder how those outside connections might affect him.

If Jonah ever does bring it up, Gertrude expects her answer will be tempered by her irritation at his carelessness. Either he didn't look into the finer details of the project access was requested in service to, or he forgot the name Georgie Barker well before the pair ever applied. She might even focus on that particular grievance fiercely enough for the question of interlopers to fall entirely to the wayside. She is good at challenging Jonah harshly enough to send him running off with his tail between his legs, when she deems it necessary.

She might raise the issue herself if it continues, but at the moment she doubts that will matter. The company that traipsed back through her Archives into the tunnels was much more subdued than that that emerged, leaving bleary-eyed and with heads hanging. It's likely that the foolishness of the venture has been impressed upon them, and that she won't be hearing any more of the group, unless it's the pair in the Library. Even then, she would be surprised. Gerard has been slipping out of the Institute with less brash insouciance than usual, and the past few weeks have seen neither hide nor hair of certain Outsiders inside the Institute.

It's good for Jon to have these little secrets, in her opinion. Coming down too hard on him risks the threat of their rivals being brought to bear. He insists now, she knows from the check-ins she's sure to have with at least one of his friends each time they farewell a set of visitors, that he won't ever want to leave, but she thinks that Jonah could change that if he's too imprudent. Jon is a personality that needs to keep some things private at the very least, but ideally to have things he considers secrets. Jonah is just the opposite, hungry to carve out answers to every tiny mystery and stray thought he encounters, and Gertrude has had to divert him from other late-night wanderings through the halls and contraband Gerard didn't keep quite hidden enough on the way in before. 

And devoting energy to Jon's secrets keeps those four from coming up with different, more dangerous trouble. As long as Sasha and Gerard are occupied learning to knit, of all things, they aren't occupying themselves with something that might actually harm Jon's position here. The knitting doesn't threaten to unseat him, by his own will or another's, so she doesn't feel the need to divine what brought on that particular passion. Such minor intrigues mean that they can't devote themselves to plotting anything inadvisable in protest of the separation from the Stokers, and it means that when motions are made that make it clear to them that something has been discovered, like whatever it was they wanted a mobile for, they think their track record is such that being discovered will vastly increase the risk of the rest of their little projects being uncovered or prevented.

Gertrude is actually quite pleased with the visit. Before, Jon had seemed to be dwelling on the Stokers again, with enough discontent that she's sure he would have voiced it to someone outside the Institute before too long. She kept a very careful eye indeed on his mood running up to the anniversary celebrations Jonah insisted on. If Jon was going to voice his feelings to anyone, it would have been then. But, while he was aggravatingly close to his usual friends among the many delegates, nothing actually harmful passed between them.

With this, though, Jon is sure to rate the risk of at least one of his preoccupations coming under fire too high to devote much thought to the Stokers, so far away, and out of touch for years. Miss Barker is even nearer now than she was when he was taken, and the pressure of someone important to him so close to the machinations of the Cult will hold a much more prominent place in his thoughts. Gertrude is happy to suffer Outsiders sneaking through her halls every five years or so, or even- if pressed- once or twice a year, if it means that Jon is too focused on London to consider the rest of the world in detail. It's his nature to become consumed with worries like that.

Jonah, Gertrude judges, is none the wiser even several days on. She isn't sure he's even taken note of the minor rift in Jon's cadre of confidants. It's likely that things will be set right before too long, they're all too insular for arguments to persist, but it's still worthy of her attention.

That's what he has an Archivist for, though. Jonah can focus on the more interesting work of being the Institute's public face, on his trips and feasts, while Gertrude manages the rest, the converts fallen from Jonah's interest now that they're here, the tides of interpersonal conflict, the logistics of the supplies they need to function. Jonah can pull Jon into his office for looping attempts to uncover his true feelings or be brought into his confidence, can keep Jon tucked tightly under the patchwork quilt of all the emotions skillfully pulled to the fore to keep him as secure with them mentally as he is physically, not in spite of Gertrude's work behind the scenes, but because of it.

Let Jonah cycle through schedules for the Institute's day to day operations and wind Jon up. Gertrude will keep things smooth and ordered so that in six months all is ready for their next international guests, and take whatever measures are needed to keep Jon's next fancy beneath Jonah's notice until the precise moment it might rise to the stature of an issue best handled by Jonah's more domineering approach.

No one ever expects the quiet, inexorable advance when there's such a flashy vanguard to draw their attention.

Chapter Text

It's a day and a half before Gerry is alone with Jon. They're all keeping close, he needs them all close, but Gerry's position feels increasingly awkward as the hours pass.

Finally, though, Sasha decides that she needs to show her face and Jon's laundry needs to be taken out, be that genuinely or because she needs to something to do. Once she's gone, Michael "remembers" a meeting with some of the newbies he's supposed to go to and gives them the space to talk.

Gerry's sure that Jonah isn't watching. They've mainly been lying about listlessly, but even if the relaxation isn't from any happy source, Jon is never so relaxed when he feels Jonah.

"Jon," Gerry says, trying to breathe and order his thoughts. Jon looks over, tipping his head back awkwardly so he doesn't have to roll over. "I need to apologize."

His heart flips over, sure Jonah must have chosen the worst possible time to look in on them, when Jon whirls up and over with more energy than he's shown since their visitors left. Instead of shushing him, though, he winds up with his arms around Gerry's neck and his forehead against Gerry's collarbone.

"Don't," Jon says. "Don't apologize, I don't want to be angry with you, I can't be angry with you. It was stupid and risky and awful and wonderful. I can't be angry at you Gerry, please don't make me be angry."

"Alright!" he says, bringing his arms up to hold Jon like he's made of shattered glass. "You don't have to feel anything you don't want to about it. I promise it won't happen again."

Jon nods damply against his chest, and Gerry holds him and rocks a bit. By the time he has to get up to let Sasha and Michael back in, he has to carefully peel Jon off and lay him down.

It looks like the most restful sleep he's managed in days, which means Sasha doesn't even get to yell at Gerry, or at Michael for leaving him alone with Jon.

-

He has no idea whether it's the right thing to do, but Gerry can't stomach letting things with Jon's other friends end like that. And, after Jon's recovered enough to slip down to read next to Rosie and Sasha and Michael both return to their normal duties, he's left at loose ends.

He has no idea what kind of reception to expect at Georgie's. He can't live with not going.

Martin answers the door when he knocks, already a bad sign. Inside proves what he'd already realized: He didn't just hurt Jon by being reckless and stupid, he hurt Georgie and Martin and Melanie as well.

Georgie's hair is technically tamed, but it bristles out of her braid like it's been a few days since she last combed it out. She's curled on the couch in her pajamas, or day clothes close enough for the line to blur, with a blanket and her cat. Her eyes are red and swollen. Martin and Melanie aren't much better. They've clearly been crying as well, but not as much as Georgie, and their clothes are a hair less pajama-adjacent, but they're both slumped, bleary, curled up like it hurts to take up space.

"I'm sorry," Gerry says as soon as he makes it far enough inside to be able to see them all. Martin closes the door behind him. "I was stupid. I shouldn't have... I knew how bad things were. I shouldn't have put you in that situation."

Georgie shakes her head. "No. Don't. We pushed and didn't believe you and... I don't regret any of it. I'm sad that we upset Jon, but I'm not upset that we got to have a real goodbye."

"You can still write him," Gerry points out; he doesn't want to consider what the fallout of genuinely never hearing from them might be.

"It isn't the same, though," she says.

He nods, feeling like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. How does he always mess things up? Why did Jon have to pick him for a best friend? He deserves so much better than Gerry, someone who would remember all his triggers and know how to keep him safer and happier than Gerry ever seems to manage. Someone who would have pushed back against the kidnapping in the first place instead of designing the tattoos that trapped him forever.

"Are you alright?" Melanie asks, voice scratchy.

He looks at her in surprise. "What?"

"Are you alright?"

"I- I'm fine? Jon's still down, but it's getting better, and he and Sasha are happier having gotten to talk to Danny, and Jon having seen you."

"Are you alright?" she asks again. "Not how is Jon, or Sasha, or anyone else. Are. You. Alright?"

He doesn't know what she's asking. "I'm fine? No long-lost friends to miss, nothing on my plate at the moment. Jonah will cook something up soon, but for now I don't have any outstanding obligations more concrete than taking care of Jon."

Melanie grumbles wordlessly, but accepts the answer.

"Are... you?" he tries.

Georgie seems to deflate, and she wasn't exactly buoyant before. "Fine. It'll be better eventually. We'll... figure out what to do next. How to get things done in between hearing from Jon."

"I'm sorry," he says, though he doesn't know what he's apologizing for anymore. It just seems like the thing to say.

"Don't," Martin says. "There's nothing..."

The unfinished sentence hangs heavy in the air. There's nothing. There's nothing to be done for Jon, not really. Not substantially. There's nothing Gerry can think of that would make it safe for his outside friends to see him in person occasionally. There's nothing that can reconcile Jon's situation with the usual norms of outside society, that can make leaving him there without even trying to involve police sit any easier for the other three. There's just nothing.

Decades ahead of them all, and nothing.

Chapter Text

Jon goes through stages of vibrancy or depression like the change of seasons. The change isn't quite predictable, but it is inevitable. This despondency will pass, as sure as the vivaciousness before it did.

He has all sorts of little boltholes scattered around the Institute. Some are secret from most of the members, and some Jonah put in a few discreet rules to preserve the sanctity of. Jon finds new ones all the time, discarding the old as too risky or habitual, places where he feels increasingly anxious about real or imagined observers noting the pattern until he's eventually pushed out.

One of the consistent ones, though, is Jonah's office. He knows that Jon doesn't consider it in the same category, as most of his hideaways aim for solitude, or something like it, in a fresher environment than his rooms. But Jonah accounts them a similar level of necessity in managing Jon's moods.

He gets overwhelmed. Jonah will peer out to watch him in the mess, in a Library, meandering down a hallway, and find him already rocking faintly, arms drawing inward and hands edging up to cover his ears, hunching like he wants to make himself small. If one of his confidants is near enough to be more convenient, Jonah aims a prompting thought their way, but sometimes Jon is too close to the incipient meltdown for that tactic to be effective.

Jonah's office is cool and quiet, light or dark depending on Jon's preference at the moment. Sometimes he tries to engage Jon in conversation, to get to the heart of whatever might be bothering him, but other days he installs Jon on a seat and goes back to his work while Jon recovers himself in privacy.

That's usually how this goes, at least. Jonah prods at Jon for information on what would make him happier and Jon turns it into a battle of wills, or he takes the privacy as his opening to rant at length about everything that's ever displeased or hurt him, Jonah noting anything in particular that might be removed or alleviated. Or he stays quiet, lost in thought that rarely flattens into a clear enough image for Jonah to get a proper read on, until he feels better and asks if he can be excused.

Today, though, Jon has no sharp tongue for him, no prickly complaints, no quiet softness. He sits on a divan and falls inward, imploding in slow motion until he sits with his head cradled in his hands, muffling his sobs a project almost entirely abandoned.

Jonah walks slowly and softly over to him, making sure to make enough noise that, if Jon is listening, he won't be surprised and startled to find him so near, but quiet enough that he won't add another battering hammer against the acute sensitivity of Jon's senses. He stands just in front of where Jon sits and says, "Jon?"

Jon doesn't say anything, but his cries increasing in volume and his rocking in place cants forward a bit more. His thoughts are a roiling confusion of fragmented memory and imagined scenarios. Cautiously, Jonah sits on the divan, just within reach of Jon.

"Jon?" he tries again.

Jon heaves himself upward, hands over his face still as he sits up straight, tears no longer muffled at all. He sways, tips. Jonah takes the pronounced lean in his direction, weighted far more that its opposite, as an invitation and gently closes the distance between them. He ventures first a hand on Jon's back, prompting a more intense slant in his direction, and then a shift nearer. Slowly, watching at every turn for resistance, Jonah slides into Jon and holds him to his breast, precious and holy.

"Shh," he murmurs. "Let it out. What's the matter, darling? What can I do?"

Jon blubbers wordlessly, leaning into Jonah. A skim of his mind confirms that it wasn't intended as anything in particular, just a warbling expression of distress. Jon's hands slip from his face, tears and bubbling nose pressing into Jonah's clothing.

"Let me fix it," he says, half meaning and half an attempt to answer Jon's garbling with a calmer susurrus. "Tell me what you need, Jon. Tell me what's the matter."

Jon just presses closer, until Jonah holds his breath in trembling anticipation and Jon lifts his deadweight arms and wraps them as tight as he can around Jonah's neck. Jonah sways from side to side, patting Jon's back as soothingly as he can. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Tell me what the matter is and I'll fix it, Jon. Ask and it's yours, dearest."

Jon whimpers, legs making an advance on his crumpling, curling up toward Jonah as well. He takes in an awful breath, shaking with the intensity of an earthquake, and manages actual words. "It hurts, it hurts, make it stop." He draws a hand down to claw impotently at his chest.

"Oh, Jon," Jonah says. "What do you need, darling, what do you need?"

Jon whimpers again, pressing against him harder. He clings and cries, but he doesn't manage any more words. He holds tight while Jonah tells him how proud of him he is, how wonderful Jon is, how brave, and eventually he falls asleep.

Jonah carefully distributes mental nudges to clear his path and summons Gerard. When he arrives outside Jon's rooms to find Jonah, fortunately waiting hardly a minute, carrying Jon tear-stained and limp with sleep, he gives him a look that aches to burn him down to cinders. Jonah smiles blandly, and takes Jon in once it's been impressed upon Gerard that Jon is sleeping soundly, and Jonah won't be changing that to flatter Gerard's ego by handing him over.

Jonah smooths Jon's hair, pulls shoes off dangling feet, removes his belt and circlet, all under Gerard's hateful eye. Jonah tucks Jon into bed, and once he's left Gerard to him watches for Jon to wake. When he sees him start to stir, Jonah summons someone to go up with something filling and easy to eat, and watches from his office as Gerard rouses Jon and coaxes spoonfuls of berry-festooned porridge into Jon's mouth, Jon hovering close to the precipice of sleep, his eyes so near to shut that only a white streak of sclera can be seen between the lids.

He's beautiful.

Jonah loves him so much it hurts.

Chapter Text

Jon feels like he's tearing apart. He was doing well, he was handling it, he was thrilled at the chance to see Georgie and the others one last time, to actually speak to Danny, and then it was like all his ribs shattered into splinters. His chest aches from the moment he wakes to the moment he drifts off to restless or tear-deadened sleep. He feels like he's flailing out of control, latching onto anyone who can offer a moment's comfort, driven from his friends into the arms of near-strangers because somehow when he has nothing at all it's easier to ignore the gaps that will never fill.

He's lead or creeps into Jonah's office, intoxicated by the pretty lies Jonah murmurs into his hair while he cries. Jonah has the whole of Jon's existence in the palm of his hand and he's drawn to the promises, drawn to pretending that the power will be used for more than Jonah's own appetites, that this heartache could truly be solved with a whisper. When he sees his friends they stare worriedly and ask nothing. He wouldn't know how to answer if they did.

It hurts, hurts, hurts, and the pain of loneliness demands to be paid in kind. He can't bear to go to Rosie, or Lesere, or anyone he normally rates at friendly acquaintance, trustworthy enough for minor confidences but not the whole of his heart. He lands in the laps of people he doesn't know the names of, is found crying in the courtyard by teenagers he last interacted with at Signings years ago who react as though they've found him bleeding out, is carried to his rooms or Jonah's office by faces he doesn't recognize.

It just keeps building, day after day, with no end in sight. He can hardly bear to have any of his friends with him in bed, but he can't bear the solitude, either.

Eventually, he finds himself chivvied into a room with a woman he doesn't know well. Laverne. The Artefact Storage assistant who found Jon caught up against a corner bent in sobs, crown skittered away over the floor what felt like decades ago, gives him a hug and prods him into a classroom he's almost certain is supposed to be hosting a Literature class for the teenagers right now.

Laverne catches him at the doorway and guides him over to a squashy armchair he doesn't remember being here instead of leaving him to hunch and stumble around aimlessly. She takes a more typical, hard chair across from him, bent at the waist and holding his hands.

"Hello, Jon," she says softly. "I heard you've been having a hard time lately."

He shrugs, for some reason, even though nodding would be easier and he can't speak because he's crying.

Laverne scrapes her chair a bit closer. "Can you breathe in with me, Jon?"

She counts off breaths, in, hold, out. Jon struggles to do it with her, breathing chopped up with convulsions of fading sobs. Eventually, though, there are tears streaking hot down his face but nothing interfering with his voice once Laverne passes him a tissue and he blows his nose.

"What's this about?" she asks. "What brought this on?"

He shakes his head. He can hardly tell her; even if there weren't any secret about it, she wouldn't understand why being trapped here isn't wonderful.

"It has to be about something," she presses. "Do you know what that is, or do you need help figuring it out?"

He shrugs. Probably best to let her nudge at him until she's come to her own, safer conclusion. Better let this conversation he doesn't want to be in drag on than turn into a different, worse conversation he doesn't want to have, and with Jonah instead.

"Are you upset with any of your friends? You haven't been spending as much time with them as you usually do."

He shakes his head and shifts. She releases his hands, which isn't quite what he wanted, but he takes advantage of it anyway, curling up in the chair instead of trying to stay upright. Like this, he can put his head on one of the armrests and stare at nothing instead of the floor. His breath keeps shaking, and tears blur everything into an indistinguishable mass.

"What about those Outsiders you've been spending time with?" Laverne asks, landing far too close to the truth for comfort. "Did they do something?"

He shakes his head frantically, fear roiling up that admitting to any kind of discontent with Martin and Melanie might mean something awful happening to them.

"Okay." He thinks she might have put her hands up, but his vision's too blurry to tell. "Diana says they haven't been back in a while."

He nods limply. She's come to her own version of the truth, as close as anyone can get safely.

"Is the problem that you wish they would come back?"

He shakes his head nearly as hard as he did at the suggestion that they did something wrong. He doesn't want them here. He doesn't want to know how expressing a desire for them to return might be twisted.

"But you miss them," Laverne says. It sounds like she's going for calm and matter-of-fact, but she ends up more dubious.

He takes in a breath, not sure what he's going to say, exactly, but it catches and rolls into a fresh round of sobs. Laverne shifts closer, rubbing his back hesitantly while she guides him through another round of breathing exercises.

"I- I- I-" he starts, "I want to. They asked me to go-o to lunch with them."

She draws in a breath that's a bit too short, audibly throttled by the immovable fact of his imprisonment. "And you wanted to go?"

He nods. It isn't the right question. Suddenly, he feels sure there is a right question, a question that will allow him to spool out all the miserable turmoil of the last couple weeks, untangling the emotions without saying anything too incriminating, but he doesn't know what it is. "Is that all?" maybe. "What is it you want so much, what do you know about it other than that you can't have it?"

"Is there something else?" she asks. He nods. Isn't there always? "Was there something else you wanted, that's making you so miserable, Jon?"

He hates how reasonable she sounds about it. Like there's an end to pull that unravels the whole massive project of suffering that is his life. He nods, though he still doesn't know the answer.

"What's missing?" she asks, and it feels like fire in his chest. Maybe she means it, maybe she knows that there are things he isn't allowed, maybe there's no malice or even ignorance in the question, but it burns.

"I- I-" He takes a deep breath, manages to master himself before she starts with the breathing exercises again. He needs to use this, needs to bleed the words out like infection in a wound, even if the injury is still as mortal as ever when he's finished, and he doesn't want her to interrupt and stifle them. "I had a life."

She draws in a tight little breath, and he gasps, trying to get enough air to speak.

"I had a life. I was nearly done with school. I had a future." Each sentence rides the heels of the last, so close that he doesn't think of what to say next, doesn't know until he says it. "I had friends. Fine, there weren't many, but I had them. They must all think I'm dead now."

He knows he's riding a fine line, a dangerous line, without room for thought to ensure that what he says can't incriminate him or any of the others, but he can't stop. He can't bear to stop. Everyone asks him, all the time, what he wants, and most of them assume what he'll say so emphatically that it isn't worth speaking at all. From Jonah down, they decide what he must want without any particular regard for what he does want. It's a choking, unshakable fact.

"They think I'm dead. For all I know, they are dead. I'll never know. I'll never leave. I- I can stay here, in this building, for the rest of my life, or I can ask someone from America or China, or Greece, or wherever and I'll be trapped there without my friends and what familiarity there is in London or any of the things I really want. It's forever, and I can't bear it." He shudders, nose stuffy enough that it makes his voice go off, and before his voice is entirely lost to tears again says, "I just want it to be over."

Laverne makes a sound like she's not too far from tears herself and says, "Oh, Jon." She shifts, wrapping him in her arms and whispering reassurance in his ear, empty but not in any of the false veins he detests hearing the most.

Jon does all he can seem to do these days, and cries on a stranger's shoulder.

Chapter Text

Gerry's told to go fetch Jon from where he's fallen asleep on Laverne's shoulder and put him to bed, and then Jon doesn't leave his room again.

Chapter Text

Jonah works his jaw, swallowing the sourness of his distaste for what he's about to propose. Jon never said a word, all the times Jonah asked what could make him happy. Gertrude's point that he's had to make himself the immovable wall between Jon and all his most foolish aspirations, perhaps explaining Jon's reluctance, makes it sit no sweeter on his tongue.

He brushed off the first concerns over Jon's distress with the confidence that Jon had come out of similar before and would no doubt do so again. Laverne's suggestions were met with a bit more brusqueness, the product of his annoyance at having the degree he paid for used to justify the heretical notion that Jon might someday no longer be able to bounce back as he has in the past. His concerns on that front are his alone; he sees no reason for them to circulate among the rank and file.

But Jon has gotten worse and worse as time passes. Jonah has an eye on him almost constantly, whenever he's awake, and he's seen Jon speak no more than a dozen words over the course of weeks. He's losing weight because he has so little inclination to eat that his circle and the kitchens have conspired to put him on a liquid diet. His responses to most of his international correspondents have been in his friends' handwriting, and likely largely their own words, to the point that Jonah has a stack of alarmed emails cluttering his inbox expressing concern in varying degrees of intensity.

Jonah is a proud man. He's always been a proud man. The fact that his pride is not quite enough to remain committed to a course that is so plainly destined for destruction doesn't make what he must do sting any less.

He makes clear to Michael in no uncertain terms that Jon and all three of his friends are expected to make themselves presentable- he can tell from watching that they've made a habit at this point of taking turns being the only one to put on real clothes and execute whatever errands are necessary outside of Jon's rooms while the others stay in bed with Jon, worrying over him like their attention is all that ensures he draws each new breath- and come to his office within the hour. Jonah doesn't like being cut out, has cared little in the past for the ways Jon remains unwilling to allow Jonah into his rooms, but with so little on solid footing he doesn't dare press at what used to feel like a minor difference of opinion. Keeping as many of Jon's little footholds intact as possible matters too much, at the moment.

The little party of long faces arrives in his office with considerable reluctance. Sasha and Michael have made decent efforts at proper grooming, but Jon has only traded in old pajamas for clean ones and looks half asleep with his arms around Gerard's neck, not holding on to a piggyback ride so much as draped in the general direction of it. His head is unornamented, but given the state of his hair Jonah doubts anyone disobeying his order to clear the path between Jon's rooms and his office would have noticed. 

Jon ends up in the seat prepared for him before Jonah's desk, at least, the soft armchair from across the office rather than the harder alternatives normally associated with disciplinary action his friends rate. Just because Jonah can't hold them tangibly accountable for their failure in their stewardship of Jon without admitting more generally his own failures doesn't mean he can't make use of the association and place Jon in proper luxurious contrast.

"How are you, Jon?" he asks, voice warm and confident, not revealing the shreds of fear that have brought him to this point. Jon sniffles in response, which is more answer than he gives many questions in recent days.

"I've been speaking with people about what happened to have you so downhearted, recently."

Jon doesn't look up, though Jonah gets three needle-bright looks that confirm his suspicions that Jon's friends are aware of at least some of what Jonah's gathered evidence of.

"Diana's told me that there were a pair of outsiders making use of the Library while Michael, Gerard, and myself were traveling that you became friendly with."

Jon glances through his lashes, swallowing like his throat's gone tight but not quite coming to tears. The other three look like if Jonah gives in to his impulse to come around the desk and draw Jon into an embrace they might rip him apart with their bare hands. His own reasons for resisting the inclination are relevant to them only so far as their negligent, greedy determination to keep Jon's life secret must eventually be brought to account.

"And Rosie's told me that you've been listening to the show they were here doing research for, when you go down to sit with her." It was harder than it ought to have been to pry that out of her. He didn't have any indication whatsoever that she had anything of the sort to hide until Jon's state had declined so much that she started to wonder about bringing it to his attention herself. It's given him misgivings about her judgement more generally, though it could simply be that Jon has a way of making everyone want to keep him private, hoarding away jewels of interaction in their own little echoes of the attitude of their Patron. He'd been no more pleased to learn from Gertrude the third colleague of Jon's new friends, in the tone she always got when she thought Jonah was being foolish or lazy.

Jon bites his lip, looking faintly concerned. He's guessed where Jonah's going, then.

"Jon," he says, infusing it with all the sympathy in his body, drowning out the private hurt at having a matter of such import hidden from him, "why didn't you tell me you missed Miss Barker so much?"

Jon makes a swallowed sound and finally looks up to Jonah properly. His hands, gripping tight to his arms in the protective posture he can't seem to shake these days, tighten until the knuckles are white. Gerard audibly grits his teeth, none of the fragile openness of Jon's expression in his glare.

Jonah stands so that he can lean over his desk to hold the silky little card in front of Jon. He stares at it, the handwritten note on the expensive parchment likely wavering through the standing tears in his eyes. "I've made you reservations for a month from now. I've already arranged for Miss Barker and her friends to meet you." More accurately, he's assessed the trio's schedule himself and knows that they'll find the prospect far too tempting to prioritize the nothing currently occupying that date, but the details hardly matter at this stage, or to Jon at all, so long as they appear when and where bid.

"Michael and Gerard will go with you, on one condition." It's a far finer restaurant than any of the other parties deserve, but he would have Jon dine somewhere better if such an establishment existed in London.

Jon glances to the side, then up at Jonah, the most direct look he's given him since this awful bout of melancholy started. "What about Sasha?"

Jonah hides his irritation, because he expected as much. He isn't quite willing to offer to break the rules outright when he might squeak by without it, but Jon is so attached to all three of them that this was anticipated. The benefit of reserving a private dining room rather than a table: being able to decide at the last minute whether the party will be six or seven. 

"If, in a month, you've gone back to taking care of yourself, you, Michael, and Gerard will go. I mean taking care of yourself, Jon," he settles a bit of sternness over his tone, "eating real food at every meal, bathing without prompting, wearing real clothes, and walking around your rooms even if you can't bear to leave them. And once a week, I want you either going to the Infirmary yourself or letting Lesere into your rooms to make sure you're on the right track to put back on the weight you've lost. If, by that time, you're also averaging at least one meal a day in the mess and four hours out of your rooms, and you've gone back to answering your mail as you usually do, Sasha may accompany you as well."

Jon looks up at him with a wavering expression, not the delight Jonah hoped for but well within the bounds of the surprised hopefulness he'd anticipated, something guarded in his eyes still.

"The last time you talked about Georgie you were threatening to kidnap her if he didn't agree to the Binding," Gerard says, full of venom.

Jonah keeps his eyes on Jon, drinking in the eye contact that no one has been party to for far too long. "My interest in Miss Barker is only in how seeing her might make you happy, Jon. Ask if I'm lying. Beholding loves you far too well to keep it from you if I were."

Jon's eyes dart to the side, then down to his hands, fidgeting in his lap in a way that used to worry, annoy, and charm Jonah by turns and which gladdens his heart to see after so long limp and motionless. "I can really go?" he asks, a thin strand of voice that shouts down most of what he's said for weeks.

"If you meet my conditions, yes. I'll have the reservation card right here in my office. If you want to come and look at it, you can do that as many times between then and now as you like. It will count toward being out of your rooms." It's always good to encourage Jon to view Jonah's office as a safe refuge, somewhere he can count on privacy and freedom from the usual influences on his behavior when abroad in the halls.

Jon stands, and he looks so unused to doing so, or Jonah has grown so unused to seeing it, that Jonah's heart speeds with the worry that he might fall. He takes slow, halting steps around the desk, hands twisting in front of him. "Really?"

"I promise, Jon," Jonah says softly over the tangle-haired, precious head.

Jon tips forward and, rather than holding his hand out for the reservation card as Jonah expects, wraps him in a weak, shaky hug that takes Jonah's breath away.

Chapter Text

Martin and Melanie don't leave Georgie's flat for days after their trip to the Magnus Institute.

She's sure they've got her on informal suicide watch, or something. She isn't sure what exactly they think she'll do if left alone, but she's equally unsure that the caution is unwarranted. What is she supposed to do, knowing that all her efforts to find Jon were pointless? That she never once had the right trail? That none of the police she dragged into action were ever going to find Jon, even if they weren't being paid off by Jonah to begin with?

It isn't news, but that makes it hurt more. It's all things that she should have intuited from the first awful conversation with Jon. He used to be her best friend; how did she forget him so well that she couldn't place her trust in the army of red flags parading through that conversation? Why did she make him prove it to her so viscerally and heart-breakingly? What's wrong with her?

Gerry appears a few days after they last saw him and she has no idea what she says. She just bleeds apology and guilt until he goes away.

They go back to lying around, wearing pajamas and eating food that takes a few minutes in the toaster at most, and preferably takeout they don't have to do anything at all to. They don't talk about the show, don't watch anything or listen to music. It all seems perverse, to have luxuries like unlimited internet access when Jon has so little.

"Come on," Melanie says, jarring Georgie out of her self-pitying reverie. "Sit up. Shower. Now."

"Melanie," she says, feeling peeved and a bit embarrassed. Has she really gotten so bad that she has to be reminded to shower? 

"Now," Melanie says clicking her fingers. Georgie sticks her tongue out at her, which makes Melanie light up. Even that much cheery fellowship is progress, is a feeling alien since sneaking into the Magnus Institute.

It feels nice to be clean, though she won't tell Melanie that. She wasn't at the point of genuine filth, but she hasn't bothered to deal with her hair for a few days. It does feel like an itchy, greasy rat's nest as soon as she turns her attention to it, and it takes her half a bottle of conditioner to get it all untangled. Then she washes it again, to get rid of all the conditioner. 

Joining the others in the kitchen in real clothes, which feel implied by the order to shower and quite nice once she's gone to the hassle of putting them on, she finds Martin and Melanie intensely focused on a pile of colorful paper and envelopes. There are ink pads and stamps, and Georgie thinks she sees a sheet of stickers.

"Arts and crafts?" she asks, trying to say it lightly and not quite hitting her goal.

"Writing letters," Melanie says in a staccato cadence that seems to imply they'll have to go through a regiment of soldiers to do so, and she's determined to ensure adequate bloodshed.

"Right," Georgie says, a bit damply.

"We're not writing Jon!" Melanie snaps, fist clenching and crumpling the sheet of red construction paper in her hand. She sets it down and smooths her hands over it, flattening it against the table.

"We can write Jon," Martin corrects. Melanie seems to be requiring an abnormal amount of hair flipping to return to the proper mindset, whatever that is. They're all a bit odd and off lately, trying to braid the situation into a shape that makes sense without turning living into an unbearable weight.

"We're writing America." Melanie picks her wrinkled sheet of paper up and tears it in half decisively. Georgie is faintly alarmed for a moment, but then Melanie drops onto a chair and starts ripping one of the halves into smaller pieces, apparently in service of some greater vision.

"Right..." Georgie says, sitting much less abruptly in the chair next to Melanie.

"China as well," Martin says. He pulls a tupperware out of his bag and plops it on the table, pulling the lid off with more effort than necessary and almost hitting himself in the face with the recoil. The tupperware is full of markers and glue sticks.

"We're doing it the fun way," Melanie says, grabbing a glue stick and doing harm to a fresh sheet of construction paper with it. Her voice sounds as though she might as well have said, "We're also getting root canals," instead.

Georgie picks up a piece of yellow construction paper and starts tearing it into strips with no real end in mind. It seems the thing to do, and she's a bit concerned that if the others have gone insane they might attack her for sticking out. Melanie looks like she'd quite like to tear into something with her teeth, and Georgie is reserving judgement on whether that something might be human ligaments.

She winds up tearing a blue sheet into strips next, and gluing all her yellow pieces to one so she can weave them together. It's fiddly enough, and requires enough glue, that it gives her ample time to watch the others for further signs of madness. She's heartened to see that what was originally pitched as "letters" would more rightly be termed "cards". It makes the primary school of it all a bit less worrying.

Martin finishes his first, and gives Georgie a new set of misgivings. He had a folder in his bag, too, and she can't imagine what else is inside. He removes a single page, a printed picture she recognizes as the one of "Dr. Bouchard" on the Magnus Institute website. The tableau, in completed form, depicts an unsettlingly cheerful smiling sun and clouds, complete with rainbow, over a series of interesting tricks with slits cut in the paper. Pulling them correctly brings a guillotine blade down on Jonah's red-markered neck, the head falling far enough to make the corner of the page burst into construction-paper flames with Martin's signature and the text "BURN AFTER READING." The text at the top, immovable among the clouds and rainbow, says, "JON: THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS."

Georgie is considerably relieved when Martin pulls the folder back out and reveals a stack of normal stationery, on which he begins composing a normal letter. And considerably inspired, with the purpose of the exercise made clear.

She discovers that Melanie has finished her card when her forehead hits the table with a loud curse. It's followed by more cursing when she tries to sit up and discovers that the faceplant into her masterpiece has caught her hair in some of the glue, and she has to spend a minute pulling it out and nudging the shifted pieces back into place.

"Alright?" Georgie asks when the crisis has been averted.

"My therapist said to do something creative but not routine," Melanie grits out. "I didn't want him to be right."

"...Feel better?" she asks, hoping she's parsed that correctly.

Melanie's head lolls back. She crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out, and keeps her eyes crossed at Georgie as she says, "Yes."

Georgie looks at the card. It seems polite, and also she's been dying to know what Melanie was going to do with all her tiny paper pieces. They've been resolved into a brightly-colored mosaic. It's pretty impressive. It's a picture of several eyes, pressed together at their edges, most with neatly-cut strips of red construction paper laid over the pupils in X's. She isn't sure if the red and orange flames along the bottom are instructions on how to dispose of the card or part of the scene. Melanie also immediately shifts into writing a normal letter.

Now that their refusal to explain what's going on has resolved, Georgie finds herself rather cheerful about the project. Her woven sheet of yellow and blue gets glued down with a wad of scrap paper making the impression of a body under a blanket. She puts herself underneath it, nose and hands sticking out to clutch the blanket. A series of puffy white thought balloons go through tiny, undetailed renditions of the other two cards, with wobbly text in the last saying, "I think they might kill me."

Unless Jon has changed significantly, she's pretty sure he'll find it funny, even if he doesn't admit it. The tiny orange fire she sticks at the bottom saying, "Burn me as well," will hopefully do it if nothing else.

It's awkward to write letters to Jon after what happened, and to both of his friends, given that they're strangers. It's a bit more worrisome to put the set destined for Beijing in a big envelope together with the best they could manage for address, Tim Stoker and a "care of" label for the Centre. The address for America is easier, because they've used it before without complication.

Georgie doesn't know if it'll cheer Jon up any, or get them whatever it is they're hoping for from the Stokers. Someone who can speak freely about the ugly parts of Jon's situation instead of having to pretend to be happy about it, maybe. Danny seemed like he needed friends like that. It's cheered the three of them up, at least.

-

It's still hard. Gerry comes by occasionally, and he looks worse all the time. He says that he's fine, and Jon's fine, and he hopes they're fine, but she doesn't think he believes that a single one of them is actually fine. It's a word she's starting to hate.

She picks up the phone for the unknown number because they discussed it, and told the Stokers they'd be happy to talk on the phone if they want. She doesn't expect who she hears on the other end of the line.

"You don't know anything about Jon."

"Gerry?"

"Listen, you don't know anything about what happened to Jon, and you don't know where he is, and the other two don't know about him. None of you know it's the same person. He might be watching."

"Where are you?" She thought he didn't have a phone.

"Payphone. See you in a month." And he hangs up on her. The others are as baffled as Georgie when she tells them.

-

The next unknown number phone call she gets throws Gerry's call into context, and she nearly cracks a tooth keeping herself from shouting.

Chapter Text

Everyone relaxes when Jon starts to do his best to fulfill all of Jonah's instructions. He's worried them all terribly, and he feels awful about it. Nearly as awful as he's felt about everything, a spare weight to add to the misery of the past few weeks.

His friends have only just started to leave him alone in ways more significant than sitting outside against the door while he showers, guilty and anxious about Jonah's ultimatum and promises. He's trying to meet Jonah's requirements, he really is. It might be the first time since he was kidnapped that he's done what Jonah wants without having to be threatened or overpowered.

There is a threat to it, though. Not one that Jonah acknowledges or states outright, but it's there. He may have responded to Gerry bringing up what Jon was too afraid to with promises that he has no interest in entombing Georgie alongside Jon, but Jon can feel the danger. Jonah might be telling the truth now, but he's mercurial, for all he puts on a good front to most people. It builds in tiny annoyances Jon doesn't realize affect him until it snaps back with the fierce unstoppability of a bear trap.

When it's clear that he's making an effort, braiding his hair instead of snarling it into the lazy, floppy bun Jonah hates, showering and putting on clothes Jonah bought him for fear of most of his favorites being deemed too near pajamas to count, admitting defeat and letting Gerry let a swarm of people in to recover the disaster area his rooms became with him immobile in bed and his friends entirely focused on him while he hides away elsewhere, Jonah summons Jon to his office.

He tiptoes there, terrified of being told that it was all a joke, that now that Jonah has what he wants it will be revealed as a lie. He doesn't know enough about fine dining in general, much less in London, to recognize whether the name on the reservation card is even real, and no one can check with Georgie and the others for the validity of the claim that things with them have been "arranged", because Jonah might be watching.

Jonah smiles at him when he lets himself into the office, no trace of the wrinkled forehead and sympathetic eyebrows of recent days. "Jon."

Jon shuts the door behind him with the heft of a dungeon's and stares at the floor, one foot darting out to trace pointed-toe squiggles over the polished floor to try to work out some of the nervous energy that tells him to run and hide. "You wanted to see me."

Jonah takes the response as permission to walk over to him and pull him into an embrace, which Jon thankfully isn't expected to reciprocate, just allow. When he draws back, his hands stay on Jon's shoulder's, holding him back like he's a scrap of canvas and Jonah's admiring a masterpiece painted onto him. Eventually, the press of the silence makes Jon tip his head up, making eye contact with Jonah's Adam's apple. Jonah's eyes are soft and radiant, like looking at Jon has injected sunlight into his veins to shine through his skin. "I wanted to speak to you about your excursion."

That scares Jon's eyes down to his necktie. Jonah makes it sound like Jon plans to forge a path through virgin wilderness, not eat dinner. Jon won't even get to order the cab, or drive. He isn't sure which. Gerry and Michael can drive, and maybe it's better that Jonah's unlikely to allow him into circumstances that echo the genuine article Jonah is unknowingly plagiarizing. "What about it?"

He can't hide his fear of Jonah cancelling from his face, much less his thoughts. Jonah squeezes his shoulders in a way Jon's sure he thinks is comforting. "Come, sit."

Jon wavers on the edge of his seat while Jonah sits back comfortably in his identical armchair. Jon can't bear to look at him, to learn what Jonah looks like tearing away something like this. Jonah's never made a promise intended to bribe Jon he didn't keep, just set up spoken and unspoken rules about when and if and how Jon is allowed to interact with people and things Jonah disapproves of.

"Learning you're in London will be quite a shock to Miss Barker," Jonah says. God, is he going to act like Jon might cause Georgie a heart attack, a nervous breakdown, whatever he finds convenient as an excuse to reveal the carrot was always just as wooden as the stick? Jon hunches his shoulders and doesn't answer. He feels Jonah's eyes crawl over him. "I'd like it if you wrote to her, so she knows that she isn't being contacted as some sort of practical joke."

Jon shrinks and then wavers forward a bit, toward Jonah. "Can I?" It sounds tiny and fragile, which he supposes is to the good. The only reason he's being allowed this is that Jonah thinks he's too delicate to survive without it. He thinks around the subject, trying not to touch on anything he doesn't want Jonah to know.

"Of course," Jonah says warmly. "Would you like to write it now?"

He nods. It'll be subject to Jonah's examination before being mailed, but that's alright. He... he thinks he'd like to put it down in his own words, as much as he can. He stands and follows as Jonah leads him to his desk, the chair just behind the desk he pulls up when he can get Jon to linger beside him. Jonah hands him his own stationery and fountain pen, and then Jon has to decide what to write.

-

Days later, Jon retreats behind the screen in his closet like a mugger skulking into a dark alley, glancing over his shoulder and jittering with nerves.

Jonah's vision of neatness and professionalism for women is skirts and dresses, and fortunately for her Sasha's taste runs in that vein. Michael gets away with skirts since becoming Jon's friend, another way for him to use his tiny freedom for happiness and nothing more, another set of draping, brightly-colored fabric, another way for the three of them to give him gifts he'll appreciate. Gerry doesn't trust anything but the darkness and sturdy fabric of his two pairs of trousers.

Jon's tastes aren't his own any longer. Jonah's preferences have poisoned the well, and the skirts introduced to his wardrobe from various and sundry sources go to Sasha or Michael or get put into the wider cult wardrobe. Wearing a skirt never used to make him feel dangerously vulnerable, but it does now.

In uni, he and Georgie passed articles of clothing back and forth, mended, tailored, embellished, pinned and tucked and mussed a thousand ways to account for the jumbled currents of fit and mood. She started by wearing his button ups as jackets, and eventually he crept to her closet and returned the favor. The things they were supposed to wear and how they were supposed to be worn were ignored in favor of fun and laughter whenever possible.

The first skirt that was his, not just borrowed from Georgie, was in the things she saved for him. It was cheap when it was new and came to him secondhand, but he liked the weight of the knit, the way it hung heavier than other skirts in the same cut. It's plain black with the barest hint of white striping the hem, pilling in places and only hanging to his knees. It's entirely unlike what Jonah chooses for him, and slipping into the space where Jonah exerts such control over him to put it on feels like fantastic sacrilege.

He twirls and twirls in front of the triptych mirror, the sort in dressing rooms that shows multiple angles. The skirt swings and bounces off his knees, carrying his momentum halfway through another rotation when he stops and swinging back like the beat of a wing.

It's dangerous and delicious, a tactile memory of before. Wherever Jonah's arranged for them to go, it wouldn't pass muster even if he was brave enough to try. If Jonah delves into his mind to uncover why Jon prefers this skirt over all others, it will give away its source. Jon can't wear it out, but he wants to. It makes him feel like himself again, even with eyes winking from behind his knees with the sway of the hemline.  He pictures seeing Georgie, being allowed to see Georgie, with the ability to run up and hug her, swing around each other like they used to, instead of being bogged down by fear and mystery.

They're just lucky that a month is enough time for a letter to go from him to Quincy to Georgie, informing the others of the signal they've agreed on so Jon can alert everyone if Jonah's watching. He doesn't envy them their task; they must be furious with him, still, and more so for dragging them back in like this, but they have to pretend at an entirely different fury for Jonah's benefit, or be prepared to. Jon isn't an actor in this play, he's scenery. Once he's met Jonah's requirements, Jonah will expect all the roles that played out for real weeks ago. Georgie heartbroken and angry, Martin and Melanie confused and angry, all trending into horrified when Gerry takes the reins of explanation. Michael can help, too. Jonah won't expect anything but shrinking shyness from Jon, won't expect him to do more than hold Michael or Sasha's hand and maybe cry a bit, by the end.

He replaces the skirt with a pair of crisply pleated slacks Jonah got for him and returns it to its hiding place among the other clothes. He doesn't so much as glance at himself in any of the mirrors in the closet. The skirt lingers at the boundary between his everyday clothes and the spares Sasha keeps here for when she spends the night. She and Michael have been bullied into fittings for whatever Jonah considers appropriate for the occasion, and even Gerry might be forced to give up at least part of his customary ensemble. Jon might offer the skirt to Sasha for the trip, otherwise.

They're all letting Jonah live their lives for them because they're worried about him. They're always worried about him. Everyone is, except for himself. Anxiety doesn't have much bite when there's nothing he can do to change what happens but choose to obey. Jon knows there's no true threat to his life or health; he's not sure he'd care if there was.

That's an awful thing to think. It's why everyone's so worried, why Jonah was willing to make such a massive concession. He isn't sure that giving him something he's wanted desperately for years in reaction sends the message they want.

Jon, in his Jonah-approved slacks and Jonah-approved shirt, trying to boost his chances of going and of bringing Sasha, slips out of his room with his head weighted by neatly brushed hair and circlet properly in place to scurry into Jonah's office and turn the little reservation card over and over in his hands. Jonah isn't so bad an option; he's capable of letting Jon sit quietly, without speaking to him or clustering to speak about him not quite far enough away to go unheard. Hiding away with Jonah means fulfilling his requirements and, hopefully, setting a more recent activity in Jonah's mind so he doesn't decide to get curious about how Jon's spent the day and catch the skirt on a glance into Jon's mind. He's spent two hours and thirty-seven minutes outside his rooms today, and tucking himself into a corner of Jonah's office for a bit will go far enough for dinner in the mess and his weekly appointment with Lesere before that to take him to his goal.

-

Dear Georgie,

I'm sure you're surprised to hear from me like this. I can't imagine what things were like for you after I disappeared. I'm sorry. I want you to know that there isn't anything you could have done to stop what happened, only delayed it. This is the first time I've been allowed to write to you.

I'm in good health, and I'm as safe as anyone can be. Please don't contact the police; there's nothing they can do, and in London they're more likely to focus on you dangerously. At best, they'll ignore you. I'm sorry that I didn't inform Martin and Melanie of who I was; I didn't realize they knew you until gathering some new information about the project they came to the Institute to research. I've heard a few episodes of your show now, though. It was good to hear your voice again.

Georgie, please don't come to the Magnus Institute. I know that this is strange and likely upsetting, but while I'm safe here, you wouldn't be. Martin and Melanie should continue doing what they're doing and stay away as well. I'm excited to see you at whatever's being arranged- I haven't paid much attention to most of the logistics, just on keeping myself well, so you'll have to excuse the lack of detail from me. I think you should have at least some of the relevant information by this point, and on that front I don't know much more than you.

When I went to that lecture, I went up to speak with Dr. Bouchard- Jonah- at the end. He responded positively to my ideas, though I've long forgotten them now, and I was excited and happy about that. I was excited to tell you, and to tease you for missing out. God, Georgie, I miss you. I don't know how much I can safely divulge, but I'm doing my best. Jonah... developed a fascination, shall we say. With me, I mean. I'm writing this at his desk, with his pen, so I'm only doing the one draft. I think you'll feel the messy version is more believable, anyway. I used to know you well enough to be more certain of things like that.

Jonah managed to cut around and beat me to our flat. Don't ask how he found it, I don't know. I got all the way to our door. I was so, so close. He came up behind me and grabbed me. He had one hand over my mouth and the other at my throat. He dragged me back so I couldn't ring the bell- I'm glad he did, now, because you coming to the door wouldn't have improved things and might have made them a lot worse- and choked me out. They drugged me at some point on the way from our flat to the Magnus Institute. I woke up here. The Institute isn't quite what it appears to be; most relevantly, there's quite a bit of living space concealed from the public. That's where I've been all this time. Most of the people here are entirely off the grid, as it were. Born here, work here, and die here, with very few ever leaving. The numbers are kept up with recruitment, too, like going on trips like the one to Oxford to find students "looking for meaning," or whatever it is they say when they're trying to get you to join a cult.

Again, please don't take this to the police. I befriended a few people here, back at the beginning. Two of them managed to get me out. We made it to Morden, where they knew we would be difficult to find, but never made it any farther. A uniformed police contact of Jonah's found us and brought us back. The friends who escaped with me were sent away, which was actually a relief. The initial sentence was a capital one. I have some sway, here, though the explanation of that is very strange. Suffice to say, I managed to convince Jonah to let Tim and Danny live, even if I never got to see them or speak to them again. (I trust the people they were sent away to enough to take their assurances that they're alright at face value, much as I'd like a phone call.)

I haven't been well the past month or so. I've lost track of precisely how long. The permanency of my situation was wearing on me, and I was very depressed. Jonah decided to arrange meeting you and the others to bribe me out of it. Basic self-maintenance for a month (this started a week or so ago, again I lose count) in exchange for getting to go see you all. I'll make it, Georgie. I promise, anything I can do to ensure that happens I will. If I fail, please don't come here. Jonah's threatened you in the past to get me to behave; I have access to information that means at the moment I believe him when he says he has no interest in harming you anymore, but seeing you here would be a literal nightmare for me. I used to dream it all the time, after the dreams about you and our old crowd swooping in to rescue me stopped.

I do have friends here, real friends. They'll be there, too. Gerry, Michael, and hopefully Sasha. Sasha isn't generally allowed in the public part of the Institute, much less outside it, so her attendance is subject to a higher bar than the others. Hopefully Martin and Melanie make it, though I'd understand if they didn't want to. I was worried, when they were coming to the Library here, that Melanie or Martin might have taken me asking them to go somewhere private as something prurient, so I hope you'll at least pass on that it wasn't. People here are quite protective of me, and Diana wasn't pleased when Melanie asked why my cats were allowed there. The subsequent dislike Melanie showed, in combination with how no one could figure out why I liked speaking with her, further aggravated people, and I thought it was best to get them out of sight quickly. It was nice to speak with someone who disliked me. There isn't really anyone here like that.

I hope to see you soon, but if this is goodbye I want you to know how deeply I appreciate your friendship and how proud I am to be someone who loves you. Do you remember joking about how I was attached to you now, and breaking up wouldn't get rid of me that easily? We may have been wrong about how likely it was that something would prevent me from living in your coat closet, but I wasn't wrong about how impossible it would be for anything to tear you from my heart. I don't know if you have a coat closet now, but if you do, tape a picture of me up. I may not be able to personally take over a mouse hole there and live in your walls like an elf, stealing all your sugar cubes, but I'm there in spirit.

Ever yours,

Jonathan Sims

PS- Even if I don't get to see you, if I'm lucky I'll be allowed to write to you again. If I can, I will.

-

Ms. Barker,

In conjunction with our earlier phone conversation, I hope you'll find the enclosed letter from Jon ample evidence. I'd like to set the record straight on a number of counts.

Jon severely understated the state of things in his letter to you. He has spent nearly a month in bed, barely moving for the most basic necessities. He was so sluggish and apathetic that he was placed on a liquid diet, and has lost a verging on dangerous amount of weight. Prior to that, he spent a few weeks stumbling around, nearly always in tears or close to it, and struggled to articulate what had him so depressed. It took considerable detective work on my part to uncover you and your associates' place in his mind and heart.

He also understated how very dear to all of us here he is. Since your last interaction with him, his comfort and health have been prioritized in all things. He has three cats, three best friends, and has spent the past five years living in the lap of luxury. He isn't kept here for the mere desire to restrict his activities; I have prevented his attempts to leave the Institute because there are many who would see his importance within our organization and do him harm. On one occasion not mentioned in his letter to you one such individual managed to gain access to him despite our best efforts, and Jon found the encounter quite distressing. He has not spent the past five years languishing in a dungeon; he has merely been cared for and protected in the face of his own worst impulses and the dangers slavering for an opportunity.

Jon has accurately assessed the likelihood of success should you choose to report this contact to the authorities, in London or Oxford. I'm well aware of your efforts when he disappeared, and while I commend your devotion I must note that while the police there were reluctant then, if you reached out to them now they would pay you no heed whatsoever.

Likewise, it should go without saying that I expect you to act as an asset to Jon's recovery, not a hindrance. While for Jon's sake I would of course never cause you harm, I can make your life very, very unpleasant in myriad tiny ways. I advise you not to push your luck and discover them. I trust that your friendship with Jon will lead you to think of his needs above your own. The obsession with "finding answers" I see is focal in so many episodes of your podcast will be directly harmful to Jon's welfare as well as your own, so I trust you'll leave it in the studio where it belongs.

Cordially,

Dr. Elias Bouchard

-

Dr. Bouchard-

"It should go without saying" that we think you're a weasel-faced, slimy little freak high on his own farts. Cutting out every recourse for Jon to oversee his own welfare and recovery doesn't make you objective, it makes you a creep. You don't get to pretend to fret about Jon's welfare after ruining his life, and letting him speak to people is not the tremendous effort to restore his health you seem to think it is. We'll be there because Jon wants to see us and we want to see Jon, not because of whatever pretentious crap you've convinced yourself of. Kindly find a hole and go die inside it.

Cordially,

Georgie Barker, Martin Blackwood, and Melanie King

[Letter burned and ashes flushed down the toilet to save on postage]

Chapter Text

Jon likes it, usually. Sometimes it's an acute reminder of what he's lost, or of how bad so many things are. For the moment, it's bearable; he's going to start hounding Jonah about the playground as soon as dinner with Georgie no longer hangs in the balance. It isn't the sort of thing Jonah considers important. He'd much rather open the Institute's coffers for finery Jon hates, and if he doesn't choose his approach carefully Jonah's more likely to leave the children with no playground at all instead of purchasing a safer replacement.

Jon is on the ground, back to one of the vegetable beds because the weather is fine and it counts as being out of his rooms. He can hear giggling down at the end of the row, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He doesn't mind it from the children. They only care about him because their parents think he's important. There won't be anything otherworldly behind the fascination until their Signings.

He's careful to time closing his book well. He was thinking of heading back inside, but he wants to make sure the children don't think he's leaving because of them. The pattering race of the bravest among them, a little girl with blonde hair so fine it wisps up almost on end even though there's hardly a breeze, reaches him just as he securing the book back in the bag he carried up.

"Hello," he says, pretending to have just noticed her. She giggles.

"Hi." A slightly-crumpled stem in thrust into his face. The only decorative plants are next to the shed, planted as a science project. Jon has to leave so that the rest of the children don't denude the flowers they spent so much time tending for his benefit.

"Is this for me?" She smiles shyly and nods. He takes the daisy delicately and tucks it behind his ear. "Thank you, did you grow these in class?"

"Mm-hm." Her compatriots giggle anxiously down at the end of the row.

"You must be excited to give some to your parents when you're finished with the lesson." She nods bashfully and waves as he stands.

In other words: Save the rest of the flowers for someone who'll appreciate them more than Jon. The others are close enough to hear even if it wasn't a sure thing that she'll carry his words back as exactly as she can, and the classes are mixed broadly enough that someone a bit older is sure to catch on.

As Jon turns to head inside, he can hear tiny exclamations about the interaction, all her friends fishing for details that will make them feel special to have witnessed, things that will get spread around a bit once they tell their families about their coup. It feels much different when it comes from innocence instead of deliberate gossiping, but the latter will have its day. He was already planning to eat dinner in the mess, and now he'll make sure to wear the daisy.

-

Jon tries to focus on interactions like that. He hates being trapped, and Jonah, and all the choices that have been taken away, but he doesn't hate the people. They don't try to aggravate him, as Jonah does, and there are only a few who are genuinely terrible at taking him up on the unsubtle signals that he'd like them to leave him alone. It's hard to blame them when he's too afraid he'll make them the targets of bullying if he spells things out as clearly as he ought to.

He does his best to focus on the good parts. Rosie, Lesere, a few others, all kind to him in the confines of their work without pushing those boundaries. His friends. His cats. On good days, even being able to pursue whatever interests him without having to be accountable to a boss or scrounge up rent or any of the other worst parts of normal life that he hasn't started to romanticize out of desperation for a bit of variety.

It feels like hammering his heart out on an anvil, trying to strengthen it and reinforce the weak points, trying to force it into shape to fit with his surroundings instead of cutting at the edges. Jonah probably hasn't yet realized the danger on the other side. 

Jon will make himself hold up long enough to get to see Georgie, to have an approved contact that he might be able to spin into permission to write each other without all the cloak and dagger. After? He isn't sure. He wants it to work.

He won't fall into that depression. He's decided. He won't.

He just wishes that he had confidence in his ability to decide that.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Jonah has declared their outfits "daring." Whether it's accompanied by a smile or a sneer depends on who he's talking to.

Gerry spent a week pointedly thinking about ways to ensure that Jon didn't have to go in an outfit more to Jonah's taste than his own, primarily by stashing something comfortable and entirely inappropriate (in Jonah's eyes) for him to change into if it came to it, and it paid off. Jon got a bit weepy with relief at being given a normal suit, which handily defeated any urge Jonah may have had to involve makeup. 

The green sets off Jon's eyes anyway, which Gerry knows he finds galling. It isn't a shade Jonah's subjected him to before, and now he won't be able to get away from it. Every formal outfit for his first year and a half with them incorporated the same green as the Institute's logo, but Jonah gave it up because he didn't want to repeat himself. Repetition won't be enough to kill a passion for a color that supposedly suits Jon so well. 

Gerry's daring is unsanctioned, because Jonah made the mistake of asking him to arrange the clothing order for the three of them. If they dared talk about it instead of conspicuously avoiding a universal point of anxiety, he's sure they'd have a healthy debate going about whether Jonah asked Gerry deliberately, because he didn't want an argument but also didn't want to show leniency upfront by just ordering everything in black to begin with. Michael's insight, when they judge a topic safe, into the ways Jonah keeps  himself six moves ahead of any possible decision anyone else might make is disturbing, and Gerry hates having to know any of it. It always goes deeper than he expects.

Jonah's revenge was an edict that Gerry had to have his hair professionally recolored, even though he's done it himself for years and hasn't made any noticeable error since he was about fifteen. He doesn't know what they did to it. His haircuts are even now, because he trusts Michael and Sasha to help without venting Jonah's irritation with his long hair by proxy instead of doing it himself and letting the back be lopsided if it has to be, and he expected this to be the same. It's not. His hair is... fluffy. Nice enough, if it didn't happen at Jonah's bidding. But weird.

Gerry's return volley, since by that point it had been thoroughly proven that Jonah's reaction was going to stay tame enough that they started regarding it as an entertaining distraction from collective anxiety, was to take the Institute card and get a manicure. It's extremely weird to have nail polish so determined not to chip, he's thought for sure that something he did must've done multiple times since, only for it to remain as obstinately smooth as ever.