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Chapter Text

Jon stares down the narrow, overgrown road stretching away beyond his driver’s side window. It looks like little more than an animal trail, sprouted with grass and hemmed in by thick, overhanging hedgerows that he’s not entirely certain the hatchback can squeeze through. 

He squints back down at the ordnance survey map in his passenger seat. Something in him half expects it to have changed, but of course it hasn’t; bold red pen still circles the same spot on the byroad, almost halfway between two junctions. And the same words are still scrawled beneath it: Entrance to Old Bacchus Road. Jon has driven up and down this stretch of road twice for good measure, and found no other offshoots. This little laneway, it seems, is what he’s looking for. 

“This was a stupid idea,” he mutters to himself. Stupid, to drive all the way to Cumbria on the strength of a suspect statement and a few marks on a map. Even more stupid to do it after being expressly told not to by the Research department head; as she reminded him, in a tone that said he really should know better by now, the Magnus Institute does not accept or investigate statements about dreams. Stupid to waste his weekend on a wild goose chase when he could be—well, more than likely he’d just be at work in any case, if he’s honest. Still.

Still, Jon can’t shake the sincerity he heard in Anthea Taylor’s tone when she told her story. She had been at a low point in her life, feeling like things were never going to get better, when she received a strange gift via a friend of a cousin of a friend: a map marking the location of something called the Old Bacchus Road, and a heartfelt plea that she should visit it. She was skeptical, of course, but eventually decided to follow the advice. The worst that could happen was that she would waste her time, and at least she would get out of London for a day. 

The evening before she was due to depart, she made preparations: filled up on petrol and checked her spare tire was in good shape, bought snacks and drinks, and even made egg-and-cress sandwiches in a fit of nostalgia, because that’s what her mum used to make for drives in the countryside when Anthea was a child. And then she went to bed.

And woke up the next morning with an inexplicable feeling of lightness and joy, more refreshed than she could remember being in years. All the personal problems that had seemed so mountainous to her yesterday still existed, of course, but she now felt as if she’d been equipped with top of the range climbing gear; she knew she could overcome them. 

She also had the strangest sense that she had returned from a long journey. Had she visited the Old Bacchus Road after all? The calendar confirmed that she had not, but there were odd flashes of memory that said otherwise. She remembered a winding road at sunset; a vast tree and a river that was clear as glass; the taste of egg-and-cress sandwiches. Anthea went to her fridge and found the sandwiches still there, waiting to be eaten. Just as her entire life was waiting to be changed.

“So what did you do?” Jon asked at this point in the story; Anthea smiled.

“I ate the sandwiches. They were very nice.” 

Anthea admitted freely that her story was lacking in details. Perhaps she had just had an unusual dream. Perhaps the intent to try something— anything —to make a change had been enough for a breakthrough. Perhaps all she had needed was a good night’s sleep and a fresh perspective. But she sincerely believed that the Old Bacchus Road had changed her life, and wanted to share her story in the hope it could do the same for others. 

Along with her story, she shared a map, which now sits in Jon’s passenger seat, waiting to see if he’ll follow its instructions. 

“Stupid idea,” Jon mutters again, his eyes lingering on the sun-dappled path stretching away between the trees. This is probably someone’s driveway and he’s going to be shouted at by an irate farmer for trespassing; he doesn’t know why looking at it makes his chest tighten with something like anticipation.

The car idles impatiently beneath him, engine chugging as if eager to move. Jon glances down at the clock on the dashboard, which reads 4.27PM. He has well over an hour before it starts to get dark, and the circled sliver of road on the map can’t extend more than a couple of hundred yards. 

“Just a quick look,” he decides. Just to satisfy his curiosity. And when it turns out to be an elaborate practical joke, well at least he can say he got out of London for a day. 

Jon shifts the car into gear, and pulls away down the overgrown road. 

He drives slowly at first, the car bumping gently over ruts and grassy tufts. The lane is serpentine, and as he rounds each tight bend Jon braces himself to meet a dead end or a car coming the other way. After a while, however, the path widens and smoothes out beneath his tires, and Jon relaxes a bit. He’s surprised he still hasn’t reached the road’s end—clearly it’s longer than the map indicates—but it’s a pleasant drive, through the lush green of brambles and taller trees, stretching up towards a sky now streaked orange and dusky pink. 

Jon frowns; has he been driving that long already? He looks at the dashboard clock, which reads...still 4.27PM. His frown deepens, and he fishes for his mobile, glancing quickly at the lock screen. It tells him that the time is 16:27, and also that there is no network available. 

“That is...interesting,” he mutters, trying to ignore the nervous feeling bubbling up in his stomach. It could just be a coincidence, or a localized electromagnetic anomaly that affected his devices. Or it could be something more significant—some sort of time dilation effect, perhaps? That might explain why the sun is hanging low in the sky, though it feels as if he’s only been driving for twenty minutes. And how Anthea Taylor believes she spent a day traveling despite the evidence of her calendar. Something to research further when he returns; maybe he’ll even file a formal report, though the head of Research is sure to disapprove. 

It does occur to Jon that if this road truly is paranormal, continuing to explore it alone may not be a good idea. But on the other hand, he doesn’t want to return without having learned anything concrete about the nature of the phenomenon. He’ll carry on a bit further, see if he finds anything else of interest. Just a little bit further.

He’s just beginning to think that he should turn on the headlights, when he rounds yet another bend and a figure appears in the road ahead of him. Jon slams on the brakes and the car lurches to a halt, jolting him painfully forwards against his seatbelt.

He takes a few deep breaths, adrenaline coursing through his veins. His hands are shaking on the wheel. Out the front windshield, the person he almost hit is staring wide-eyed at him. It’s a man—or male presenting, at least—tall, white, and stocky, with reddish hair. He’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, no jacket despite the chill of the early March evening. The man blinks owlishly from behind his glasses, and then lifts a hand to wave hesitantly at Jon. 

Jon unfastens his seatbelt and steps out of the car, watching him warily; aside from any paranormal possibilities, this man is also a lot larger and stronger looking than he is. It never hurts to be cautious.  

“Are you all right?” he calls. “I almost didn’t see you there.”

“Oh, hi!” the man calls back. “I—I’m fine, thanks. Sorry about that.” His voice is soft, with a Northern lilt to it. 

“You know, you really shouldn’t be out walking on a road like this without lights or reflective gear.” The man nods slowly, looking around as if taking in his surroundings for the first time. 

“I, umm, I didn’t actually mean to…” he trails off for a moment, and when he continues there’s a note of alarm in his voice: “Where are we?” 

“I believe we’re somewhere called the Old Bacchus Road,” says Jon. “Have you heard of it?”

“No,” the man says anxiously. “I, umm, I think I missed my stop on the bus? I just got off back there.” He waves vaguely past Jon, who frowns; he certainly hasn’t seen any bus stops on this road, nor on the road he had turned off of onto this one. In fact, he hasn’t seen any traffic at all for quite some time. 

“Look—what’s your name?” 

“Martin? Martin Blackwood.” 

“Where do you live, Martin?”

“Stockwell. But, uh, this doesn’t look like any part of London I’ve been to.”   

“Well observed,” says Jon dryly. “We’re in Cumbria. Or at least, I was in Cumbria. I’m not entirely sure whether we’re still—ah, never mind.” No point alarming the man any further with wild speculation about time dilation and planes of existence; he’s already sounding close to panicked.

“Cumbria?” Martin demands. “I can’t be in Cumbria, I have work in the morning!” 

“It’s all right,” Jon tells him, lifting his hands in a calming gesture. He’s the professional here, after all, even if he’s not technically on official business. “I’m a researcher from the Magnus Institute. We regularly deal with paranormal occurrences, and I can assure you that—as far as I know—you are not in any danger. This place is—well, it seems to be rather complicated, actually. Look, it’s getting dark, and I was just thinking about heading back to the main road. I can give you a lift to the nearest town, and you should be able to get a train or a bus to London from there. All right?” 

“I—I mean no? Not really.” Martin gives a nervous laugh. “But I’ll take the lift. What’s your name, by the way?”     

“Jon—Jonathan Sims.” 

“Right. Okay. Well, nice to meet you I suppose,” says Martin. “Even if I still have no bloody idea what’s going on. But that’s fine! As long as we can get out of here.” 

He starts towards the car, and suddenly there is a thunderous crack from over Jon’s shoulder, followed by a long, creaking groan. Jon spins on his heel, just in time to see a venerable elm tree topple ponderously down across the road, blocking it off completely. 

“Oh,” says Jon.  

“Bloody hell!” says Martin. “We need to call the—the police I suppose? Or the fire brigade? Who deals with fallen trees?”

“I, uh, I don’t know,” Jon admits. “But I’m not sure we’ll be able to call anyone. I haven’t had any phone signal since I started down this road. Do you?”

Martin fumbles in his pocket for his phone and pokes at it hopefully, lifting it to his ear for a moment and then shaking it, before putting it back in his pocket. He turns to Jon with a defeated expression. 

“Nothing,” he says. “So, what now?” He’s looking at Jon expectantly, and Jon is reminded that he positioned himself as an authority figure not two minutes ago. 

He hesitates, looking at the tree that now blocks the road. It looks possible to scale; they could climb over and go on foot. But he doesn’t like the idea of abandoning his car. And with night rapidly approaching, on a road that he’s now fairly sure has paranormal properties, he doesn’t much like the idea of walking, either. Besides, the timing of the treefall seems far too convenient for coincidence. It seems this road wants them—both of them—to continue on.   

Jon is reminded of something Anthea said in her statement; not a factual detail, but a feeling she described. That whatever she had experienced—real or imagined—had ingrained in her a desire to always move forward, never turn back or retreat. Perhaps that’s the key to it, then; the only way out is through.   

“We, ah, we’ll keep going this way,” he says, gesturing past Martin. “We’ll find our way to the end of this road eventually.” 

Jon hopes he sounds more confident than he feels. Judging from the skeptical look on Martin’s face, however, he has his doubts. 

Chapter Text

“What’s this?” Martin asks as he climbs into the passenger seat, picking up the slightly crumpled ordnance survey map. 

“A map,” Jon says dryly, and then relents as Martin’s expression darkens. “It led me to this road, but I’m not sure it’s much use to us anymore.”

Martin huffs in annoyance. “You know it wouldn’t actually kill you to explain what’s going on instead of making vaguely ominous statements.” 

“I do not—” Jon begins, then cuts himself off. “Fine. I came here to investigate a report of a potentially paranormal interaction with a place called the Old Bacchus Road. I believe this is that road. I also suspect—though this is only a hypothesis—that the road exists outside of normal space and time. And if my theory is correct, it’s likely that any attempt at traversing this road will be experiential rather than geographical in nature.” 

“And what does that mean?” Martin demands.    

“It means that getting back to London will take as long as it takes!” Jon snaps, frustrated. He’s stressed and a bit scared, and it doesn’t help having someone peppering questions at him as if he were the source of all truth. A small voice in his head suggests that Martin is probably a lot more scared than he is—at least Jon remembers how he got here—but he can’t quite muster the empathy to deal with that right now.

“Fine,” says Martin, clicking his seatbelt into place rather more aggressively than necessary. 

“Fine,” agrees Jon, and starts the car. 

They drive in silence for some time. Jon keeps his eyes on the road, while beside him Martin examines the map, or fiddles with his phone, or looks out the window at the countryside visible past the hedgerows. The silence isn’t precisely uncomfortable, but Jon has the nagging feeling he should say something. Try to reassure Martin, maybe, though he’s not sure if that would just come across as condescending. He’s not great at striking up conversation with strangers at the best of times, and this is...not that. Jon is still agonizing over how to break the silence, when Martin says, in a tone of begrudging helpfulness:

“You should turn on your headlights.”

“Oh, yes. Thanks.” Jon switches on the lights, remembering that he meant to do so earlier, right before he met Martin. It doesn’t seem to have grown any darker since then; another tally in the “outside of normal space and time” column. He wonders if Martin’s noticed the same thing. 

“Have you, ahh—” he begins at the same time Martin says: 

“Is it just me, or—” 

They both stop, and then they both laugh a bit awkwardly. Jon gestures for Martin to go ahead. 

“The sun doesn’t seem to be going down any further, does it?” 

Jon shakes his head in agreement. “No, it doesn’t.”

“What do you think that means?” 

“I honestly have no idea,” Jon admits. “But I don’t think it’s dangerous. The person who gave me the map claimed that her, ah, experience with the Old Bacchus Road was an overwhelmingly positive one.”

“Well, this road and I aren’t off to a great start,” says Martin. “What with it abducting me. Two stars, if I’m honest.”  

Jon huffs a laugh at that. “That seems fair. I’m interested as to how you ended up here, though—are you sure you’ve never heard of this place? Weren’t handed a map by a stranger or anything?”

“I’m sure—I’m fairly certain I’d remember something like that. I was just trying to get home after a miserable bloody day at work, and I…think I might have dozed off? And then…” He trails off, and when Jon glances over at him, he’s wearing a bewildered expression. “And then, I was standing in front of your car.”  

“I see,” says Jon. Not much help there, then. 

“You’re a paranormal researcher, right?” Martin ventures. “So you must see stuff like this all the time—you know, spooky stuff?”  

“Not exactly like this,” says Jon, ignoring ‘spooky’ with some effort. “But yes, my job is to investigate reported paranormal encounters.” He doesn’t add that, in his five years at the Magnus Institute, he’s only encountered a handful of verifiable phenomena; Martin doesn’t need to know that. 

“So, umm…” Martin hesitates, and then asks hopefully: “Any theories about what’s going on here? With...all of this.” He gestures at the vista of rolling hills stretching out in all directions around them, the setting sun hanging motionless on the horizon, and the road, winding on and on with seemingly no end. 

“I do have a few hypotheses,” Jon says. “Nothing concrete, of course, but there are some similarities with folklore relating to the fey, as well as to theories about dimensional rifts and interplanar travel. Of course some people believe that those two things may not be unrelated, and that the so-called “fair folk” are in fact—” He catches himself. “But I don’t want to bore you with the minutiae of my work.”  

“Your work sounds pretty cool, actually,” says Martin. “A lot more interesting than my job.” 

“What is it you do?” Jon asks. He’s not particularly hopeful that learning what Martin does for a living will shed any light on how he ended up on the Old Bacchus Road, but it’s looking as if they may be traveling together for some time. They may as well talk about something. 

Martin works for a temp agency. In practice, as he explains, that means that he works a series of tedious, low level office jobs, never for long enough to really get to know the place or make any friends before he’s off to the next job. 

“It’s not terrible,” he says. “I mean it pays all right. But it’s just...a bit lonely, I suppose.”

“Maybe it’s time for a change?” Jon suggests. Martin huffs a self-deprecating laugh. 

“Maybe. I’ve thought about it, but I’m not sure what else I’d do. When I was a kid, I wanted to work in a library—I liked the idea of working somewhere quiet. But you probably need qualifications for that.”

Jon frowns. “They have library assistants most places as well, no qualifications needed and you can work your way up. You should look into it.” 

Martin laughs properly this time, shaking his head in amazement. “Honestly, how do you know all this stuff? Interdimensional portals and now library employment opportunities?”        

“My, uh—my ex has a friend who’s a librarian. I ended up discussing it with them once.” Jon feels his face going warm; he’s spent his whole life learning not to ramble on too much about some esoteric topic. “Wonderful as your brain is,” Georgie used to tell him, “You don’t need to dump the whole thing into someone’s lap the first time you meet them.” And now here he is doing it again. “Sorry,” he says, “I, ah, I suppose I’m going on a bit.”

“No, it’s brilliant!” Martin insists. “I might look into the library thing when we—umm, when we get back.” He doesn’t say “if we get back,” though Jon can hear the twinge of it in his voice. When he glances across, though, Martin is smiling at him. “Anyway, enough about my crappy job. What’s it like being a paranormal researcher?” 

They continue talking as they drive along the winding road beneath the endless sunset. Martin is surprisingly easy to talk to. As a rule Jon doesn’t find people easy to talk to; he talks either too much or too little, or about the wrong things, and it often feels like there’s some unwritten rules of social engagement that he isn’t privy to. But Martin is open and unpretentious, and he doesn’t seem to mind when Jon goes off on a tangent about Sumerian demonology for twenty minutes—seems to actually be interested, in fact, interrupting every so often to ask clarifying questions or steer him back when he gets too far off track. 

“I don’t actually get to do a lot of field work,” he admits when Martin asks. “Most of my time is spent in the library or on a computer digging through academic catalogs.” 

“This must be a nice break, then,” Martin beams. Jon nods. 

“Yes, a—a nice change of pace,” he says. If he was honest, he might admit that it’s more of a welcome distraction from the void that breaking up with Georgie left behind in his life, and that he hasn’t managed to fill with anything other than work in over a year. But Jon thinks that might be a bit more honesty than is warranted right now. 

Instead he prods Martin to talk about himself, and finds that Martin is as easy to listen to as he is to talk to. It’s very pleasant, listening to him chatter about topics that excite him; he’s particularly fond of poetry and old school sci-fi, neither of which Jon has ever taken an interest in, but Martin’s enthusiasm is infectious and he finds himself thinking that maybe he should give Keats another chance sometime. 

By now Jon has no idea how long they’ve been driving for. Hours, at least, yet the road stretches on with no end in sight. He should be worried, he knows—everything about this should be worrying—but when he grasps for that emotion he instead finds a sense of pleasant anticipation, a sort of giddy lightness in his chest, the excitement of not knowing what’s coming next. It reminds him of times back in uni, when he and Georgie used to do all sorts of silly things on a whim—mostly at her suggestion, of course. 

It occurs to him that this feeling is probably an effect of the road itself; that should worry him too, but it doesn’t.

They round another bend in the road, and catch sight of a tree set off to the side of the road. Not just any tree—this tree is enormous, easily two hundred feet tall, towering far above the occasional elms and ashes they’ve passed along the road. Its bark is a creamy white color, and its branches hang heavy with large, red-gold fruits that Jon doesn’t recognize. At the base of the tree is a building, with a hanging sign that just reads “CAFÉ,” and a few small tables outside, one of which is occupied. The sight is so oddly incongruous on this road that Jon shakes his head in disbelief. 

“All of this really is remarkably strange, isn’t it?” he says. That giddy feeling fizzes up inside him and comes out as a little giggle of delight at the weirdness of it all. Martin laughs too, and Jon likes the sound of it. 

“Should we stop?” asks Martin. “I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.” 

Now that Jon thinks about it, his own legs are feeling a bit stiff and in need of stretching. And he’s also starting to feel hungry. He has no idea how long they’ve been on the road for, but lunch was a rather sad tuna sandwich from a service station on the M6 and it was certainly a long time ago by now; at the thought, his stomach growls audibly.

“That’s a good idea,” he says. “At the very least, someone here might be able to tell us what’s going on.” He hasn’t entirely lost his researcher’s sensibilities. 

They pull into the gravelled plot alongside the cafe, and walk to the front of the building. The single occupant of the outside tables sits with a cup of coffee in front of him, deeply engrossed in a book; he has pale skin and long, dark hair and is dressed in varying shades of black. He looks up as they approach, and a small frown settles between his eyebrows. 

“Huh,” he says. “You don’t see that every day.” 

“Sorry, what?” says Martin, at the same time Jon says:

“I imagine you don’t see many people out here.” The man shakes his head. 

“No, we have plenty of travelers passing by—that’s what the road’s for. Just never two at the same time.” 

“Oh,” says Martin, and Jon is about to ask more when a woman walks out of the cafe, a coffee carafe in her hand. Her skin is even paler than the man’s, and her hair is a vibrant auburn red, falling in waves around her shoulders. She takes in the sight of them both, and her mouth tilts into something that might be a smile. 

“You must be hungry,” she says. “Sit down, I’ll bring you something.” Jon watches as she walks over to the dark-haired man; she peers into his coffee mug, and then curls her hand around the ceramic for a second. Curls of steam begin to rise from the liquid inside. 

“Thanks,” the man says, smiling up at her.

“You should try drinking it,” she says, and goes back inside. A few minutes later she returns with a pot of tea and slices of warm fruit tart, dollops of cream melting on top. The pastry is flaky and the fruit is delicious, the flavor not quite like anything Jon can identify. They both eat enthusiastically, washing mouthfuls down with hot, strong tea. As they do, Jon notices the man at the other table glancing over at them, his expression curious. He decides to see if he can get any useful information.

“Excuse me,” he calls across. “This is the Old Bacchus Road, isn’t it?” 

“The one and only,” the man replies. 

“Right,” Jon says. “And, ah...what exactly is this place?”

“Other than a road, you mean?” 

“Well yes, obviously. I mean, it’s not a normal road—we’ve been driving for hours without meeting another road, which I’m fairly sure shouldn’t be possible. And, uh, people seem to be drawn here in some way?” He looks at Martin, who nods emphatically and adds:

“Without consent—kidnapped right off the bus!” 

The man offers him a vaguely sympathetic shrug. “The people who need this place find their way here, one way or another.”

“And who exactly needs this place?” Jon insists. The man gives a knowing smile. 

“People at their lowest ebb. People who are trapped deep in their own despair or despondency, who need a push to get themselves out of the everyday misery their lives have become.” The smile widens to a grin, and he leans forward, raising a curious eyebrow. “So, what’s your misery?” 

Jon hears a sharp intake of breath; when he looks at Martin, his face is pale and drawn. He scowls over at the man. 

“I’m a researcher from the Magnus Institute,” he says. “I’m only here to follow up on a case—my interest in this road is purely professional.” 

“Sure,” the man drawls sardonically. He looks as if he might be about to say more, when the red-headed woman emerges from the café again. She’s holding a cardboard bakery box and a large Thermos flask. 

“Leave it alone, Gerry,” she says. “People have to find their own way, you know that.” Her expression is mild, but there’s something intense in her gaze, and the man rolls his eyes, nodding acquiescence. 

“Right,” he says, closing his book and standing up. “Good luck.” He tosses a salute towards their table, and heads inside the building. The woman gives them another of those odd almost-smiles. 

“He means well,” she says. “But he’s too curious. I’m sure you know the type.” This last seems to be directed at Jon, with that same piercing gaze that makes him want to wilt beneath it. Instead, he squares his shoulders and pushes through; this might be the only chance he has to get information.

“What did he mean earlier?” he asks, boldly. “He said there are never two travelers here at the same time.” 

The woman’s gaze doesn’t falter, but her mouth turns down at the corners. “People find this road when they need it,” she says. “And everyone travels it alone. I’m not sure how it’s even possible that the two of you found your way here together.” 

“We didn’t,” Martin tells her. “We met on the road, and Jon offered me a lift. And then a tree fell so we couldn’t go back.” 

She nods thoughtfully. “The road brought you together, then. That’s...interesting.” She sets the Thermos flask and the box—which smells of fresh baked pastry—down on the table. “For your journey. I hope you both find what you need.”     

She goes back inside before Jon can protest again that he’s a researcher, he’s not here to find anything other than the facts about the Old Bacchus Road. 

They linger over the last of the tea for a little longer before returning to the car. Martin is oddly quiet, and Jon can tell that what the man—Gerry—said has upset him. He can understand that; he imagines it would be pretty upsetting to have someone tell you that you’re verifiably at a low point in your life. Once again he’s at a loss as to what he should say to break the silence, and once again Martin is the one to do so, after they’ve been on the road for a few minutes. 

“You can ask, you know.” 

“S-sorry?” Jon is genuinely a bit startled by the sudden proclamation. Martin’s tone is flat and defensive.

“I said, you can ask. You’re a researcher, right? So you probably want to know why I ended up here.” 

“I…” Of course Jon wants to know, but he also likes Martin. He thinks they might be becoming friends, and he doesn’t want to jeopardize that by prying, treating him like a research subject. The realization rather surprises him; he’s never had a lot of friends, and he certainly didn’t expect to make one like this. 

“It’s not my job,” Martin says bitterly. “It isn’t all that bad, really, miserable as it is. That’s probably a bit pathetic in itself, isn’t it? My dead end job isn’t the most miserable thing in my life. It’s—” 

He breaks off, his voice catching against some choking emotion, and Jon feels a surge of sympathy; he doesn’t want to make Martin feel this way. He shakes his head. 

“Martin, no,” he says. “You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to.” 

“I—maybe I want to,” says Martin defiantly. “At least you listen to me. I think you’re the only person who does, actually.” 

“Martin…” Jon says again, softly. When he glances over, Martin is scrubbing the heels of his hands across his eyes. He sniffles loudly, once. 

“It’s my mum,” he says. And then he tells Jon, about his dad leaving when he was eight, about his mum’s illness; how she grew more distant and more erratic, more and more difficult to take care of; how he dropped out of school and worked menial jobs to make ends meet, until finally he was able to get enough steady temp work to move her into a care home. How she doesn’t take his calls or answer his letters. 

“It was her birthday last week,” he says dully. “I sent flowers and a card, and I hoped—I don’t know, it was stupid. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.” He gives a bitter laugh. “She left just the same as my dad did. It just took longer. Story of my life, I suppose, being left behind.” 

Jon feels his chest ache with the grief in Martin’s voice. Nothing he could possibly say would be sufficient, so instead he reaches blindly across the center console and grasps Martin’s hand in his, squeezing it tight. Martin makes a small, wounded noise, and squeezes back, and they stay like that for a long moment.

“So,” Martin says eventually, “If you put that story in a research paper, do I get paid?” It’s not really funny, but Jon laughs anyway, because he knows Martin wants him to. He squeezes Martin’s hand once more before releasing it, and they drive on down the road.

Overhead, the sun now appears to be climbing away from the horizon, retracing its path back towards the center of the sky. Jon isn’t sure what that means, but it makes him feel hopeful.

Chapter Text

They drive on as the sun ascends slowly, impossibly, back towards its zenith. The sky is glorious overhead, brilliant blue scattered with puffball clouds, and its optimism seems to suffuse them both, sets them talking about what they could do when they get back to London. Things they’ve put off or been too scared to start, or haven’t even had time to consider before.  

“I write poetry,” Martin admits shyly. “It’s not any good. But I’ve always wanted to have the nerve to submit it for a magazine or something. Or do an open mic—do they have open mics for poetry?”

“I’m sure they must,” Jon says. “You should do it. You could—I mean, if you wanted to, I’d like to hear some of your poetry? If you wanted to practice.” 

“Oh,” says Martin. “I’m not sure I—I mean, are you sure you would want to? I know you’re not a poetry person.” 

“I want to,” Jon insists, but Martin still hesitates. 

“You’ll think it’s stupid—it is stupid, really.”

“I won’t think it’s stupid,” Jon tells him. “I promise.” 

Martin lets out a long, nervous breath. “All right...I’m trusting you.”   

He starts reciting, hesitant at first, but growing in confidence as he goes on. The words are simple, dealing with everyday things: a walk through the rainy London streets, strangers on the Tube and what their lives might be like. Martin’s voice is soft and sincere as he speaks. Jon doesn’t know enough about poetry to judge objectively, but there’s a sadness behind the words that makes his heart ache. The poem comes to an end, and Martin clears his throat self-consciously. 

“That, ah, that wasn’t so bad, actually.” 

“I’m glad,” Jon says. “Thank you for trusting me.” He’s surprised at just how much it means, that Martin trusts him like this. 

“Oh, well…” Martin says, embarrassed, and changes the subject. “How about you? What do you want to do when you get back?”  

That’s simple, of course. “I intend to bring back some hard evidence on the Old Bacchus Road, to prove to my supervisor that my instincts were correct.”  

Martin huffs in mock annoyance. “Something not related to work, I mean! I know you’re practically married to your job, but come on, Jon, surely you can think of something?” 

Jon hesitates, racking his brain. He can’t really think of anything, which is probably a bit pathetic. His life has revolved around work for so long that it’s difficult to think of anything else. He likes museums, he supposes, and books, but that’s hardly ambitious, is it? He can’t think of the last time he went out and did something fun, just for the sake of it. 

Except he does remember, actually.  

“Well,” he says, “There’s a—a merry-go-round, at London Zoo. Big old thing. I rode it once—years ago, not long after I moved to London. It went quite fast, actually. Surprisingly thrilling.”

To this day Jon isn’t entirely sure why he decided to get on the merry-go-round, other than the fact that it looked...fun. And it had been fun, if a bit overwhelming. Georgie had been gleeful when he told her about it afterwards, said that she knew he had a bit of the bohemian under his academic exterior. It might have been the only time he ever truly surprised her.   

“And that’s what you want to do?” says Martin. “Ride the merry-go-round again?” 

“Yes?” Jon is prepared for Martin to poke fun, but instead he gives a delighted laugh. 

“That’s brilliant,” he says. “I might have to add that to my list—I didn’t even know London Zoo had a merry-go-round.” 

“We, ah, we could always go together?” Jon says tentatively, and immediately regrets it. He’s overstepped, he’s sure. This is a very weird situation they find themselves in, pushed together by circumstance; there’s no reason to assume Martin will want to see him again after they get through...whatever this is. He shouldn’t have— 

“That sounds great!” Martin enthuses, breaking through his silent recrimination. “I’d probably feel too awkward going on it alone, to be honest.” 

“Oh,” says Jon. “That’s—great! I’d like that.” 

“Anything to pry you away from your research for a few hours,” Martin teases, and there isn’t much Jon can say to that. He thinks he might even enjoy being pried away, under those circumstances.

Time passes, though Jon’s given up any hope of estimating how much; the clock on the dashboard still reads 4.27PM and his petrol gauge still says the tank is a little more than half full. The sun still sits high and bright overhead. Logic tells him it must be in the order of hours rather than days, but how is that possible? He feels as if he knows Martin better than he’s known anyone since—well, in a long time. They’ve traded childhood memories and embarrassing school stories and worst co-worker anecdotes; they’ve talked about their hopes and dreams and ridiculous ambitions. Martin’s shared the deepest, most painful parts of himself. You don’t do all that in just a few hours, do you? 

He should be worried about their situation, about how long they’ve been driving and how long it’s going to take to get back to what he’s now thinking of as “the real world.” And in the abstract he is worried, but dwelling on it doesn’t seem of much use. Jon said it himself: the journey will take as long as it takes. No amount of fretting will get them there faster, they just have to...go with the flow. 

Going with the flow isn’t something Jon’s had much experience of in the past few years; academia is a pressure cooker, and the Magnus Institute is no exception. Jon has never been great at the concept of work-life balance to begin with, and since he and Georgie split up it’s been far too easy to throw himself ever more intensely into his work. But this journey—which started as a research expedition with an unwilling stranger—feels by now more like a holiday with a friend, and Jon is surprised at how much he’s enjoying himself. The Old Bacchus Road is still a case to be solved, but it doesn’t feel urgent, rather a little frisson of mystery underlying their travels. 

They reach the banks of a river, where pleasant swathes of grass spread out around the road, and it seems only right to stop and stretch their legs and enjoy the café owner’s gifts. The flask of tea is piping hot and the turnovers—filled with that same unusual fruit—still seem to somehow be warm from the oven. The grass is soft beneath them, and the air is filled with the sounds of insects and birds, the river’s babbling murmur beneath it all. 

“This is so nice,” Martin sighs, lying back with his arms folded behind his head. “I could stay here forever.”

Jon frowns at that; the words bring to mind folklore about fey realms, what happens if you linger too long. “It is nice,” he agrees. “But we shouldn’t let our guard down entirely. We don’t know what this place actually is.” 

Martin makes a dismissive noise. “Oh come on, it’s just a nice, if extremely weird road. You said yourself that it’s not dangerous.”

“I said that as far as I know it’s not dangerous,” Jon says. “But that’s going off one person’s statement—one person who doesn’t even really know what she experienced. This place is affecting us, you must have noticed that?” 

Martin sits up. “What are you talking about?” 

“You know—the feeling that everything is...nice. That there’s nothing to worry about, even though the sun is going backwards and this road appears to be infinitely long. The way you and I are—” Jon cuts himself off, immediately wishing he hadn’t said that, but Martin seizes on it. 

“The way you and I are what?”

Jon squirms. “Well, you have to admit we’ve both been remarkably honest and forthcoming with each other. Far more than is...typical, for two people who’ve just met. You told me about your mother, for goodness’ sake—you said you’d never told anyone about that.”    

Martin looks as if he’s been slapped, his eyes wide and hurt. “I told you about that because I trusted you. ”   

“Exactly!” Jon exclaims, frustrated. “Why would you trust me so quickly after we met? It doesn’t make sense—just think about it, please Martin.” 

“Right, so you think I only trust you because I’ve been—what? Manipulated? Mind-controlled? And of course you’re far too clever for that.” Martin is on his feet now, his face red with emotion. “I forgot, you’re an all-important paranormal researcher, and I’m just a—a piece of evidence in your latest case. Sorry I bothered you with my pathetic problems.” 

He storms away before Jon can think of anything to say. As they’re sharing a car, however, he can’t storm very far; he walks out onto the quaint, wood-railed bridge that spans the river and leans over the side, gazing into the water. Jon hesitates, not knowing what to do. He’s never been any good when it comes to arguments. Georgie always said he was avoidant, and she probably wasn’t wrong; it so often seems simpler to let something blow over rather than confront it. If he just waits by the car, Martin will come back eventually, and they can carry on as before.

Martin doesn’t look up when Jon comes to stand next to him on the bridge. 

“Martin…” Jon begins. “I’m sorry.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Martin says miserably. “It just made me feel...I don’t know. Stupid, I suppose. For spilling my guts at you, if it’s all just because of this place.” 

“It wasn’t stupid!” Jon insists. Martin keeps using that word about himself, and he hates hearing it. “I feel...honored, that you would trust me like that. Maybe this place is influencing us to be more honest, but I don’t believe it would work with just anyone. Remember what the café owner said—the road brought us together. If that’s true, it must be for a reason.” 

Martin is looking at him now, and his eyes are red rimmed but there’s a small, uncertain smile on his face. “Do you really think that?”

“I do,” Jon says, almost surprised to find that he really does. Martin doesn’t look quite convinced, however.

“What about what you said—that we shouldn’t let our guard down?”

“Well if this road is influencing us in some way, we should keep it in mind. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, just...something to be aware of.” Jon huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m certainly not unaffected by whatever it is. Do you know how many people know I’ve been on the merry-go-round at London Zoo? Exactly one. And I suppose everyone who saw me on it, but they hardly count. The point is, I trust you too. And I...consider you a friend. I don’t have a lot of those, if I’m honest.” 

Jon might be able to blame his uninhibited confession on the road’s paranormal properties, but he has no such rationalization for the way his heart skips a beat when Martin’s hand covers his on the wooden railing. Martin smiles at him, then glances away shyly, looking back down at the water.

“Hey, look!” he says. Jon follows his gaze down to where both their reflections are visible in the lazy flow of the river. Except their positions are switched, so that when Jon smiles, Martin’s reflection smiles back up at him. When Martin laughs beside him, Jon sees his own reflected face break out in mirth. It’s strange, and lovely, like so much of what they’ve seen on this journey. Like the bond that’s grown between them, and Jon doesn’t know what will happen when they reach the end of the road, but he doesn’t want to give this up. 

He thinks of what Gerry said back at the café: The people who need this place find their way here, one way or another. Jon came here as a researcher, but he can’t help wondering if that’s simply how he found his way here, rather than why. He’s not ready to voice that aloud though, not yet. Georgie really was right about him being avoidant, he supposes.

They leave the river and their borrowed reflections behind, and set off again beneath the brilliance of the noonday sun.   

Chapter Text

The world seems to think it’s mid-morning by the time they come to the service station. The sun is drifting low and bright to the east, and there’s a freshness in the air that feels like the anticipation of a day just beginning. 

Jon slows as they approach the service station, then stops, letting the engine idle. The place looks...rather dilapidated. The forecourt—if you could even call it that—is scattered with dead leaves, spiky grass growing up from the cracks in the concrete. The petrol pumps are oddly old-fashioned, with metal casings that were once brightly painted and rotating plastic dials showing volume and price. Spider webs hang from the pitted metal, glinting with morning dew. The building beyond looks equally poorly kept; its corrugated iron roof is spotted with moss, and rust red stains leak from the edge down along the whitewashed walls. It puts Jon in mind of blood, and he pushes the thought away with a shudder. It looks abandoned, but the door is open and there’s a sandwich board outside that tells passersby to “COME IN” in blocky letters.  

“What do you think?” he asks Martin. “Should we take a look?” 

“It’s a bit...grotty, isn’t it?” Martin says, hesitantly. “And I don’t think we actually need anything. I’m not hungry or anything, are you?” 

Jon isn’t, but that isn’t why he wants to go inside. He’s curious about this place. It’s the first human structure they’ve seen since the bridge, so there must be some purpose to it—something to learn or discover. Perhaps something vital to their journey. He doesn’t remember a service station among the dream landmarks Anthea Taylor described in her statement. Perhaps she forgot, or perhaps she never stopped here. Either way, this is another part of the mystery. 

“I’m going to take a look,” he declares, and stops the engine. “You can stay in the car if you like.” 

Martin gives him a dubious look. “Suit yourself. But don’t blame me if you get tetanus.” 

The thunk of the car door shutting behind Jon sounds very loud, and he is suddenly aware of how quiet it is. It’s been quiet all along this road, of course, but here even the little background noises of birdsong and the rustling sway of trees is missing. Only the dead leaves skitter across the concrete in the breeze, sounding unpleasantly like the scuttling of dozens of tiny legs. There is a tree leaning over the building, but its crown is bare; in the low morning sun, the shadows of its branches stretch over the forecourt longer and narrower than they should, like elongated arms reaching towards Jon’s little hatchback. Jon shivers, shaking off the apprehension that’s crawling up his spine. It’s just an old building. 

“COME IN” reads the sign outside the door. As Jon walks inside, a few threads of spider silk brush his face, and he bats them away wildly, spinning around to see if he’s walked into a web. He feels immediately foolish, but his heart is thumping; he really can’t stand spiders. 

The interior of the service station is dimly lit. There’s no artificial lighting, and the thick layer of dust on the windows lets little sunlight pass through. It’s a small room, only a few shelves around the walls and a glass-fronted fridge that emits a low hum. Jon sees the usual petrol station fare: junk food, soft drinks, cheap wine and spirits. There’s a magazine rack filled with tabloids and gossip rags, and a row of adult titles along the top, their covers half concealed by brown paper bags. Everything seems to be covered with a fine coating of dust, as if it’s been sitting out a bit too long with no upkeep. Even the air feels heavy. A few stray leaves crunch beneath his feet. 

Jon grasps the handle of the fridge and pulls it open; there’s a moment of resistance when he does, as if the door is sticky. The frigid air that washes over him is a relief. He takes out a can of Coke, cold and slick in his hand. He should probably buy something while he’s here—if he has a reason, maybe it will feel less like he’s an intruder somewhere he shouldn’t be. This place might be...unsettling (Martin would call it “spooky”) but it’s still ostensibly a business.  

An old style cash register sits on the counter, behind which Jon can see row after row of cigarettes and other tobacco products. His fingers twitch a little at the sight; it’s been tough not to backslide these past months, with all the stress. He waits for a few moments, then calls: “Hello? Is there anyone here?” 

His voice sounds unnaturally loud in the silence, and Jon immediately regrets calling out. Clearly there’s no one here; he should leave. He sets the Coke down on the counter and— 

“Hello.” The voice is coming from beyond the door that leads to a back room; Jon hadn’t even noticed it was there until just now, which seems impossible in such a small space. The door is standing ajar.

“I—we were just passing by, and thought we’d stop in,” Jon calls, craning his neck to try to see through the door. “Are you, uh, open?” 

“Come in,” the voice suggests. Jon still can’t see who’s speaking; he takes a couple of steps towards the door. 

“I, ah, I don’t want to disturb you, if you’re...busy?” His heart is racing again, like it did when the spider web brushed his face, though he doesn’t know why. 

“Come in,” says the voice again, and Jon is suddenly very certain that he shouldn’t. He should turn and walk back to the car where Martin is waiting, and let Martin say I-told-you-so about going into the creepy building, drive on and put this place behind them. He thinks all that even as his feet shuffle forwards, taking him right up to the door. 

“I—I really need to go,” he says, more to himself than anything else. His hand lifts to rest on the wood, sleek with mildew. 

“Come in,” the voice says, like the sign at the door said, and Jon can’t do anything else. He pushes the door open and walks into the back room. It’s a store room, though the shelves are dusty and half-empty, boxes scattered on the floor. A large velvet armchair sits, incongruously, in the middle of the floor. It’s occupied by a woman, painfully thin beneath layers of eclectic clothing, one side of her head a mess of bone-white stitching. She smiles. 

“Hello Jon, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“H-hello…” The woman doesn’t look particularly threatening, but still Jon’s throat is tight, his heart fluttering like an insect in a web. “How do you, uh, know my name?”

“I know everyone who travels this road, but not all of them know me. Only the ones I find interesting.” 

“Do you own this place?” 

“I occupy it,” she says. Jon nods, not feeling at all reassured by her words. 

“Right. Well. I don’t want to disturb you, we were just—my friend and I—we were passing, and I thought I’d stop in. He’s—he’s waiting for me, so I should probably...go…” He takes a step towards the door. The woman stands, and a spider scuttles out of the collar of her shirt and over her shoulder.    

“Not yet,” she says, “I have an offer to make you.”

“Oh, no, that’s all right—” Jon begins to say, but she ignores him and continues.

“You want to know about this place, don’t you? The road. That’s the reason you’re here.” 

“Y-yes,” Jon agrees, still backing away. The woman’s smile widens. 

“I can show you,” she says. “The road—it’s what the tourists see. What they’re allowed to see. I can show you what’s behind it, the real power of this place.”

Jon stops in his tracks. The truth behind the Old Bacchus Road, what all this really means…it’s a tantalizing prospect. It could be the biggest paranormal discovery of the century—of ever! Since Jon started this journey, the urge to solve the mystery of this place has faded into the periphery of his awareness, but now it surges full force over him. He wants to know.

His interest doesn’t negate his skepticism, though. “Why me?” 

“Because I find you interesting, as I said. Curiosity, a desire to know, regardless of what it costs. That’s you. There’s a lot I could show you. Teach you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“I…w-what would I need to do?” Jon is intrigued—excited by the thought of what he could learn—but he knows his folklore. He knows about bargains with strange beings and how they usually cost far more than they might initially seem. The woman laughs. 

“Clever,” she says. “You like to know what you’re getting into. Don’t like anyone pulling your strings. Well, there are no strings here. Your part of the deal is simply to come with me.”

“Right now?”

“No time like the present.” She spreads her arms expectantly, invitingly. 

“This is…really very sudden. What about the, uh, the journey? I think I’m supposed to go to the end of the road? And my—my friend, he’s waiting for me. I can’t just leave him.”  

“The journey is for the souls who need it. But that’s not you, is it Jon? You’re a researcher; you came here seeking knowledge, not because you need this place. And Martin will be just fine. He’ll make his own way to the end of the road, as they all do, and awake with a new perspective on life. He won’t miss you—he won’t even remember you.” 

What she’s saying makes sense; that’s the purpose of the road, after all. Martin will be fine. But guilt tugs at Jon’s rib cage when he thinks of him, sitting out in the car, waiting for Jon to return. The thought of abandoning him is impossible, after they’ve come this far together. After this road brought them together. It must have been for a reason, mustn’t it? 

And…Jon doesn’t want to leave him. 

“I can’t,” he says. “I promised him we’d get to the end of the road. That we—that I'd help him get back home.”  

“He’s holding you back,” the woman tells him, a hint of venom in her silky tones. “Other people will always hold you back. Just like Georgie. She was too controlling—too demanding of your time, your attention. Didn’t understand how important your work was. You’re better off without them, Jon. You know it. And they’re better off without you too.” 

More spiders are crawling out of her clothes now, over her hands and her face and up into her hair. Her head tilts at an odd angle, and for an instant Jon sees too many eyes staring back at him. He backs towards the door, almost stumbling over a cracked floor tile, groping behind him for the door frame. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, frantic. “Thank you, really, but I—I’d better go.” 

He finds the edge of the door frame and bolts, out through the remains of the service station and across the forecourt, expecting any moment to hear thousands of tiny legs skittering in pursuit. Martin looks up in astonishment as he yanks the door open and almost vaults into the driver’s seat, fumbling the keys into the ignition. 

“Bloody hell! Jon? Are you all right?” he asks, alarmed. Jon shakes his head. 

“I’ll tell you after we get out of here,” he says, and puts his foot down hard on the accelerator; the hatchback jerks into motion with a squeal of complaint, and Jon watches the service station in the rearview mirror until it disappears from view. Only then does his heart rate begin to return to normal.

“So…” says Martin finally. “What happened?”

Jon tells him, more or less, though he doesn’t feel the need to include the nasty details of what the woman said about Martin. Or Georgie. The words sit like a weight in his chest, and he can’t tell if she was making a last effort to convince him, or just taunting him with the truth. 

“Well at least you didn’t get tetanus,” Martin jokes weakly when he finishes. Then his voice goes softer. “I’m…glad you didn’t leave. I wouldn’t want to go the rest of the way without you.” 

“Me too,” says Jon; it feels a clumsy thing to say, but he means it. He makes a decision. “I, uh, I think I was wrong. About just being here to research. I—I think I’m supposed to be on this journey too.” He takes a deep breath, his throat tight with nerves. “I haven’t really been doing all that well. For…a while, now.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment, and then Martin says: “Do you want to tell me about it?” And Jon nods. He does want to tell Martin. 

“A-about a year ago, my partner and I broke up,” he begins, his voice faltering. “Georgie. That’s her name. It, uh, things weren’t great before that either—between us, I mean. I was working at the Institute, and there was…a lot of pressure, long hours, and she—I suppose she felt...unimportant. Like my work meant more to me than she did. I didn't mean it to be, but. Well. And after we split up…well, there wasn’t anyone to tell me I was working too much anymore. And it was easy to just spend more time at work so I didn’t have to go home to an empty flat. I could sort of…ignore how much it hurt, when I kept myself busy.”

He keeps talking, and he’s surprised to find that it gets easier as he goes. Martin listens without interrupting, and when Jon finally runs out of things to say, he’s quiet for a few moments. 

“Can we stop for a minute?” he asks at last.

Jon pulls over to the side of the road, and almost before he’s turned off the engine Martin is undoing his seatbelt and leaning across to wrap big arms carefully around his shoulders. It’s surprising, but not unwelcome, and the dull ache in Jon’s chest is joined by a different sort of feeling, something warm and inviting. He lets himself be held, his own hands coming up to grasp at the thin fabric of Martin’s t-shirt, tears prickling at his eyes. 

They stay there for a while, not saying anything. When they finally break apart, it’s only a little bit awkward, Jon scrubbing at his wet eyes as surreptitiously as he can and Martin pretending not to notice the tear stains on his t-shirt. Jon smiles, feeling a bit wobbly, but also a whole lot better. Like a weight he didn’t even know was there has lifted away.

“Thank you,” he says. “For listening.” Martin smiles in return. 

“Any time. I’m a good listener.” 

Jon starts the car again, and they drive on. The road is growing wider ahead of them, the trees and hedgerows falling away to reveal ever more of the endless, rolling countryside beyond. The sun is almost touching the horizon now, the delicate pink and orange of sunrise staining the clouds. 

“What do you think will happen when it goes all the way down?” Martin asks, uneasy. 

“I don’t know,” Jon admits, then glances over and smiles, unable not to at the sight of him. “But we’ll be together.”

As the rosy glow of dawn washes across the sky, a building comes into view, lights shining through its windows. It has a slate roof and picnic tables outside, and it looks a lot like a traditional country inn. The sign outside reads: “The End of the Road.” 

“Well,” says Martin. “I suppose this is it.” 

Chapter Text

There is a small tarmacked area beside the building, with painted lines neatly outlining a single car parking spot. A sign reads: Parking For Customers Only. Jon pulls the car into the space, puts it in park, and then sits with the engine idling and his hands on the wheel, staring out at the green, dawn-washed countryside.

“Jon?” Martin says after a minute. “Are, umm, are you all right?” 

Jon nods. “Fine, I—I’m fine. It’s just…” He pauses, trying to think of how to say what he needs to around the lump rising in his throat. “Back at the service station, that woman—when she was trying to convince me to stay, she said that after you got to the end of the road, you’d wake up, and you wouldn’t remember me.” 

“Oh,” Martin says. “But I mean, she was lying, right? To get you to go along with her. You can’t believe anything she said.”

“Maybe, but…Anthea—the woman that told me about the Old Bacchus Road? She didn’t remember her trip. Only vague images, like a dream. She didn’t remember anyone she’d met or—or anything.” 

“Oh,” says Martin again. “That’s—I mean, that’s different though, isn’t it? Back at the café, she said that usually people are alone. That the road, uh, ‘brought us together’ for some reason. So it’s…it’s different. Right?” 

“I—maybe,” says Jon again, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. Hope has never come easily to him, and he can’t share Martin’s now. 

“Well, whatever’s going to happen, we can’t sit in the car forever.” The cheerful practicality of Martin’s tone papers over the uncertainty beneath. Jon hesitates, a wild notion creeping up on him, and then says:

“We could keep driving.” 

“What?” 

“The road doesn’t actually end here, despite the name. We could just…keep going. Together. They can’t stop us.” Jon isn’t sure exactly who “they” are, but he knows he’s ready to fight them, to fight the whole world if he has to, his chest swelling with defiance. Martin looks at him wide eyed for a moment, his cheeks going pink, but then he shakes his head.

“And then what? I need to go home, Jon. My mum depends on me—the care home needs paying for. I can’t just…disappear.” 

“O-of course,” Jon nods. “I’m sorry, it was a stupid idea.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Martin insists. “It was…brave. A bit dashing, in fact. It’s just…we can’t run away from our lives; I don’t think that’s the point of this place.” 

He’s right, of course. Jon hesitates for a bit longer, his mind racing as he tries to think of some way out of this—some bit of fae lore or logical loophole that will allow him to avoid the inevitable. Martin waits beside him, saying nothing, and eventually Jon sighs and switches off the hatchback’s ignition. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s go inside.” 

As they walk across the tarmac, Jon has the urge to take Martin’s hand in his. It wouldn’t be the first time, but somehow while they’re walking it feels rather more like "holding hands," and he doesn’t manage to think his way past the enormousness of that concept before they reach the door to the End of the Road. 

Inside is an old-fashioned pub of the sort you don’t see much anymore, thanks to corporate zombification by Wetherspoon’s and its ilk. The bar is well-worn and well-polished, and the furniture is low-slung and sturdy. Instead of a fruit machine there’s a retro jukebox in the corner, currently crooning All Right Now at low volume; Jon sees Martin’s eyes light up at the sight of it. They’re alone, and Jon has a moment of anxiety that the place isn’t open yet and they shouldn’t be in here, even as he knows just how ridiculous that is. Almost as soon as he has the thought, there’s the sound of thumping footsteps and a man pops up from behind the bar. He gives them a smile whose crooked charm belies the solemnity of his eyes. 

“Sorry about that,” he says. “I was just down in the cellar. Martin and Jon, right? I’m Oliver, the manager. You must be starved after the drive—fancy some breakfast?” 

He vanishes through another door without waiting for an answer. For want of anything else to do, Jon takes a seat in a moth-eaten—but surprisingly comfortable—armchair near the fireplace, and Martin goes to fiddle with the jukebox, flipping rapidly through several songs before settling on Ordinary World. Jon raises an eyebrow as Martin comes and sits across from him. “I wouldn’t have put you down as a Duran Duran fan.” 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” says Martin archly, and Jon snorts a laugh but it also makes something inside him ache. He’s come to know Martin over the course of this strange journey, but there’s still so much to learn about him—so much Jon desperately wants the chance to learn. He doesn’t know if he’ll get it.

After a little while their host emerges from the back with plates that smell deliciously of grease, and Jon’s stomach grumbles to remind him that it exists. Breakfast consists of the full English, with stacks of toast and tea so strong you could stand the spoon up in it. Jon considers refusing to eat as some sort of…protest or something? He’s not entirely sure, if he’s honest, and anyway Martin is already digging in so he’d look silly sitting there with his arms crossed. He cuts off a chunk of sausage and pops it in his mouth; it’s the best he’s ever tasted, rich and herby. Oliver sits at the table with them and starts buttering a slice of toast. 

“So,” he says, “Two of you. That’s odd.” 

“So we’ve heard—several times,” says Martin, with a sarcastic roll of his eyes; Jon grins, affection tugging at his ribs. Oliver smiles as well. 

“I don’t mean to harp on,” he says, “It’s just pretty special, to have people traveling the road together. I’ve only heard of it happening one other time.” 

“Before your time, was it?” Jon asks. He’s curious as to how the concept of time applies in this place, and about its inhabitants; was there a time when someone else ran the pub? If so, how did Oliver come to be here—and from where?

“Not exactly? More…outside my purview. The Old Bacchus Road isn’t actually in England, you know. There are different versions of it depending where you’re coming from.” Oliver frowns thoughtfully. “No, not different versions, more like…different views of it. And different guards and guides for those who travel.” 

“I see,” says Jon, though he isn’t sure he does; since Oliver’s given him an opening, he pushes on. “These “guards and guides,” where do they come from? Who assigns them here? What’s the purpose of the road?”

At that, Oliver laughs. “Sorry, I seem to have given you the impression that I’m here to answer your questions. That’s, ah, not the case.”

“But—” Jon begins, only to be stopped by Martin’s hand on his forearm. 

“How about we enjoy our meal first?” Martin suggests. “There’ll be plenty of time to interrogate Mister Tall, Dark and Evasive later.”

“I’m not evasive,” Oliver protests, and Martin rolls his eyes again. Jon sighs. 

“You’re right,” he says. Martin gives his arm a brief squeeze, smiling. 

“Course I am. Now eat your breakfast.” 

The conversation drifts into a debate as to whether it can really be considered “breakfast” if they haven’t been to bed, and whether the time since they ate the pastries from the café counts as a “fast.” Oliver asks them about their journey: what they’ve seen, what they’ve learned about themselves and each other. Despite his initial misgivings, Jon finds it surprisingly easy to be honest. It’s as if opening up to Martin has crumbled a dam inside him, made of guilt and self-blame, that stopped him from feeling he had the right to talk about his fears and regrets and hopes. It occurs to him that the person he was at the beginning of this journey—whenever that was—would never have made himself so vulnerable, and he says as much. Oliver smiles. 

“You wanted to know what the purpose of the road is? Well, you’ve just answered your own question.”

“So what, traveling the road changes you?” Martin asks skeptically. “Makes you a new and better person?”

“Not exactly. For people who are unhappy with their lives, and find their way here, it provides the space and time and…the impetus to change yourself. The road doesn’t fix your problems, it helps you clarify what they are and realize that they can be overcome.” 

“Like being handed a set of climbing gear when you have to scale a mountain,” Jon remarks, remembering the way Anthea had described feeling the morning after her visit to the Old Bacchus Road. 

“That’s a very good way to put it,” Oliver nods. Martin looks thoughtful. 

“I suppose,” he says. “It still doesn’t explain this, though.” He gestures between himself and Jon. Oliver gives a shrug.

“The road decided that the two of you together was better than each of you alone. It’s up to you to figure out why that might have been. If you even want to, that is.” 

Jon glances over at Martin, who meets his eyes for a second, smiling shyly at him before looking down at his plate. There’s that sharp, sweet ache in Jon’s chest again, and he knows this feeling, even if he isn’t sure he’s ready to put words to it. They finish their breakfast, and Oliver whisks the dishes away before they can offer to help, returning with three glasses, each containing a shot of amber-color liquid. 

“Isn’t it a bit early?” Jon asks. Oliver grins charmingly. 

“Depends what direction you’re looking at it from,” he says, and raises his glass in a toast. “To all you’ve gained on this journey, and all you’ve chosen to discard.” The two of them lift their glasses in turn and clink them together, before taking a sip; it’s whisky, and though Jon is no expert, the flavor is pleasant, sharp and smoky. Martin coughs after his first sip, and politely sets the glass down. 

“So, if this is the end of the road,” Martin asks. “What’s next?”  

“You wake up,” says Oliver simply. “And hopefully, what you’ve learned on the road will stay with you. You can use it as a springboard to make some changes in your life, or…you can choose not to. It’s all up to you from here on out.” 

“And what about—” Jon’s voice catches in his throat for an instant. “Will we remember any of this?” Will we remember each other? he doesn’t ask, but Oliver seems to understand anyway. 

“You’ll remember it as a dream,” he says. “An impression, not the details. As for the two of you…like I said, I’ve never seen this before. I simply don’t know.”

“And we don’t get any choice about it?” Martin’s voice has gone tight and incredulous, and his brow is furrowed. Jon has a lump in his throat. 

“We always have choices, Martin,” Oliver says, his eyes sympathetic. “Just not always the ones that we want.” He throws back the rest of his whisky and gets up from the table. “Feel free to sit as long as you like, you don’t have to leave until you’re ready.” 

They sit in silence for a while after Oliver leaves them; Jon takes another sip of the whisky, savoring the sharp, clear burn of it, and tries to think of how to tell Martin all the things he wants to. He has no idea how to begin, and yet he has the feeling that once he starts, he won’t be able to stop. Martin is gazing down at his hands, flat on the table. 

“Martin—” he begins at last, hesitantly. 

“I’ll find you,” Martin declares, his voice shaky but determined. “I don’t care about this place—about what any of them say. I’ll find you. Your name is Jonathan Sims, you live in Hackney, you work at the Magnus Institute, and you’re frequently to be found riding the merry-go-round at London Zoo.” That last is said with a smirk as he looks up, meeting Jon’s eyes; Jon laughs, though his eyes are annoyingly wet. 

“You’re Martin Blackwood,” he echoes. “You live in Stockwell, and you work for Wakefield Staffing. If someone wanted to find you, they’d have to trawl through every terrible open mic poetry night in London; but it would be more than worth the effort.” 

He reaches his hand across the table to rest it on top of Martin’s, dithers for a moment, then curls his fingers beneath Martin’s until they’re palm to palm. Martin’s hand is larger than his, the skin dry and warm, and his thumb rubs over the back of Jon’s hand as if he isn’t doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Martin smiles at him, and Jon can see there are tears standing in his eyes as well. 

Jon could stay like this forever. But they can’t, he knows; he doesn’t know how, but there’s an awareness in him, bone deep, that it’s time to go. Like the liminal moment between sleep and waking, that half-conscious recognition of alteration; transformation. 

“So…” says Martin, at last. The song on the jukebox ends, and the sweet, jangling chords of “Here Comes The Sun” start in its place. It’s been a long cold lonely winter, the jukebox tells them, and it has, god it has, but Jon thinks it might not be anymore.

“Right,” he agrees, and when they stand up, he doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand. Martin doesn’t let go either, and their fingers interlace; Jon doesn’t know why he was so unsure about this out in the car park, when it feels so perfectly right.

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes, the jukebox promises. Together, they head towards the open door, the light of dawn shining in so brilliantly that what’s outside can’t be seen. 

I say it’s all right, sings the jukebox, and they step over the threshold hand in hand.

Chapter Text

It’s almost six o’clock, and Jon is packing his phone and wallet into his bag—along with a couple of research papers he wants to read later—when Sasha sits down on the edge of his desk.

“Ready for drinks?” she asks. “Today has been way too long, I’m in dire need of a gin and tonic.”

“Ah, sorry, no, not this evening.” Sasha gives an exaggerated pout at that. 

“It’s Thursday, Jon. AKA “heading down the Lion for a pint and a moan about the other departments” day. You love Thursday drinks, because we’re the only ones who’ll listen to you rant about Youtube ghost hunters.”   

“I do not rant,” Jon protests; he likes to consider them more as well-considered critiques. Sasha flashes him a sarcastic okay sign: suuure you don’t. 

“What do you have on tonight, then? You’re not working, are you? I thought we’d trained you out of that at last.” She winks.

“Not working, no. I just have a—an appointment.” He tries to make it sound as dull as possible, but there’s no escaping Sasha’s notice; her eyes go wide, a grin stretching her lips. 

“An appointment? You sound like you’re on your way to a secret spy meeting or something.” 

“Nothing quite so thrilling, I’m afraid,” Jon says drily, and she laughs. 

“Oh now you have to tell me. I need my gossip, Jonathan.” 

Jon finishes fastening his bag and stands up, slinging it over his shoulder. “Sorry Ms. James,” he says solemnly. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” He walks out of the office with laughter and promises that she’ll get the truth out of him tomorrow trailing in his wake. 

It’s not that what Jon is doing is secret, it’s just that if Sasha knew, she’d probably want to come along and drag the whole Research department with them. And this is something Jon wants to keep…not exactly private, but personal. Just for him. 

The thing is, six months ago Jonathan Sims planned to take a trip to a road that doesn’t exist, as a distraction from the dull misery his life had become. But the morning he was supposed to leave, he woke up feeling refreshed, animated, and hopeful in a way he hadn’t for a long time. With the vaguest memories in his head: a vast tree, a river flowing clear as crystal, an old jukebox. 

(The touch of a warm hand against his own.) 

He took Anthea Taylor’s statement out and read it again, this time with an odd and growing sense of familiarity. That feeling of having been on a journey, though he hadn’t left his own flat. A new clarity about himself, as if someone who knew him intimately well had taken everything that was hurting and hindering him in his life and laid it all out for him. All the problems he had still existed, but for the first time he could see them clearly. And he felt as if he had both the strength and the will to change them. 

(And if beneath that feeling of hope and purpose, there was a core of strange, aching loss and longing, as if he was missing something indescribably important…well, Jon hadn’t lost anything that he knew about, so there wasn’t much he could do but ignore it and focus on the rest.)

So that’s what he’s been doing. Less time spent working, for one, refusing to let himself plaster over his loneliness with long, stressful hours. Instead, he’s been trying to add good things to his life, to figure out what makes him happy. 

He’s begun making the effort to spend time with his colleagues in Research, lunches and after work drinks that he would never have bothered with before, too anxious about not fitting in or making things awkward. It was a little awkward at first, but Jon didn’t let himself give up on it, and now he has a solid group of work friends. Some of whom, like Sasha, are well on their way to becoming outside work friends as well. He’s also reached out to catch up with a few old uni friends he hasn’t spoken to in years; while their lives are now far apart, it’s been nice to rebuild some of those connections. 

After a lot of thought, he even made tentative overtures to Georgie, who welcomed them with far more warmth than he probably deserved. They’re not exactly friends yet, but they’re friendly, and they’re taking it slow, and Jon thinks that in time they might be. It’s not easy; Jon’s never been great at being vulnerable, at opening himself up to people. But he makes himself do it, because the alternative is going back to the way he was, quietly sinking into his own unhappiness and isolation. He doesn’t want that to be him anymore. 

He’s considered dating as something he might want to do eventually; he’s not much good at relationships, but he thinks he’d like to try. Something about it doesn’t feel quite right, though. Not yet. 

(Not with that aching, yearning want still inside him; not with the faint memory of a warm hand, fingers entwined with his. It’s nothing, fragments of a dream, but he can’t shake it. He doesn’t want to.)

Along with getting himself a social life, Jon’s also been learning how to enjoy his free time. London is full of museums and art galleries and events, and rather than sitting at home working all weekend, he goes and does things. If it’s the right kind of thing, he’ll invite Sasha or Brionie or Colin to come along, but often he goes by himself and simply enjoys whatever it is. 

Not to say he’s never home; he’s pledged to read at least one book a month that isn’t for work, and he’s taken up knitting, which he enjoys enough that he doesn’t even mind how bad he is at it. He’s even planning to join the knitting club that meets local to him on Tuesday nights, but he’s waiting until he can knit a straight row first. And yes, all right, he does still do a bit of work some evenings and weekends, but he enjoys his job, and as long as he’s keeping a balance he thinks it’s fine. 

Lately, peculiarly, he’s been thinking about going on the merry-go-round at London Zoo. He doesn’t know why; it’s been years since he first rode it on a ridiculous whim, and it isn’t as if he’s a fan of merry-go-rounds generally. There’s no reason he should want to ride it again. And maybe that’s the point of it—riding it not for any reason, but simply because he wants to. 

(He can’t bring himself to do it yet. He doesn’t know why, except for that same strange sense of not yet, not time, not without— that he can’t quantify or explain, that makes his chest tighten with wanting for something he can’t name. He tries not to worry about it; he’ll know when it’s right.)

Jon’s been learning the value of doing things because he wants to, rather than because they’re expected or proper. And that’s another reason he didn’t want to tell Sasha where he was going this evening, because even if she didn’t want to come with him, she’d want to know why. As if there’s a reason he’s been going to random open mic nights for the past six months, some sensible explanation for why he’d want to sit alone and watch nervous strangers perform music or comedy or ventriloquism. She’d ask if he’s been thinking about performing himself (he hasn’t) or if he knows one of the acts (he doesn’t); then she’d smile and maybe call him a bit weird, in that affectionate way she does, and it would be fine. 

It’s just…Jon doesn’t want to tell anyone about this. Not because he can’t explain it (though he can’t) but because it’s his. Because sitting in the backs of dingy pubs and hip cafés while performers do their five minute set, he feels suspended somewhere between hope and longing and loss, like he’s waiting and waiting for something he can’t put words to. Something that never comes, but still he keeps going to another pub, another café, sitting in the back and waiting. 

(Waiting for a warm hand resting over his; waiting for a particular song on the jukebox. He’s not sure he’ll ever stop waiting.) 

This evening it’s a café with a chalkboard outside advertising their poetry night. Never been Jon’s thing, really, but over the past half year he’s started slipping the odd modern collection in with his library books, love and loss and rage radiating sharply from their pages. He’s not sure he loves poetry yet, but he certainly appreciates it more than he used to. 

Jon steps inside where it’s warm and people are already settled at their tables, talking quietly over coffee and pastries. He gets himself a rooibos tea and finds a seat near the back, looking up at the little makeshift stage with its microphone and a tall stool. Jon sips his tea and waits, that now-familiar feeling pressing down inside his chest. 

It isn’t long before the M.C. takes the stage and introduces the night, reminding the audience to be kind: everyone here is trying their best. Jon can relate. The performers begin to take the rickety stage, one after another, their voices shaking with nerves or passionate with feeling, all of them desperately sincere. Jon’s attention wanders, he admits, leaves him gazing down into his cooling tea and applauding politely when everyone else does. 

And then a voice reaches his ears; not piercing, soft and a little hesitant, a voice Jon can imagine warm with laughter. A voice with gentle hands that rest over his. 

“The River,” the voice says. “By Martin K. Blackwood.” 

Jon looks up, his heart pounding. Sees him on the stage: tall, his reddish hair a bit longer than Jon remembers (he remembers!) it. A notebook in his hand and a nervous expression behind his glasses as he starts reciting his poetry to a crowd of people.

Suddenly, all of Jon’s longing finds itself a home, remembers where its home is. Suddenly, Jon wants to ride all the merry-go-rounds in the world. 

He's on his feet, his chair scraping back loudly and Martin looks up from his notebook, blinking to see who’s making so much noise. His eyes meet Jon’s. He goes silent, staring, wide-eyed, the poem forgotten. The silence stretches for a long, long moment, nothing but the sound of Jon’s heart beating fiercely in his chest, and just as the quiet of the crowd tips over into discomfort a single whispered word reverberates through the microphone:

“Jon?” 

And then Martin is stumbling down from the stage, and Jon is rushing to meet him, and it’s all right. At last, at last, it’s all right.