Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jon pushed open the door, suppressed a yawn, and let the hum and whisper fall over him as he passed through the pub. The club had gathered toward the back, as usual. After three months of Wednesday nights like this one, the static was familiar enough for him to pick out the threads and know them by name. Naomi carried loneliness and old grief like a fog. Walter itched like a healing sunburn. Lionel was every bit as stuttery and shaky on the inside as he was on the outside.

The club was gathered around the usual cluster of tables, chatting, pulling out supplies, and carrying food and drinks from the bar. Jon glanced around, spotting familiar faces nearly as quickly as he could sense the people behind them. There was Tessa, there was Karolina, there was Celia and Robin. There was Floyd, already darning some socks—

Behind him, the door to the pub opened again, and the presence it let in struck him like a battering ram.

The blow wasn’t physical, any more than sunlight in one’s eyes was physical, but it still rocked him forward a few steps. He whipped around, frozen in indecision between staying still and bolting. There was no third option. He couldn’t fight someone who felt like that.

He could stay here, stay quiet. He couldn’t make it out the front door without passing whatever-whoever-it-was, and he couldn’t be sure he could convince the staff to let him out the back. But the pub was quiet tonight, and the club met in the back specifically to have some semblance of privacy—

No. No, they were coming closer. Of course he couldn’t be that lucky. Whoever they were—someone new, he thought vaguely through the headache that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Not just that—someone big, someone different —

Because it was always hard, adjusting to someone new. But never like this, never overwhelming and all-consuming. It was uncomfortable, it could even hurt. But it never felt like standing on one side of a door with an ocean on the other, watching it leak through and waiting for it to rush in and drown him in—in—

Not pain, Jon realized. Not fear or trauma or anger or—anything. Not a feeling at all. This was power .

His eyes watered as he met those of the man who had just walked in, and he did his best to breathe through the terror. The stranger was powerful, blindingly powerful in all the ways that Jon was not and would never be, could never be, and why was he here, what did he want, was it h im did he have a new host already did he come to d rag him back to that place and rip and tear and drink in all that Jon could give him—

Jon breathed, and stared into the stranger’s eyes ( blue, not gray, not him ) and clawed his way through the terror choking his lungs. There was too much of it—literally too much. This was his terror doubled, because the man before him was meeting it with his own.

Like spiders, a calmer thought whispered. Just as afraid of you as you are of them.

Jon looked into the stranger’s eyes and saw his own fear mirrored in them.

His feet carried him backward as if of their own volition. “S-sorry,” he blurted out, voice cracking. “I’m—I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t… I-I didn’t…”

He could see him now. The man was tall and lanky, though his hunched posture took off a few inches of height. His hair was an artificial shade of black, and the same color outlined his eyes and painted his nails. There were eyes tattooed on his hands and wrist and throat, and if there were any more, his long leather coat hid them. One ear held an industrial piercing; the other, two helixes. A scar ran across his cheek.

At the same time as Jon’s eyes took in all of this, his other senses took in the rest. Pulse-pounding fear, bordering on panic. Suspicion. Confusion. Beneath it all, a swollen well of power.

It was… odd, though. Jon could sense it. He couldn’t possibly miss it. It was blinding. But he didn’t feel it.

(He always felt it when it was this powerful, curling and reaching like fingers in his mind, always searching for further purchase—)

The power sat there, swollen and overflowing. But it didn’t touch him.

“I’m—I’m Jon,” he stammered out. “Welcome to—er. Welcome to the club. Unless you’ve been here before. S-sorry, I haven’t… seen you before…”

The stranger’s eyes narrowed, confusion and disbelief sparking through the fear like lightning in a stormcloud.

“Sorry,” Jon blurted out again, and fled to the bar.

Properly rattled, he stammered out his usual drink order before taking shelter with the other club members waiting for theirs.

“I see you met the new guy,” Tessa remarked. “What do you think of him?”

“I—this isn’t his first meeting?” Jon managed to ask.

“You missed the first two times he was here,” she replied. “Actually—you know how Mike stopped showing up? Well, he got into it with Gerard—very briefly, it was hardly anything, Walter talked them down. But afterward, Mike found all these articles about him and e-mailed them to the entire group.”

“I never open emails from Mike,” Jon said acidly. He hadn’t been sorry to see Mike go, nor could he fault the new guy—Gerard, apparently—for “getting into it” with him. That would make him a hypocrite.

“Well, enough people did that it got around,” Tessa went on. “Gerard’s got some serious skeletons—there was some arguing about how to deal with it, but after everything else he’s pulled, Mike’s pretty much not welcome anymore.”

“I… see.” Curiosity gnawed at him. “It’s not… it’s nothing dangerous?” Logically he knew the others had their eyes out for people who would make these meetings irreparably unpleasant or unsafe, hence Mike’s removal.

But they didn’t know the things he did. They couldn’t sense the things he could.

“I’m still a bit leery,” Naomi admitted. “I mean, he’s been alright so far, but he still—”

“Naomi, come on,” Tessa chided.

“I wasn’t going to—look, it’s fine,” Naomi grumbled. “Like I said, he’s been alright. He’s even funny.” She sighed, reluctant and put-upon. “It’d be easier to want him gone if he wasn’t funny.”

Eventually Jon found a spot near Naomi and pulled out his current project. He was currently on his tenth square, and the blanket he was attempting called for forty. It wasn’t particularly complicated, only a single-stitch crochet with no embellishment, but it was relaxing, and he’d made sure to pick out colors that he liked and a pleasantly soft yarn. Nearby, Naomi was making a hat on a knitting wheel. Tessa had her needles out and was cheerfully explaining the link between knitting and coding.

As surreptitiously as he could, Jon cast about the room. He found Gerard quickly; the man was sitting at one of the outer tables, bent over a project that Jon couldn’t quite see from his angle. A pair of black jeans was laid out in front of him, along with a collection of paint pots. The brush in his hand was steady.

“Fabric painting,” he remarked under his breath. “That’s a new one.”

“I’m honestly surprised that’s even allowed here,” Naomi muttered.

“He’s really good, though,” Tessa told them. “Unfairly good. I wonder if he designs his own tats.”

“Not much to design,” said Naomi. “They’re just eyes.”

“He might have more under the Matrix coat, you don’t know that.”

“Not shiny enough to be the Matrix,” Jordan chimed in over the ripped shirt he was repairing. “It’s more Dresden Files, I think.”

Jon drifted back out of the conversation, distracted by the cluster of terrifyingly potent energy that sat across the room in a pool of gently simmering fear. For the rest of the meeting, his attention was split between the square he was crocheting, the nearest conversation, and the newcomer. Not once throughout it all did Gerard turn and catch Jon staring at him, and yet…

When Jon finally made himself stop looking, in the last twenty minutes of the meeting, he couldn’t help but notice the way Gerard’s fears seemed to ease, just a little.

The meeting ended gradually, as the evening wore on and the pub got steadily more crowded. Some members stood up as soon as the noise level started to rise; others lingered to say their goodbyes, still others continued with their projects and conversations as if determined to stay until someone spilled something on them. Jon was in the first camp, packing up and joining Jordan on his way out. 

He was in the middle of admiring pictures of Jordan’s cat when the ghost of a hand on his shoulder sent him flinching violently away. Fear and confusion and burning curiosity forced its way into his head, not his own but all too familiar.

“ Don’t —” he hissed, and the rest died in his throat when he saw Gerard standing there with an outstretched hand. His heart pounded too hard for him to say anything more, but Jordan stepped forward—not quite between them, but close.

“Hey, be careful, alright?” he said. “Jon doesn’t like to be touched.”

The floor drew his eyes. It wasn’t quite true. No, it wasn’t true at all. He did like to be touched, very much so. It was just a shame that he couldn’t.

(He missed it, he missed holding hands, he missed being held )

“Sorry,” Gerard muttered. “Just wanted to talk.”

He wanted to talk. This walking, man-shaped vortex of potent terror and psychic energy wanted to talk. To him .

And the worst part was, a small but vocal part of Jon wanted to talk to him, too.

For a moment, it seemed as if curiosity might win out over cowardice. But, in the end, self-preservation prevailed. “Sorry.” Jon barely saw the questioning look Jordan shot him. “Sorry, I’ve—I really have to go.”

Gerard nodded once, and Jon turned and fled.

Rattled, Jon missed the next two meetings, and might have missed more if his own mind hadn’t loudly protested.

(That was the worst part of the change, wasn’t it—he couldn’t even fall back on his old coping mechanisms without his subconscious throwing a tantrum at him, without self-inflicted migraines chasing him out of self-imposed isolation—)

And so, the third Wednesday night after his last meeting saw him crawling back to the pub, bag in hand. The thought of drinking anything alcoholic made him want to gag, so he settled in at an empty table with a soda and his yarn and hook.

Not five minutes later, his eyes snapped up when the familiar glow of power lit up his senses. Jon braced himself for an even worse headache, only for the pain and nausea to slowly, tentatively recede.

From across the room, Gerard Keay met his eyes with a flicker of surprise that was almost tangible. Jon held his gaze as best he could, swallowing uneasily. The fear was still there, but not as intense and all-consuming as it had been three weeks before. Instead of his own terror reflected back at him, all Jon could feel from Gerard was surprise and curiosity, sharpened at the edges with a hint of suspicion.

To his relief, Gerard didn’t come any closer than necessary, taking a table of his own rather than sitting at Jon’s. That was something he’d noticed before; Gerard kept to himself, and the others gave him a wide berth. Whether this was because of the open paints or whatever skeletons Mike had unearthed, Jon couldn’t be sure.

What he could be sure of was Gerard’s enduring curiosity, and the feeling of a steady gaze that never seemed to leave him completely.

When their peaceful two hours came to an end with the arrival of the night crowd, Jon took a deep breath, swallowed every screaming instinct, and waited.

He felt Gerard move closer before he saw him. There was no attempt to touch him again; instead, Gerard seated himself directly across the table and simply stared at him. Jon returned his gaze for as long as he could before the sheer proximity to power made his eyes water.

After a minute or so, Gerard shifted. “You hungry?” he asked.

Jon blinked. “I-I’m sorry?”

“Are you hungry?” Gerard repeated, steady face belying the nervousness he was feeling. Jon couldn’t remember the last time anyone was nervous around him. Maybe Jess, but… well he didn’t like to think about Jess, did he. 

“I suppose,” he answered.

Gerard nodded. “Come on. I’ll buy you dinner. We should talk.”

Jon’s throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously. A normal person in normal circumstances might crack a joke about an offer like that. Very forward, wasn’t it. But here and now, knowing what it was about, Jon couldn’t bring himself to find it funny.

They stood up together. Gerard already had his things, and Jon’s were easy enough to pack away. He brushed past Jordan on the way out, who gave both of them an odd look. 

“Alright, Jon?” he asked, face carefully blank.

“Everything’s fine,” Jon managed to answer. “See you next week.”

Jordan smiled uncertainly. “Yeah, see you. Have a good night.”

Jon had a few good seconds to be nervous about following an overpowered stranger to an unknown location, until Gerard wordlessly jerked his head and led him to the little Italian place on the end of the street. He had eaten there after meetings before, though he usually ordered takeaway and ate at home.

Gerard pushed the door open and began to lead him to a vacant table, only for Jon to stall at the door. It was crowded tonight—

an after-work party in the corner, she got the new job and her friends wished her well—

a birthday at the cluster of tables, thirty was a milestone worth a few drinks—

a retirement party, seventy and leaving us forever, too old to work but my work is my life, what else is left, the kids don’t call, what else am I good for—

“I-I can’t,” Jon said quietly. Just standing in the doorway was enough to feel the press of too many people, too many emotions, too many thoughts, some of it heightened by a touch of drunkenness here and there.

Gerard blinked, and a moment later his face softened in understanding. Jon stepped back and let the door fall shut, and Gerard joined him a moment later at a table outside.

“Probably for the best,” Gerard remarked, and lit a cigarette. “Want one?”

“I’m trying to quit,” Jon replied. He took one anyway. Up close, the eyes on Gerard’s knuckles seemed to stare.

“Call it a special occasion,” said Gerard, lighting it for him. “So you’re an esper, then.”

Jon nearly fumbled the cigarette. His hands were shaking. “So are you.”

“Got it in one. Surprised you noticed.”

Jon choked out a laugh, before he saw the look on Gerard’s face and realized he wasn’t being ironic. “It was a bit hard to miss.”

“Was it, now.” Gerard was outwardly still, inwardly swimming in confusion and alarm. “That’s weird. I’ve been taking steps to keep it under wraps. I’ve made sure I don’t ping on anyone’s radar.”

Jon smiled wryly. “Guess you hadn’t reckoned with mine yet.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a waitress. Neither of them needed to glance at the menu before ordering; apparently Jon wasn’t the only member of the club to frequent this place.

Gerard waited for the waitress to leave before speaking again. “What do you mean by that?”

“My, ah.” Jon hesitated. “My abilities aren’t what they used to be. And unfortunately, by that I don’t mean they’ve gotten weaker .”

Gerard’s eyes remained fixed on him, curiosity-confusion-suspicion still hovering at the edges. “That doesn’t explain much.”

Jon’s heart leapt to his throat, choking off further words.

He wasn’t sure if Gerard felt it. He couldn’t be sure exactly what his abilities were, only that they were strong, stronger than anyone he’d ever met aside from—

“Okay then,” Gerard went on slowly, eyes narrowed. “Let’s try something easy. What do you do?”

“I—” Jon forced out. “I can—well, I was… I was born an… an empath.” There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Even if the word had unfortunate connotations these days. “I could feel things from other people. Others’ emotions, as clearly as my own. I still can, I suppose. It hasn’t gone away. But fairly recently, it’s become… more. I can sense more. Echoes, I suppose. Sometimes people leave imprints of themselves on objects they’ve touched, or places they’ve been. And sometimes, if I, if I feel things intensely enough, it all sort of… spills out.”

“You can make people feel things, then,” Gerard said.

“Yes. I can only—I can’t make up things for them to feel. I can only use what’s already there, either in me, or in them, or in, in someone else.” Jon pursed his lips nervously. “There’s also—sometimes it comes out as words. It really depends.” He took a deep breath. “There are certain things that make it more difficult to handle. Crowds. Proximity. T-touch.”

“You don’t like being touched,” Gerard said softly, making the connection.

“I do,” Jon blurted out. “I-I did. But when I touch people, I—I get more than just the surface level, so I just… I can’t anymore. I-I mean, maybe I can. I can get used to people, how they feel, what they feel. I suppose I haven’t tried, since…” His voice trailed off.

“Why are you afraid of me?” Gerard asked bluntly.

“I’m—” not afraid, he almost said. Lying was never his strong suit. “Do you have any idea what you feel like?”

“Right now? Mostly wary. Bit confused.” It was truthful enough, but—

“No, I know that, I mean—” Jon paused. “I mean your abilities.”

“I was hoping I didn’t feel like anything,” Gerard replied, sitting forward. He flexed his fingers, cracking his knuckles one-handed. “I took steps to make sure of that.”

“M-maybe before, I wouldn’t feel anything,” Jon said uncertainly. “I don’t know. But you—it’s blinding . It’s like—like someone hit pause on a bomb going off, and it’s just walking around .”

“Huh. Poetic.”

“The last person I met who was anywhere near as powerful as you was—” Jon’s voice caught. “He was—he was the person who did this to me.”

Gerard’s eyebrows shot upward. “This?”

Jon swallowed hard. “Like I said. My abilities aren’t what they used to be.”

Their food arrived—chicken parm for Gerard, carbonara for Jon. Gerard smiled politely at the waitress, but something about them sent her scurrying away quickly.

“What about you?” Jon asked.

“What about me?”

“You were scared of me, too.”

Gerard grunted, stabbing his fork into the chicken cutlet. “Like I said. I took steps to hide all this. When I saw the look on your face, I could tell you knew. Freaked me out a bit. Wasn’t sure what you’d do with that information.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Gerard’s eyes briefly flashed back to his. “Guess you won’t.”

They ate in silence for a while. With the anxiety knot finally loosening around his stomach, Jon realized how hungry he was. He must have skipped a meal that day, and with all the anxiety over whether or not he’d come out tonight, his subconscious hadn’t pressed the issue.

Oh—that was another thing, wasn’t it.

“Also,” he spoke up suddenly. “Another thing I can sort of—it’s all subconscious, I can’t really control it. It’s… I suppose it’s a sort of intuition? I can’t see the future, but my mind can sort of… put together patterns. Steer me in the right direction. Not always, just if… if the patterns are really there.”

“How d’you mean?” Gerard asked. He was a fast eater—not messy or impolite, just quick, with no time wasted on savoring it.

“Well, it’s sort of why I’m here,” Jon explained. “I mean, not here specifically, just… why I come to these meetings. I-I know myself. I have a tendency toward… I don’t know. It’s good for me, to come out like this. The meetings are good. I-I don’t know if I’d call any of them friends, yet, but it’s still… I’m not isolated, and when I’m isolated I don’t tend to—God, I’m not explaining this very well, but when I fall into bad habits, my mind doesn’t give me any peace.” He twirled more pasta around his fork. “I got an awful headache whenever I considered not coming tonight. So here I am.”

“So your stuff’s all internal, then,” said Gerry. He tapped his temple. “It all happens up here, unless it spills over and comes out.”

“Yes. If I may ask… what about you?”

“Bit of a jack-of-all-trades, myself,” Gerard replied. He let go of his fork, and it remained floating over his plate for a few moments before he let it fall. “I can do a bit of mind stuff, too. Muck around with memories if I’m careful. My specialty’s starting fires, though. Well it was. I should be saying all this in the past tense.”

“What happened?” Jon asked.

“These happened,” said Gerard, flashing the tattoos on his hands. “Did them myself. Basically they keep it all suppressed. Except this one.” On the third knuckle of his right pinky, a small, crisscrossed scar cut through the eye. “That lets a bit of it through. Just in case.”

“They’re just—tattoos?” Jon stared at them, confused. “And they can keep all of that suppressed? Does that actually work?”

“It’s how any of this works,” Gerard said with a shrug. “That’s the beauty of having mind powers, yeah? If that’s how it works in your head, then that’s how it works.”

Jon frowned. “So the only limit is the imagination?”

“Well, no. Some things you just can’t do.” He picked up his fork again. “Bet you couldn’t bend a spoon or start a fire, could you?”

“That’s not in my repertoire, no.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Gerard shrugged again. “There are people who can do both, but can’t do what you do. Sometimes a fish is just a fish, and no amount of believing is gonna give it wings.”

Unless you could float things and start fires and mess around with people’s memories, Jon thought. Out loud, he asked, “What does that make you, then?”

Gerard favored him with a wry grin. “A flying fish.”

Jon surprised himself by laughing. For the life of him, he couldn’t tell if it was nerves, or the fact that he was less nervous than before.

“What are you doing here, Jon?” Gerard asked. The grin was fading, but so was the wariness, and what replaced it felt an awful lot like cautious, fragile hope.

“You invited me,” Jon reminded him.

“You could’ve said no,” Gerard retorted gently. “I just mean in general. What do you want?”

“I…” How to answer that? I want to be left alone. That wasn’t true, and he couldn’t pretend it was remotely what he wanted. I want to go back to the way things were. Closer, but it was never going to happen. He wasn’t the person he was before, in more ways than one. “I suppose I just…” He stopped, put his fork down, and took a breath. “There are things that I’ve experienced, that I would like to put behind me. I just—”

I want—

Ah. That was it.

“I want to feel safe again.”

The last clinging remnants of suspicion crumbled and flaked away. Gerard smiled again. “Me, too,” he replied, and the truth rang in his voice like a distant church bell.

Jon’s eyes watered until he blinked the moisture away. “You—you have nothing to fear from me, Gerard.”

“Same goes for you. I’d shake on it, but…”

For a split second, Jon honestly thought about it. He wondered what it would be like, to touch another person again. He wondered if touching Gerard would feel like passing his hand over a flame.

“Probably not a good idea,” he murmured.

“Yeah, believe me, you don’t want what’s in my head,” Gerard said wryly.

Maybe someday, Jon thought treacherously. “Thank you, Gerard,” he said. “For understanding.”

“It’s Gerry.” The hope swelled and popped like a soap bubble, and a flash of fear rushed in to take its place. “Er, I mean—”

“Gerry, then,” Jon said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Gerry’s relief washed over him like a cool breeze.

Like most things that made Jon’s life a little better these days, it became a routine. Jon still paid his social dues with his other acquaintances in the club, but he found himself sitting with Gerry more and more. And afterward, invariably, they would both find their way to one of the tables outside the little Italian restaurant up the street.

Gradually, Gerry’s presence softened in his senses, not unlike his eyes adjusting to changes in the light. It helped that, at least at the surface, Gerry was growing more comfortable with him in turn. He was still prickly and sullen and easily irritated, and Jon was only too aware of things that stirred beneath the surface like low thunder. But it was easy enough to skim harmlessly over it and stay in the comfort and safety of Gerry’s quiet company.

In the pub, surrounded by other people, they shifted between companionable silence and idle chatter. Jon crocheted, and Gerry spread out his fabric and paints.

Today, Gerry was muttering darkly over smudged leaves on the ivy vines he was trying to paint. His voice was lost to the general noise of the pub and undetectable to the others, but in Jon’s senses he was sitting in a cloud of irritation interspersed with self-consciousness. The latter was an unfortunate consequence to Jon’s presence, and Jon wished he could convey how little he judged people for their feelings in a way that would stick. He might have saved a few friendships in the past if he could.

“I’m not that good at this yet,” Gerry admitted, scowling down at his error. “Denim’s way different from paper and canvas. It doesn’t feel right.”

“You’re far better than me,” Jon sighed, holding up his current square. Thanks to the inconsistency in the firmness of his stitches, it was less a square and more a trapezoid. He’d have to undo a lot of it, or it wouldn’t fit when he tried to sew the squares into a blanket.

“At least you can focus on it at all,” Gerry said. “I’ve tried crocheting and knitting and stuff before—too repetitive. I get bored too fast.”

Jon hummed and conceded the point. “There is an upside to being a less than adequate crocheter,” he said. “I’m not the least bit worried about getting your paints on my yarn.”

Gerry laughed. “It’s still new yarn,” he pointed out, then gestured to the jacket. “I just find this stuff in charity shops.”

“I was going to say, it looks a bit small for you. Do you have any plans for it when it’s finished?”

“Same thing I always do, just give it to a different charity shop.” 

It was only later, when they were relatively alone outside the Italian restaurant, that their conversation turned away from surface-level small talk.

“Question for you,” Gerry said between bites of eggplant. “Bit personal, so tell me to piss off if it’s too soon to ask.” His voice was light, but his nervousness prickled like static.

“I won’t be offended,” Jon assured him. “Might not answer, though.”

“How’d you even wind up in this group?” Gerry asked. “And also, why?”

Jon blinked, caught off guard. “Well, I just sort of… found it. I mean, I was looking, and…” His voice trailed off.

Gerry waited for him to continue on his own. “Still open to pissing off, if you want.”

“No, no, it’s—it’s a harmless question, I really don’t mind, it’s just… embarrassing.” Jon took a deep breath. “I just—I found myself without a social life, after… after everything. And I knew I wasn’t doing well on my own, so I decided to try and fix it. The trouble is, since most of my work is remote—oh, did I tell you about my work?”

“Don’t think so,” Gerry replied.

“It’s nothing particularly gripping, just technical writing,” Jon said. “Not something I’m particularly passionate about, but it’s stable and it pays the bills and I don’t have to spend eight hours a day in an office. O-offices are one of many things I can’t really do anymore.”

“Right, got it. Graphic design’s the same for me.”

“Anyway, what was I saying?” Jon hesitated.

“Your social life.”

“Right, thank you. It’s difficult to make friends as an adult, especially since I don’t have a workplace, so I just sort of… googled it?” Gerry’s eyebrows rose, and Jon sighed. “Yes, I googled how to make friends, I told you it was embarrassing.”

“It’s really not,” Gerry said, smiling. Something bloomed in him, and Jon forgot how to speak for a moment when he recognized it as fondness.

“ Anyway. ” Jon kept his eyes on his plate. “One suggestion I found was to go to the same place on a consistent basis—it’s easy to make friends in school because you’re all going to the same place at the same time and seeing the same people repeatedly. So I started looking around for groups and clubs and such, and I found this one. And… here I am.”

“Huh.” Gerry’s expression was thoughtful; his feelings were a bit more muddled. The fondness was still there, which made Jon hesitant to poke further.

“What about you?” he asked. “How’d you find it?”

“Oh, I actually just sort of… ran across it,” Gerry replied. “Went into the pub while it was meeting, chatted with Walter for a bit. I’d been thinking of trying fabric painting.”

“Must’ve missed you,” Jon said. “My attendance is a bit spotty, sometimes. Despite the best efforts of my own brain.”

“One of these days that brain of yours might just steer you into a group therapy meeting or something.”

Jon winced. Gerry’s sudden spike of regret told him he’d seen it.

“Not good?” Gerry asked softly.

“I’ve tried.” Jon kept his face carefully blank. “Just sitting in a room surrounded by people who feel just as awful as I feel, helping each other dissect those feelings. I have to work through my own feelings while feeling every other person working through their own feelings at the same time. It’s worse than being in a crowd. At least most crowds aren’t full of people performing surgery on their trauma.” Most crowds didn’t have Jess—

“Sounds like hell,” Gerry murmured.

“It’s… not for me,” Jon sighed. “I wish it was. It was less lonely.”

Gerry hummed, a commiserating noise that was neither a platitude nor an attempt at helpful advice. Jon wished more people could respond to him like that.

“Don’t worry about my feelings if I get to be too much,” Gerry said suddenly. “I know that’s probably… I dunno. A weird thing to say to an empath.” Jon pulled a face again. “Don’t look like that, you know what I mean.”

“I do, I do.” Jon laughed a little. “I can’t help it, I know it’s perfectly accurate but it makes me sound like a—a pickup artist or something.”

Gerry snorted. “Can’t imagine you negging someone.”

Jon’s stomach flipped with resurfacing guilt, as his usually helpful mind decided this was the ideal moment for a highlight reel of the worst things he’d ever said to Melanie and Georgie and everyone else he’d alienated over the years. “I… well. I’ve certainly said things I regret.”

“There’s a difference between being a regular asshole and being a manipulative one,” Gerry said with a shrug. He paused as the waitress came up with the check, and waited for her to leave before continuing. “I mean it, though. I know my head’s not a fun place to be.”

“I don’t mind it,” Jon told him. “I’m just sorry—I mean I wish you didn’t have to be embarrassed to feel things. But I know it must not be easy, having someone around who always knows what’s going on in your head.”

“I trust you not to blackmail me over it,” Gerry assured him.

There it was, that fondness again—only it wasn’t a flicker this time. It welled up, bright and unmistakable. Suddenly flustered, Jon reached for the check  just to have something else to think about.

He was too distracted to notice Gerry doing the same.

It was the smallest brush of fingers, but that was all it ever took. Jon tried to breathe, but the panic had already struck, scattering his control like insects in sudden blinding light. All at once, the things lurking beneath the surface came roaring up to greet him. Frozen in panic, all Jon could do was fall into them. 

It was too much to parse—flashes of fear and horror and desperate, aching loneliness in a shapeless mass that sat so heavy in his chest that he couldn’t breathe .

never in my life have I been so ashamed I expected better you know better you are better than this and yet you insist on throwing tantrums LOOK AT ME WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU

A face flashed in Jon’s mind. An old woman with no hair, her face twisted in a scowl. There was blood on her face, and it wasn’t hers.

Stop crying Gerard you were better at this when you were a CHILD

Pain lanced through his skull, lighting up every pain receptor in his brain until it filled him from end to end in agony. Warm liquid trickled down his face. Tears, he thought, until it reached his mouth and he tasted iron.

Without warning, he was slammed back into his body with enough force to rock him back in his chair. Jon came to with a gasp, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. His face was dry. There was no pain.

Across from him, Gerry clutched his table knife in one shaking hand. The other was bleeding from the knuckles. On his thumb and forefinger, every tattoo had been scored through.

“Jesus, Gerry—” Jon almost reached for him, only to freeze when Gerry snatched his hand back.

Grimacing, Gerry dropped the knife and pressed his napkin to the cuts.

This was where it ended, Jon realized numbly. It was nice while it lasted, having a friend again. Having someone who understood. But this was always going to happen, one way or another.

“I-I’m sorry,” Jon stammered out, as if that could possibly fix it. “I am—I’m so sorry, Gerry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Gerry gritted out. “It’s fine. Should be the one apologizing to you.”

“Did I—” He was out, the horror had passed, why couldn’t he breathe? “Your hand—”

“You were stuck,” said Gerry. “Wasn’t strong enough to un-stick you, so I let a bit more out. It’s fine. It’s fine.” His power blazed as brightly as ever.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered. Maybe if he said it enough, it would actually do something.

“Don’t,” Gerry snapped. Jon flinched. “Not your fault. Not like you meant to do that, right?”

Jon swallowed a sob. “No, never, i swear—”

Gerry shoved his injured hand down into his lap. With his other, he grabbed the check. “I got this.”

Jon almost choked. “Gerry, I just—”

“I got it.”

“I know you saw it too,” Jon forced out. “You felt it. Because of me.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t felt before,” Gerry said. “My brain, my memory. Sorry you had to see that.”

“I hurt you,” Jon’s voice cracked above a whisper.

“Funny, I think I would’ve noticed you in that memory.”

Jon waited as Gerry finished paying. He waited as the waitress took the money and left. He waited as Gerry finished off what was on his plate. His own food had gone cold, but he only had a few bites left anyway. He wasn’t sure he could keep anything down.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.

“Finish your food,” Gerry answered.

It didn’t fully sink in until the following week, when Jon was fretfully crocheting a border around a completed square, and jumped when Gerry sat down beside him. Jon watched him, wide-eyed, hand frozen around fabric and hook, as Gerry set out his fabric paints as if nothing had happened.

Gerry didn’t say anything about his tears. But his feelings shifted and quieted, like a gentle chord harmonizing with Jon’s own.

Clutching his bag close, Jon escaped from the underground station and out into the fresh air. The crowds still made his skin buzz, but what once was an impossibility was now a mere challenge. Maybe, with more time and stubbornness, it wouldn’t even be that anymore.

He found Gerry before he saw him, standing out like a bonfire among birthday candles. Jon wove his way deftly through the crowd, hands as far into his coat pockets as their depth would allow.

Gerry, a full head taller than him and dressed in forbidding black and visible piercings, was the kind of person that other people skirted around. Standing next to him felt a bit like having a forcefield.

“Alright?” Gerry asked.

“Fine,” Jon replied. “Not pleasant, but it’s a little easier than it used to be.” He sighed. “Which is good. Cab fare is so much more expensive.”

“That’s the spirit,” Gerry agreed. “So. Park?”

This was a new step to the routine, as of five months after their first meeting. There was a park within walking distance of the pub. It was no Kensington Gardens, but it was green and spacious and far less congested with people than the sidewalks. With how far Jon had come since the start, it may as well have been empty.

“So how’s your week been?” Jon asked.

“I’ll be honest, it’s been a bit shit,” Gerry admitted, expelling a cloud of irritation like a sigh. “Old acquaintance of mine finally found out I’m in town.”

Jon frowned. “Not a friend, then?”

“That is a complicated question,” Gerry said. “So let’s stick with ‘acquaintance.’”

“Did they not know where you were before?” Jon asked.

“She suspected, but I’ve managed to dodge her for about a year, give or take. Of course, she might not have been looking for me that hard.”

“Does she… want something from you?” Jon asked, frowning.

“Honestly? Dunno.” Gerry smiled wryly. “I’ve been deleting her voicemails. But she’s never contacted me before unless she wanted something, so I don’t know why she’d be trying so hard otherwise. Joke’s on her, though. Long as I have these, I’m not much use to her.” He flashed the remaining tattoos on his hands. The cuts hadn’t scarred too badly, but Jon had yet to ask if their effect was permanently ruined. He couldn’t see any difference in how Gerry’s power looked and felt, but he never had before.

“Let me know if you ever need an escape from her,” he said after a moment. “I can always… I don’t know. Call you away with a convincingly frantic phone call.”

Gerry laughed, with a prickly flavor of joy that Jon could only describe as “puckish”. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eventually they circled back toward the pub, and the conversation migrated gradually and organically to Jon espousing the virtues of epistolary novels. He broke off when the hum of conversation and voices forced him to pitch his voice higher, and looked around to take in the space. It wasn’t too crowded, and he could see Jordan at the bar and Lionel heading further in toward their usual area.

“Go sit,” he said to Gerry. “I’ll grab drinks, you have more to set up than I do.”

“Bring chips and I’ll pay you back,” Gerry called after him.

Jordan greeted him with a smile as he approached the bar. “Hey Jon. Good day so far?”

“Better than most,” Jon replied. Jordan was a good sort. He didn’t know details, of course, but of everyone in the club besides Gerry, he was the only one with an inkling of what was going on in Jon’s life. Enough to notice good days versus bad days, at least.

“Good to hear,” said Jordan. “How’re you and Gerry doing?”

Jon perked up a little at that. He couldn’t help it; Gerry’s little bursts of joy whenever people called him that instead of Gerard were infectious. “Pretty well, I think. Why do you ask?”

Jordan shrugged. “Just being nosy, I guess. I still remember how spooked you were when you two first met.”

“Oh…” Jon hesitated, buying time by flagging down the bartender. By the time their drinks and chips were ordered, he had an answer ready. “Well he’s a bit intimidating at first glance, isn’t he? I was overly wary back then.”

“Guess so. Glad you two worked things out.” Jordan paused. “This is me being nosy again, but when exactly did you two…?”

Jon waited for him to finish the question. “When did we…?” Awkward embarrassment wafted off of Jordan in a cloud, and understanding dawned. “Oh. Oh! Oh no, we aren’t…”

The embarrassment expanded like a balloon. “Oh! God, I thought…”

“No, we’re just—we’re good friends and I like spending time with him, but—”

“—I just sort of figured, because you arrive together and leave together…” Jordan’s order arrived, and his relief was so thick that Jon could almost see it. With a mumbled apology, he took it and fled.

Jon was left standing at the bar, somewhat shell-shocked. That was… unexpected, to say the least. Good Lord, was Jordan the only one who’d come to this conclusion, or was it an actual rumor? You arrive together and leave together —were people really noticing that? Was it really worth noticing? They still got dinner together more evenings than they didn’t, and it was just—it was nice. The usual pleasant calm of the craft club, sandwiched between time spent with Gerry, had turned his Wednesdays from a mental health necessity to his favorite day of the week.

Christ, he had a favorite day of the week.

Somehow, he managed to balance two drinks, a plate of chips, and his yarn bag all the way to their table. He was vaguely aware of Gerry’s thanks, followed by a flutter of concern at Jon’s listless answer, but he couldn’t help it. His own mind was too busy racing through pros, cons, and possibilities.

It wasn’t until much later, when they were sitting outside their usual restaurant, that Gerry finally prodded him. “Is everything okay?” he asked. “Remember I don’t have your emotions thing, so I can’t tell on my own.”

Jon shook himself. “Everything’s fine, I’ve just been thinking.” He hesitated, weighed one last pro against one last con, and took a deep breath. “So… apparently Jordan was under the impression that we’re in a relationship.”

Gerry paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, gaping at him. “...Huh. Okay. And you’ve been thinking a lot about this?”

“I—more than I should,” Jon admitted. He caught himself. “Not that—I’m not propositioning you or hinting at anything, just because I’ve been thinking about it doesn’t mean I want—it doesn’t mean I’m unhappy or dissatisfied or—” Why were words still coming out? Why were they coming out all wrong? “I like spending time with you as things are, I-I don’t need anything more, or anything like that.” He stopped, if nothing else than for breath.

Gerry took his bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Do you want anything more?” he asked bluntly.

Jon’s face grew uncomfortably warm in seconds. Never had he been more grateful that Gerry couldn’t tap into other’s emotions like he could. “I mean—that’s a complicated question—you know, dating is so subjective, and, and different people have different levels of what they’re comfortable with—I mean, dating someone and simply spending time with them as a friend can be indistinguishable to an outside observer, so…”

Slowly, Gerry leaned forward to rest his chin on his hand. “Jon,” he said. “Do you want to date me?”

“Er,” Jon replied.

“Take your time.”

Jon could only stare at him, blushing so furiously he half-expected his glasses to fog up. What he finally choked out was, “Gerry, we can’t even touch.”

Gerry shrugged. “So? Like you said, different people have different things they’re comfortable with.”

“Do you want to date me?” Jon countered.

“Yes.”

Jon choked, which was impressive considering he hadn’t taken a bite in several minutes.

“I mean, obviously, what you said before,” Gerry went on. “I like things well enough, as they are. It’s nice. I don’t need more.” He shrugged. “If you don’t want to, then we never have to bring it up again.”

Jon had to swallow hard against the wordless little noise of protest that almost slipped out.

“And if I do?” he asked.

“Then I guess that makes this a date,” said Gerry.

He really meant it. Simple as that. 

“It’s—it’s been a while,” Jon admitted. “My last relationship didn’t—it didn’t end very well.”

Gerry shrugged. “Happens. None of mine have ever gone anywhere.”

“And you’re really alright with never touching me? We can’t hold hands, or hug, or—or anything else.”

“First off, yes,” Gerry replied. “Second off, who says we can’t hug? Most hugs happen through clothes.”

“That’s still…”

“Is it?” Gerry asked. “That time we mind-melded, it was skin to skin.”

“I-I’m not sure…” Jon’s voice trailed off. He looked at Gerry’s arms, folded on the table and covered by his coat sleeves. If he just reached out and…

It wouldn’t really be touching him, would it? Just his coat. Of course, certain objects could still carry echoes of the people they belonged to, but it usually took an active effort to access those, they didn’t just come to him.

“You can try it,” Gerry said quietly, as if reading his mind. “I can always push you out again, if you need.”

Jon reached out. His fingertips brushed Gerry’s sleeve lightly. Nothing happened. He tried again, this time pressing a little harder. Still nothing.

No—not quite nothing. There was a story behind this coat, hovering just within reach. But Jon could leave it alone, let it slip back into the general hum of his awareness.

“Alright?” Gerry asked.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Jon breathed, pulling his hand back again.

“I told you a while ago, remember?” Gerry waggled his tattooed fingers at him. “It’s how any of this works.”

“Right, of course. The mind is a plaything of… et cetera.” 

“Exactly.” Gerry smiled, and his fondness bloomed between them. “Well. Guess I’d better buy some gloves, then. Maybe some footie pajamas.”

Jon laughed, and found he could hardly tell where Gerry’s fondness ended and his own began.

howd the work call go

Alright, I suppose.
I’m a bit annoyed, it could’ve been an email.

yeah that’s the worst
on your way?

Nearly there.

good
saved you a seat <3

<3

Smiling to himself, Jon tucked his phone away as the train pulled to a stop at his station. He joined the flow of passengers disembarking, and made his way off the platform to the stairs leading up and out. He emerged from the underground station into a gray London evening, and headed in the direction of the pub at a quick pace. His bag swung at his side, its weight pressing the strap into Jon’s shoulder. The end of his current project was in sight, the squares completed and well on their way to being assembled into a proper blanket.

He expected everyone to be in the back already, but he spotted Naomi leaning against the bar, ordering her drink. After a moment’s consideration, Jon adjusted his bag’s strap and headed over. May as well order his drink and say hello.

The spark he felt from Naomi was more recognition than any particular joy at the sight of him, but that wasn’t surprising. He and Naomi were friendly, even cordial, but not friends.

“Evening, Jon,” she said.

“Good evening.” Jon leaned over the bar to order a drink, before turning back to her. “Do you know if I’m the last one in?”

“Possibly,” Naomi replied. “I haven’t seen Floyd, but I don’t think he’s gonna be here anyway.”

Jon nodded.

“Gerry’s here, though,” Naomi added.

“Oh, yes, I know. Thank you.” Jon hoped his blush wasn’t too noticeable.

His hopes were in vain, though it did bring a smile to Naomi’s face and a shimmer of amusement to her mind. “You’re still so shy about that,” she remarked. “How long has it been since you two made it official?”

“About a month now,” Jon replied. “It’s, um. It’s been good.”

He felt a pang from her then, a quiet echo of grief. “That’s good,” she said. “Happy for you.”

Jon could barely match the smile she forced. He wished he could say something, but she’d never told him she was grieving someone, so there was no way for him to bring it up. Besides, what could he say? “Sorry my happiness is reminding you of your loss”? Absolutely not.

“I feel very lucky,” he offered. “I’m trying not to take it for granted.”

She gave him an odd look, and he wondered if that was a step too far, but she nodded a moment later. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s good.” Her drink arrived, and she straightened up and accepted it with a smile and a thank you. “By the way, just a heads-up—we’ve got a new member today.”

“Oh that’s nice.”

“Yeah, Tessa brought a friend. She seems nice. And she crotchets too.” Naomi’s grin turned impish. “Maybe she can give you some tips.”

Jon rolled his eyes at her as he left.

He let his walls come down slowly as he slipped into their usual area, out of the general buzz of the pub and into the familiar atmosphere of the group. Gerry stood out with his usual beacon-like intensity. He was already set up at one of the tables, surrounded by acrylic paint with a leather jacket spread out in front of him. Jon made his way over, letting his awareness unfurl as he went. He found the newcomer easily among the rest, a cluster of excited-nervous-hopeful next to the steady whir of Tessa’s mind. He’d have to say hello once he set his things down.

Gerry’s hands were ungloved, so he nudged Jon gently in greeting. “Hey.”

“Did I miss anything?” Jon glanced around, scanning the room for Tessa or an unfamiliar face. Sensing people didn’t always translate well to spatial awareness. “I hear we’ve got a new member.”

“Yeah, Jess,” Gerry replied. “She seems alright.”

Jon fumbled his bag as he put it down. “Jess?” he echoed. Not the same Jess, he reminded himself. Plenty of people in the world were named Jess, there was no reason to panic over every mention.

The mingled excitement, hope, and nervousness shifted then, as sudden as the flick of a light switch. From somewhere behind him, a voice hissed just loud enough to reach his ears.

“Why is he here?”

Jon froze, as Tessa’s whirring mind turned confused. He couldn’t turn around. If he turned around, he’d see her, and with how her mind alone felt to him, the thought of looking at her face made him cold with dread.

No. Why here? Why now?

The initial panic fizzled out, and cold rationality rushed to take its place. His only option was clear: he couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t go anywhere near her, not after what he did. He’d made a promise, not to her (she wouldn’t have accepted it) but to himself, that he’d never go near her again, she’d never have to see his face again. If she was here then he couldn’t be here anymore. Time to leave. Good thing he hadn’t gone to the trouble of setting up already.

He was so focused on the next immediate goal— get to the door, get out, go home, you’re not welcome here anymore —that he didn’t register the miniature storm of growing (familiar) panic until it was right on top of him, overtaking him. With a stab of panic he tried to pull past her—

“Don’t touch me!”

Jon flinched back as if he’d been slapped. There she was, standing in front of him, anger and panic and bone-deep fear screaming into his awareness as loudly as it showed on her face.

“Don’t.” Her voice shook. “Don’t you ever touch me.”

“Jess!” Tessa called after her. “What’s going on—?”

“Nothing!” Jess snapped. She looked and felt close to tears. “I have to go.”

And then Jess was gone, and Jon was left with a mass of growing confusion behind him. He wasn’t a telepath, he’d never been able to hear thoughts with any kind of coherence, but he could practically hear their question ringing in the air, mingling with confusion and discomfort.

His first instinct was to flee, but he stopped himself after one step. If he left directly after Jess, it might look to her like he was following her. Bad enough she had to see him at all, best to let her leave without disturbing her further.

The problem with that was the darkness creeping in around his vision, and the sudden sensation that he wasn’t getting enough air.

Jon pushed through the silent clamor of confusion and discomfort, dropped his bag on the seat beside Gerry and, somehow, found his way to the back door. He pushed his way through, almost sobbing with relief when the press of too many minds receded, and the cool air washed over him. After checking to make sure that no one else was here, he leaned back against the brick and breathed deeply until his head cleared again.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there before the door opened again, startling him out of his troubled thoughts. There was no room for guessing; Gerry burned too brightly to be mistaken for anyone else.

“Jon?” Gerry wore his feelings plainly on his face, concern and confusion cutting through the dampening fog that had settled around Jon. “You okay? You’ve been out here a while.”

“Yeah,” Jon rasped. His throat felt thick, as if he’d been crying. “Yeah, I’m—I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Gerry leaned against the wall beside him. “Might not be that kind of esper, but even I can see through that.”

“I’m fine ,” Jon repeated. “I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

Gerry glanced at him. “Who should I be worrying about, then?”

“Jess, obviously.”

Gerry’s brow furrowed. “I should worry about a woman I’ve never met instead of my own boyfriend? Jon, c’mon.” He reached across the space between them.

Jon pulled away.

“Hey, it’s fine, see?” Gerry flashed his hand in front of Jon’s face. “Gloves. It’s safe.”

“You don’t know that,” Jon blurted out.

“Pretty sure I do.” Gerry let his hand drop. “Won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, though.”

“It might not be safe forever,” Jon whispered.

Gerry both sounded and felt doubtful. “Agree to disagree,” he said. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” Jon replied, and it was true, but he also couldn’t deny the way the truth sat in his chest like a leaden weight. Would he feel lighter if he let it spill out?

“Okay,” Gerry replied with a prickle of disappointment. “Ready to go back in?” When Jon didn’t answer right away, he added, “We can stay out here longer.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Jon told him.

“Yeah, but I’m gonna.”

The urge to cry washed over him, intense but thankfully brief. Jon shook it off with a flurry of blinking and a cough that sounded too close to a sob. “Alright. Let’s go back in, then.”

Gerry nodded, and led the way back inside. True to his word, he didn’t try to touch Jon again.

No one said anything when Jon rejoined the group. If anything, most of them were carefully pretending not to notice. Tessa was gone, and it was her that Jon most dreaded seeing again. Maybe he could get through this evening. Maybe it would be alright.

And then he sat down and began to crochet, and as it so often did when he had something to do with his hands, his mind wandered. His awareness unfurled, brushing gently against every other mind in the room.

And there it was, the beginning of the end. He felt it in Naomi, in Karolina, in Celia, in nervous Lionel. Their clouded confusion sharpened into wariness and the beginnings of suspicion. And why shouldn’t they feel that way? A woman just ran from him in a panic, cried out in fear at the thought of him touching her. He knew what that looked like. He knew what the others must think, seeing that.

When Tessa walked back in, he could feel her fuming. She said nothing to him, but he felt her gaze like knives pressed against his skin.

The simple pattern of stitches blurred in front of him. Jon blinked, and the tears fell. This had been so nice. He’d loved it.

Brushing the tears from his face, Jon began to pack his things.

“Jon,” Gerry murmured, just as Jon was swinging his bag onto his shoulder. “Wait for me? I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

“I’m just—” Jon’s voice caught, and he swallowed before he spoke again. “I’m going straight home.”

“Let me walk you?”

He looked into Gerry’s calm, earnest eyes, still backed by that steadfast burning. “If—if you want.”

A few of the others waved as they left. Jon returned the gesture with a wan smile, wishing he had the courage to offer them a proper goodbye.

He expected to be interrogated as soon as they were out of earshot, but perhaps he ought to know his own boyfriend better than that. Gerry was quiet throughout the journey back to Jon’s flat. He stayed as close as he could without touching, and kept his hands to himself. If he had anything to say, he was waiting for Jon to speak first.

Jon said nothing, too comforted by the quiet to break it.

The sun had fully set by the time they reached his flat. Gerry continued to hover at his side like a bodyguard. Jon might have been charmed if he hadn’t been all too aware of how little he deserved it.

“Well, this is me,” he said. “Thank you, Gerry. For walking with me.”

“Looked like you could use the company,” Gerry said. He didn’t ask to come in, but Jon could feel his longing loud and clear.

“I’m…” Jon hesitated. “I’m not really prepared to entertain…”

Gerry smiled, enfolding him in that familiar fondness. “Jon, you could sit me down on a cardboard box with a cup of lukewarm tap water and I’d be fine.”

Despite everything, Jon had to smile back. “I can do a bit better than that.”

“Well then.”

Jon led the way inside, and sat him down on the couch before going to put on the kettle. All the while, Gerry stared around with keen interest, as if taking in all he could see of Jon’s home.

“It isn’t much,” Jon admitted as he brought out two mugs of tea.

“It’s tidy,” Gerry offered, taking one. “To be honest, I kind of expected more clutter.”

“I clean when I’m stressed.”

Gerry scooted over so Jon had plenty of room to sit next to him. “Well no wonder the place is spotless, then.”

Jon smiled weakly.

“Offer’s still open, by the way,” Gerry went on. “If you want to talk about it. Or I can stop asking and we can talk about something else.”

“I… it’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,” Jon admitted. “I do. I’ve never told anyone, and maybe it’ll feel better if I did. But—” His throat began to close. “It’s not just me, it—we were both in a… vulnerable place when it happened, and I don’t—it’s behind her back, and I’d never ask her permission for anything because I don’t have the right, I just…”

“You don’t want to expose someone else’s personal business,” Gerry finished for him.

“I hurt her,” Jon whispered, gripping his mug between both hands. “I hurt her so badly, Gerry.”

Gerry’s face fell. But the revulsion Jon feared never came, just a soft aching sympathy that made him want to scream. 

“I get it,” Gerry said softly. “I really do. You don’t have to say anything. But if you do, it won’t leave this room. I promise.”

His mind brushed against Jon’s, steady and true with no trace of a lie.

“I—” Jon stopped, breathing deeply. He took a drink to steady himself. “Do you remember when I told you that group therapy didn’t work for me?” he asked. “Too many fragile, volatile minds opening up in the same room?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I was—I stuck with it for longer than I should have. Because I was lonely.” Jon glanced at the space on the sofa between them. It wasn’t much. “I just—I was so desperate for some kind of connection that I kept going back, again and again, even though it hurt me. I never touched anyone, but God, I wanted to. I wanted to more than anything. The last time I’d touched someone was—not good.”

Gerry’s gloved hand slipped in between them, not touching, just filling the formerly empty space.

“And then one day Jess came, and—and she felt different.” Jon sniffled. “She was further along in—in her progress. I could feel it. Or—or I couldn’t feel it. Everyone else was so raw all the time, with—with open wounds and jagged edges, but she… it was all scar tissue with her. Healed over, I thought. She felt—she felt safe.” He sniffled again, swiping the back of his hand over his eyes. “I knew better. I knew it wasn’t safe, deep down. But she was so nice, and she felt safe, and… and I just convinced myself it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I just shook her hand. So I did.”

Gerry didn’t reply, or prompt him. He just listened.

“And it all—it all came roaring up to the surface,” Jon choked out. “I won’t say what it was. But there was a lot of it, and I felt every bit of it, and—and I made her feel it too. All of it. I didn’t mean to, but I did.” He had to stop, then, because his throat was too thick to speak.

Gerry waited, letting him breathe.

“All that healing,” Jon said eventually. “I undid it all. I was desperate and lonely and selfish, and—and she paid the price.”

“Fuck,” Gerry breathed out. “And you haven’t seen her since?”

Jon laughed bitterly. With the tears, it was a horrible sound. “That was the wakeup call I needed. To—to stop doing that to myself. I just didn’t learn until I’d already hurt someone.”

“It was an accident.”

“It was so avoidable!” Jon burst out. “I knew it was a bad idea! I knew all along, and I did nothing to warn her! I just—did it anyway. And now I’m finally paying for it.”

“Well… could be worse,” Gerry offered. “Bit of an awkward evening, that’s all.”

“An awkward—” Jon choked out another painful laugh. “Gerry, you realize I can’t go back, right?”

“Why the hell not?”

“You didn’t feel it like I did,” Jon went on. “Jess told Tessa something, and the others saw—even if they never know the details, they know there’s something wrong with me now. They’re never going to feel safe as long as I’m around—”

“I think you’re jumping ahead a bit,” Gerry told him. “They’ve known you for months, Jon. They’re not going to think you’re a monster just because one person they barely know doesn’t like you.”

“You didn’t feel it—”

“Okay, but—look, it was awkward and uncomfortable to watch, but I don’t think she turned everyone against you.” Gerry’s hand left the cushion, and his arm came to rest over the back of the sofa behind Jon. He still wasn’t touching, but Jon could almost imagine the weight of Gerry’s arm around him. “What if you skip next week’s meeting, and I get the lay of the land for you?”

“I suppose…” Jon said uncertainly.

“You can’t hide every time something goes wrong,” Gerry told him. “But even if you do… you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Jon sighed.

Gerry’s disapproval felt like a gentle slap to the back of the head. “I’m gonna stop you right there,” Gerry said sharply. “I’m here because I want to be, and that’s all you need to worry about.”

Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“I meant it,” Gerry went on. “It won’t leave this room.”

Jon nodded again. “I think—I want to talk about something else.”

“Fair enough,” Gerry replied. “You know… long as we’re sitting here with our craft stuff… D’you mind if I use your coffee table? Promise I won’t get paint on it.”

“Oh!” Jon blinked in surprise. “I… yes. I mean no, I don’t mind. That’s…” He took a deep breath. “That’s a good idea.”

Gerry grinned at him as he began to set out his paints. “You know me, I’m full of them.”

Three weeks later, Gerry coaxed him back to the pub. Jon walked in, bracing himself for a deluge of suspicion and hostility, and was met instead with Jordan waving at him.

“Gerry insisted you were alright,” Jordan said as Jon cautiously took the seat beside him. “Still a bit worried. You are alright, yeah?”

“I-I suppose…”

“Tessa’s friend hasn’t been back, by the way,” Jordan went on.

“Jon!” As if summoned, Tessa came striding over, arms crossed. “What was that about, with Jess?” she asked. “She wouldn’t tell me anything, just said she didn’t want to talk about you.”

And there it was, the suspicion he’d been dreading. Jon wilted under her glare, nerves failing him. Perhaps this hadn’t been a good idea after all.

“I’m—I’m not comfortable saying,” Jon replied. “Especially if she didn’t want to—it was private for both of us.” He hesitated. “It was my fault, though. I—it’s hard to explain, but I… I crossed a boundary I shouldn’t have. She’s right not to like me. If I’d known she’d be here, I wouldn't have come.”

Jordan winced, and sympathy poured from the gesture. “That’s rough, mate,” he said. “Everybody fucks up, though.”

“Not that badly,” Jon muttered. To Tessa, he steeled himself and tried to look her in the eye. “Could you—if you get the chance, if she even wants to hear it… tell her I’m sorry? If she accepts it. She… she probably won’t. But I didn’t say it before. I’m not looking for forgiveness, I’m just… I’m just sorry.”

Tessa was still frowning, but her suspicion wasn’t quite as sharp as before. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said eventually, turning away from him. “No promises on passing on the apology.” Jon watched her go, absently probing at the rest of the group for feelings like hers.

Nothing. Everyone who wasn’t already focusing on their respective projects was regarding him with little more than curiosity. The only one with genuine negative feelings left was Tessa.

So. That was one member of the group soured on him. Not great, but not as catastrophic as he’d thought it would be. He could stay. It wasn’t the end that he’d feared.

For the first time in weeks, he felt something within him relax. Across the room, Gerry’s presence bloomed with an emotion that Jon could only describe as I told you so.

It was only when he was curled up in a sad little ball on the sofa and trying not to whimper in pain, that Jon finally admitted that this was untenable. His subconscious wouldn’t let him rest; at this rate his headache would keep him awake through the night, and exhaustion would only compound his suffering.

His phone rang on the coffee table, and he braced himself for a fresh round of pain. But to his surprise, the throbbing in his skull actually subsided at the sound.

It was enough for him to scrape together his awareness, and understand that this could only mean one thing.

He picked it up and answered it, and his subconscious rewarded him with a glistening moment of clarity before it settled back into a dull, manageable ache.

“Hi Gerry,” he said without opening his eyes.

“Are you sick?” Gerry asked. Jon’s abilities didn’t work over the phone, but the concern in Gerry’s voice rang as clear as a bell. “You sound like shit.”

“I feel like shit,” Jon replied.

“Are you up to talk? I can hang up, let you rest.”

“No,” Jon said quickly as his head throbbed again. “No, no… actually. Are you busy right now?”

“Not really.” Gerry sounded hopeful. “I can talk.”

“Could you come over?” Jon asked before he could change his mind. “I wouldn’t mind—I mean, I’d like the company. You don’t have to if—”

“I’m on my way,” Gerry replied, and hung up.

By the time his familiar knock came at the door, Jon’s headache was nearly gone, and between that and the impending visit, he’d managed to order some food and put the kettle on.

“Hey.” Gerry greeted him with a soft squeeze to his shoulder. For a moment Jon could feel his concern as if it were his own, and it took all of his self control not to cling with all his strength.

“Come on in,” he said. “Sorry for the mess, it’s been a… a rough couple of days.”

Gerry followed him into the living room, shuffling out of his shoes at the entryway. “I take it you’re not up for the usual meeting, then?”

“No, I…” Jon swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can handle a pub crowd today.” He braced himself for the usual headache, but it didn’t come. Maybe Gerry was enough, then.

Gerry shrugged one shoulder, indicating the familiar bag that hung from it. “I figured. So I brought my stuff. Two-man craft club tonight?”

Jon grinned back at him. “It’s a date, then. I’m thinking of starting a scarf.”

They ended up on the couch, close enough for their knees to touch. Jon picked a deep purple yarn, and managed the first few rows before food arrived. It was a little precarious to balance the takeout boxes alongside Gerry’s paints, but they managed.

“So how’s your week been?” Jon asked. “Better than mine, I hope.”

“Quiet, actually,” Gerry replied. “My old acquaintance has been quiet. Dunno if she’s given up, but I appreciate the break.”

“That’s good.”

“I hope it is. In my experience, she only goes quiet when she’s planning something.” Gerry sighed. “How about you?” 

“It’s… honestly? It’s actually sort of embarrassing.” Jon pursed his lips. “I… didn’t run into an ex, exactly, but I was unexpectedly reminded of her existence.”

Gerry hissed through his teeth. “Ah, that’s rough. Let me guess, social media posts? Hot new boyfriend, promotion at work?”

Jon chuckled. “New girlfriend, actually. An… an old coworker of mine.” His smile slipped from his lips. “It brought a lot of things back.”

Gerry didn’t ask if he wanted to talk. He didn’t have to, anymore. Jon knew the invitation was always open.

“It was my old job that caused this, you know.” He gestured toward his head. “I used to—have you ever heard of the Magnus Institute?”

Gerry’s eyebrows shot upward. “The psychic research place? Yeah, I’ve heard of it. You worked there?”

“For a while, yes.” Jon took a deep breath. “I wanted to get a handle on my abilities. Instead, my boss tore them open and permanently sabotaged my ability to live a normal life. So.”

“Shit.”

“You don’t sound very surprised,” Jon remarked.

Gerry rinsed his brush. “Like I said, I know that place,” he said. “The stuff you’ve said about what happened to you—it’s not much, but I don’t know of any other place where that kind of thing could happen. Unless you’d managed to find a cult or something.”

“It had that feeling sometimes,” Jon murmured. “With the level of control my boss had. It leaked into the rest of my life, hence why my ex is my ex.”

“But you got out.”

Jon smiled thinly. “I got out.”

Gerry continued painting. It was a dragon today, coiled over the back of a battered old denim jacket. “How’s your old coworker doing?” he asked.

“Fine, I think. She—she didn’t get as deep as me.” Jon frowned. “I wish her well. She was the catalyst I needed to get out. Helped me see how—how fucked up the whole thing was. A lot of glorified human experimentation masquerading as legitimate research, it… it was bad. And we weren’t friends, far from it. But I owe her.”

“Well… she’s dating your ex-girlfriend now, so.”

Jon sighed.

“Want a hug?” Gerry’s tone was light, almost joking, but the feelings beneath it were almost painfully sincere.

Jon looked at him, considering. Really looked at him, at how he might fit against Gerry’s chest. His arms here, his head there—could they do it without touching? Did it count if all they touched was each other’s hair? Hair might not count as touching—hair was keratin, not living cells. Except the top layer of the skin was made up of dead cells, so—

“You look like you’re trying to do calculus in your head,” Gerry remarked, thoroughly amused. “It was just a question.”

“No, I…” Jon faltered. “I’d like to, I just… I’m trying to figure out how to make it work.”

“We could just… give it a shot?” Gerry suggested, each word a cautious step onto unfamiliar ice.

“I don’t—” Jon’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t want either of us to be hurt, that’s all. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Gerry’s mind swam with indecision, before he put down his brush and tugged one of his gloves off. Jon could hardly see the scars on his knuckles, but he knew they were there.

“Remember,” Gerry said. “I can push you out, if I have to. If anything bad happens, I can stop it.”

He meant it to be comforting, Jon knew, but the words only brought more unease bubbling to the surface. It hadn’t been far away—it never really was, no matter how good Jon’s days or weeks had become in recent memory—but Gerry’s simple earnestness pulled it to the forefront where Jon couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“Jon?” Gerry’s cautious hope was receding.

“You know that’s not why I’m with you, right?” Jon blurted out.

Confusion flared in his senses. Gerry stared at him blankly. “What?”

“That’s not why I’m with you,” Jon went on. “I—I like you. I like spending time with you. And it has nothing to do with your abilities, or—or how you affect my abilities, it never has, I’m with you because you’re a wonderful person who makes me laugh and puts up with my nonsense and—”

“Jon, Jon, hey.” Gerry’s hand landed on his knee, squeezing gently, worry-confusion-fondness coursing through the touch. “I know that. I never thought anything else. What brought that on?”

“I just want to make sure you know that,” Jon said. “I don’t want you to think I’m just with you because you help me control my own mind.”

“I don’t think that,” Gerry assured him. “Why would I think that?”

“It was just—” He didn’t want to say it, but Gerry deserved to know, needed to know. “It was how I ruined my last relationship. She was—she was a null. Everything—it was so quiet when I was with her. And then my powers changed and everything got worse, and—and she was the only person I could touch anymore. A-and when things got worse, she—” He shook his head. “I didn’t realize how much I was relying on the quiet, just to get through the day, until she asked me if—if it was the only thing I actually loved about her.”

He stopped then, breathing as if he’d run a marathon. Beside him, Gerry’s feelings churned. The confusion faded, but worry continued to stir until a new feeling joined it. Jon nearly panicked when he recognized the hot bite of anger.

“That was a shitty thing to say to you,” Gerry said flatly.

Jon winced. “It wasn’t fair to put that on her.”

“Did you love her?” Gerry asked.

“I—” Jon cringed back. It was bad to talk about your feelings about your exes around your current partner, wasn’t it?

“Honest answer, that’s all I want.”

“Yes,” Jon whispered.

“Was she right?”

“ No .” Jon’s voice cracked. “I—she was wonderful, and clever, and—and there was a lot I loved about her besides the quiet.”

“Then I don’t think it was fair of her to question you like that,” Gerry said. “You were struggling. You shouldn’t have to feel like a bad person for keeping your head above water.”

Jon didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure he agreed; Gerry had only met him after a year of healing and self-reflection. He hadn’t seen Jon at his lowest.

What he finally said was, “I think I’d like to try that hug.”

Gerry moved like he’d been waiting for it.

There were layers of clothes between them. Jon’s hands touched nothing but leather, and his face was pressed against the T-shirt covering Gerry’s chest. Gerry’s one uncovered hand was pressed into Jon’s wool jumper, and his chin rested on the top of Jon’s head.

It—

It wasn’t nothing. It was far from nothing. The familiar sensations of Gerry’s mind now surrounded him, enfolding him in all the worry and affection that had been swirling within it since Gerry first walked in. It was a lot. Jon wasn’t sure he could stay in this space for long before he was overwhelmed.

But there was no terror, no panic, no unwanted memories dredged to the surface and put on display. There was just Gerry, over and around Jon like a weighted blanket. 

“Alright?” He could feel the rumble of Gerry’s voice against his cheek. 

“I’ll have to let go soon,” Jon murmured. “But I think—I think I could get used to this.”

He felt Gerry laugh with both his body and his mind. “We’ll have to keep experimenting.”

“Write down our results,” Jon agreed. “Come up with a proper if-then hypothesis. Study our hugs with the scientific method.”

Gerry pressed a kiss to the top of Jon’s head with a burst of incandescent fondness.

The pub was a bit rowdier than usual tonight.

It stood to reason, with the holiday season in full swing. There were fairy lights strung up throughout the pub, and Christmas music playing softly behind the general hum of conversation. People got a bit drunker a bit earlier. Minds were louder and more muddled, but with a general air of enjoyment and festivity.

Normally, Jon would be inclined to embrace it. It was, after all, his first December with Gerry. The problem was that the craft club had been gathered for nearly a half hour, and Gerry was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t shown up for their usual mini-date beforehand, and his answers to Jon’s texts were worryingly laconic.

Beside him, Celia heaved a sigh. “Just call him, why don’t you,” she said. “I can hear you fretting over all the drunk people.”

Jon bit his lip. “He said he didn’t want me worrying over him…”

“Failed step one,” Tessa remarked, not looking up from her knitting. Her tone was light, her feelings neutral. She seemed to be softening on him again, though they both kept a careful distance.

“He’s been having a bad week, I think,” Jon went on. “We met up last Thursday and he seemed… down.”

“It can’t hurt to let him know you’re available,” Naomi offered. “Just because he doesn’t want to worry you, doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to hear from you.”

Jon excused himself to the side alley, phone in hand.

“I really am fine, Jon,” was the first thing Gerry said when he picked up.

“Just because my powers don’t work over the phone—”

“Jon,” Gerry sighed.

“I just—are you saying this because you actually want me to leave you alone, or because you don’t want to be a bother?” The question felt like pulling teeth, if only because Jon hated being a hypocrite. “Because I have trouble with that sometimes, but you’re always there for me—”

“It’s… complicated.”

“I’m hardly getting any crocheting done,” Jon fibbed. In truth, with all the nervous energy he was practically sprinting through each row. “Would it be—can I come over?”

He waited on bated breath for an answer. Gerry’s silence lasted too long for his comfort.

“I want you here,” Gerry finally answered. His voice was small; Jon had never heard him sound like that before. “I’m just not sure you should come.”

“And if I want to?” Jon pressed.

Gerry heaved a sigh. “Your funeral, I guess.”

Jon nodded, even though he knew Gerry couldn’t see it. “I’ll be there soon.”

He gathered his things and said his goodbyes, ignoring the knowing glances that passed among the others. 

Gerry’s flat was in Havering, a fair distance away from the pub in Camden. Jon was just stepping out of the underground station when his phone chimed.

change of plans dont come

What? Why? Is something wrong?

There was no answer.

Jon ran the rest of the way.

Gerry lived on the first floor—he didn’t like that, said he felt safer higher up—and Jon could see his lights on from a distance. As he got closer, more details stood out. There was a car pulled up out front that Jon didn’t recognize. The door was open. Someone was standing in the pool of yellow light that spilled out onto the stoop.

Jon slowed to a jog, forcing himself to breathe steadily, Then, for the first time in well over a year, he tapped into his own power and pushed .

His skills were rusty. He couldn’t aim properly, and information rushed at him from the surrounding homes. People were sitting down to dinner, others were working late from home, there were children playing and spouses bickering and still more, until Jon forced himself to focus on what was straight ahead of him.

It wasn’t as difficult as he feared, with Gerry shining for him like a beacon. Jon brushed against him, tasting mingled fear and anger and a deep, gnawing shame. With Gerry standing out so brightly, it was almost a challenge to make out the weaker presence beside him.

Jon touched the presence with his senses, and it lashed out like a striking snake. Sharp pain pierced his skull like a needle through the eye.

Thoroughly unpleasant, but not the worst headache he’d ever had.

When it subsided, the press of a new consciousness remained. Any hope he might have had for the element of surprise was gone now. It was too dark to see more than silhouettes on Gerry’s doorstep, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that whoever was standing there could see him, and they were watching him closely as he approached.

Gerry’s presence flickered with fear. Jon kept walking.

“Who is this, Gerard?” The voice was an old woman’s, flat with mild disdain.

“No one.” Jon was close enough to see the hard stare that Gerry was leveling in his direction. “He was just leaving.”

Jon hesitated one last time, then started up the walkway.

She looked to be about seventy, with wiry gray hair pulled into a tight bun and a severe, weathered face. She reminded Jon of those thousand-year-old bonsai trees: small and gnarled with age but far steadier and stronger than the years should allow. The leather bag slung over one shoulder looked full, but she showed no difficulty or discomfort carrying it.

Without warning, her mind pressed against him again, piercing through his awareness to fill his head with the sudden desire to be anywhere else. Jon shook his head to clear it, and pushed back.

Her eyes widened, and she rounded on Gerry, who seemed to shrink in on himself under her glare. “What is he doing here?”

“Jon, just go,” Gerry gritted out.

“That’s one of Elias’s little experiments,” the old woman went on, and Jon stopped in his tracks as if he’d hit a physical wall. “I know his work when I feel it, Gerard—”

“He’s not—he left the institute.”

She frowned at Jon again, unimpressed. “That’s no reason to trust so blindly, Gerard. I thought you knew better than that.”

Gerry’s mind sharpened with a flash of anger. “And yet you keep coming back here, demanding that I trust you —”

“I have demanded no such thing, Gerard,” she said calmly. “I don’t need your trust, just your help.”

“Gerry?” Jon spoke up. “Do you want her to leave?”

Gerry sighed. “Yes, but she won’t, so you might as well not stick around.”

Jon was afraid. He didn’t know anything about this woman, just that she was dangerous and Gerry didn’t want her near him.

He took his fear, shaped it into a manageable ball, and tucked it away.

“He wants you to leave,” he said. “You should leave.”

The old woman turned away as if he hadn’t said anything. “Will you at least think about my proposal?”

Gerry hesitated. Uncertainty swam in the depths of his fear. Jon wished he’d arrived sooner; he was missing so much.

“Just remember that we want the same thing.” The woman’s voice gentled. “Your mother did a great deal of harm. I’ve done what I can to stop her, but the work isn’t finished yet. There’s still more to do. I’d like your help—you’re certainly powerful enough when you aren’t sabotaging yourself, and you know her work best.”

Gerry flinched. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before abandoning me in another country.”

“Gerard, I sent you your passport and paid for your ticket myself.”

“After months , and I had to call and beg you— ”

“You called, and I answered,” she said calmly. “And now I’m calling for you.”

Jon had heard enough. Shoving the rest of his fear out of sight, he stormed up the walkway and shoved his way between them.

“I think he’s made his answer quite clear already,” he snapped, drawing himself up to his tallest height. “You need to leave, right now.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

Gerry’s presence flared with alarm. “Gertrude, wait—”

And suddenly Jon felt… small. Gertrude (that name was familiar, why was that name familiar?) was glaring at him, and he felt very small and very stupid for daring to speak to her that way, like he was a child throwing a tantrum over something silly. He wanted to die of shame, to shrink down to nothing beneath her gaze, to crawl into some deep dark hole until she stopped looking at him that way. He could feel her creeping in, piercing through what little defenses he had, seeking out every weakness—and there was so much for her to find. His fear, tucked away so neatly, came rushing back up like a fountain.

A familiar hand closed on his shoulder, and the light and color and music that was Gerry Keay rushed in. Jon dove into the feeling of him with desperate relief.

—him alone, Gertrude, he’s not involved in any of this—

he seems perfectly happy to involve himself—

The downside to forcing one’s way into another mind, Jon reflected, was that the other mind had much less distance to travel to respond.

He seized onto his fear again, but this time he didn’t ball it up and hide it away. He gathered as much of it as he could, then reached for Gerry’s as well. He’d have to apologize for borrowing without permission, but—needs must.

He didn’t have to reach very far for Gertrude. She’d come right into his head of her own accord. Jon poured every drop of fear into her probing mind.

“ Go away. ”

He could feel her struggling against him, lashing back with a viciousness he hadn’t felt since Melanie—since Jonah . But his fear was relentless, and he had so much to give. And, as it turned out, so did Gerry.

Eventually her mind withdrew from his, and his vision cleared. Gertrude had stepped back off the stoop and was looking at both of them with severe disapproval.

“The answer is no,” Jon said, voice shaking with anger. “He says no. Now leave.”

“Fine,” Gertrude replied, glowering at him. “Fine. I’ll take my leave.” She adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder. “I suppose you won’t be wanting this, after all.”

She turned away, and Jon was ready to let her go, but Gerry—

Gerry didn’t speak. He didn’t move to stop her. But his eyes were fixed on the bag, and the moment she turned to take it away, his mind exploded in a desperate scream of protest. Anguish bled from him, suffusing him with pain and loss and a wordless want that sent Jon lunging after the woman.

“Actually—” His hand closed on the strap of the bag, stopping her. He didn’t know what was in it, he barely knew what he was doing, he just knew that he couldn’t let her leave with that bag. “—I think we’ll be taking that.”

Gertrude rounded on him, her contempt clawing at his mind. “I would advise you not to interfere further in matters you know nothing about,” she said.

“What’s in there?” he asked. “Does it belong to him?”

Her impatience flared. Before Jon could react, she reached out and seized his uncovered wrist in her equally bare hand.

The world went away.

A woman of Gertrude’s age had so many memories. The halls of the institute and the smiling face of Elias Bouchard featured in more of them than Jon would have liked. Yes, Gertrude Robinson—he’d heard that name a lot, back when he worked for the institute. She ran errands for them, hunted poltergeists and wraiths and psychic vampires and other espers whose powers twisted them into something mindless and lethal.

And with her, working alongside her for years, was—

Gerry’s voice, raspy and shaking through the phone pressed against her ear. “I don’t have a lot of time, they’ll notice I’m gone, we’re about twenty miles south of Pittsburgh but there’s a shop I can get to—can you write down the address? I don’t even need cash, just send me my passport and I can get out on my own.”

Such a simple request. She wished she could, but she couldn’t risk it.

“It’s better if you stay where you are for now. I’ll send for you when it’s safe.”

“What—Gertrude, I can’t stay here—”

“You’re with vampire hunters. You can do a lot more good with them than you would here.”

“You don’t understand, they’re not good people!” She could hear him breathing, high and raspy with fear. “If they knew I was calling you, they’d kill me!”

“Then I suggest you avoid calling me until I reach out first.” 

She hung up before he could argue further. Fond as she was of him, she couldn’t risk letting him convince her. Mary’s boy had grown powerful with her tutelage, and now, unfettered by her abuses and expectations, his power had grown exponentially. The wrong people were taking notice. Best to keep him far away, never mind his discomfort.

When Jon wrenched himself free, his face was wet with tears. Gertrude was staring at him, wide-eyed with shock. Behind him, Gerry’s turmoil buffeted him like a storm, anger and betrayal and deep, sickening shame.

Fury filled him, so sudden and white-hot that he saw Gertrude flinch.

Why was Gerry the one feeling ashamed?

Gertrude was still holding his wrist, her grip frozen around him. Her memory was fresh in all their minds, cold calculation and callousness diluted with the smallest flicker of regret.

The smallest flicker was all Jon needed.

He poured himself into it like gasoline on a dying ember.

He was dreaming.

It happened often; he would be asleep, and suddenly become aware of that fact. Usually the knowledge that he was dreaming came with the sudden fear that the dream would become a nightmare, and he would wake himself up on instinct. But now…

He was in a bookshop. Or a library. Or maybe he was outside? One of those three things. It wasn’t important; what mattered was that he was walking through shelves and greenery, and Gerry was walking with him. Everywhere he looked were colors as bright and vibrant as Gerry’s paints.

“Oh,” he murmured. “Oh, this is nice.”

“What?” There was laughter in Gerry’s voice.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Jon replied. “Just realized I’m having a good dream.”

He caught a flash of Gerry’s frown. “We’re dreaming?”

“Yes. Well, I am, at least. I suppose you must be too. I hope you’re having good dreams.”

Gerry smiled. “Course I am. I’m with you, aren’t I?”

Because he could, because this was a dream, Jon reached out and took his hand.

Jon woke up, and his first thought was disappointment at ending a nice dream too soon. His second was that this was not his bed.

The events of the previous evening crashed down on him all at once, and he shut his eyes with a sigh. Gerry. Gertrude. A psychic scuffle on his boyfriend’s doorstep. Gertrude had touched him, and he’d made her regret it.

Things got fuzzy after that. Gertrude had left quickly, and Gerry had pulled him inside and locked the door. The rest of the evening had been short and hazy before Gerry had gotten him into bed.

There was only one bed in Gerry’s flat, he remembered, and spared a moment for regret. Bad enough that Gerry had to deal with Gertrude Robinson, without his boyfriend kicking him out of bed.

It was only as the thought was crossing his mind that Jon registered his position. He was on his side, warm in a way that the duvet tucked around him didn’t quite account for. One arm was thrown over the pillow he was curled around, slowly rising and falling—oh. This wasn’t a pillow. 

Most pillows didn’t hug you back.

The initial alarm was gentle and brief. If he’d woken up like this, then that meant he’d been asleep like this, and nothing bad had happened or was happening. He’d been having a wonderful dream.

Gerry stirred, brow furrowing in a frown before his eyes opened. Jon watched his eyelids flutter up close, mesmerized, before Gerry woke up enough to focus on him.

“Oh,” Gerry said, still muzzy with sleep. “There you are.”

Jon smiled. “Where else would I be?”

“Mm. Dunno. You were with me for a second, and then you were gone.” Gerry lifted his free hand—the one not wrapped around Jon’s body—and rubbed his eyes. Then he froze, his sudden alarm rousing Jon further. “Shit—are we touching?”

“Not directly,” Jon assured him. “I’m fine. Unless… you feel something…?”

“No!” Gerry said quickly. He turned to face Jon properly; any closer and their noses would brush. Closer than that, and Jon could kiss him. “No, I’m fine. I’m… what about you? Are you alright? After last night—”

“I’m…” Jon paused, frowning, and took stock of himself. His head was ache-free, as was the rest of his body. No memory problems. He hadn’t gone mute. And he felt…

Well he felt well-rested, to be honest.

“I think I’m fine,” he finished. “Better than I was afraid of. It’s been… some time, since I last exerted myself like that.”

“She didn’t hurt you?”

“No, I… I think…” Jon swallowed hard. “I think I hurt her, actually.”

Something cold entered Gerry’s eyes, accompanied by a bitter sort of satisfaction in Jon’s senses. “Hm. Well. Maybe that means she’ll keep her distance.”

“Hope so.” Another memory from last night slipped in. “Oh—the bag, did you get it from her?”

“No,” Gerry snorted. “You did. I was about ready to let her leave with it. Would’ve half killed me, but… well, I’d rather lose what’s in it than you. So.”

“O-oh.” Jon felt his face heat. “Right. Er, if i can ask… what was in it?”

Gerry grimaced. “Tell you what,” he said. “Last night was—a lot. There’s a lot you’re missing. Let me make you breakfast, and I’ll… explain stuff, I guess.”

“Okay.” Reluctantly Jon began to sit up.

Gerry’s arm remained firmly around him. “I mean, we don’t have to get up yet,” he pointed out. “We can if you want to, but—”

Jon dove back into the hug before Gerry could finish.

When they finally got up, it was nearly midmorning. Jon hadn’t stayed over at Gerry’s often enough to have left clothes behind, but Gerry was only too happy to lend him some of his own. Everything was loose on him, much to Jon’s chagrin and Gerry’s delight.

Breakfast was a simple affair of omelets, toast, and coffee with the last of Gerry’s hazelnut creamer. As much as Jon disliked the stuff, it did wake him up quite effectively. With his eyes fully open, he potted the leather bag on the couch, its strap draped over the armrest. He couldn’t help glancing at it from time to time.

“It was my dad’s,” Gerry said bluntly.

Jon hardly had to probe to feel the pang of old, scabbed-over grief. “Oh.”

“They worked together, him and Gertrude,” Gerry explained. “He died when I was a kid, and I guess Gertrude still had it. She said she just found it, but… I dunno.”

“You think she kept it from you on purpose?” Jon asked, appalled.

Gerry’s eyes flickered toward him. “You were in her head last night. You tell me.”

He recalled the memory he’d experienced, the coldness of her decision, possible outcomes considered and weighed against each other. To be ruthless and invulnerable, or soft and open to harm. He shuddered. Yes, Gertrude had felt like the sort of person who might withhold the memory of a loved one to get what she wanted.

“Do you know what’s in it?” he asked.

“Haven’t the faintest. For all I know she shoved a dictionary in there.”

Jon pulled a face.

“Wouldn’t put it past her, that’s all.”

“Hm.” Jon fiddled with his fork. “Gerry?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you…” He faltered for a split second. “Do you want to talk about it? Last night?”

Gerry sighed.

“You always ask me that, whenever I have a… a crisis, I suppose,” Jon went on. “Or you used to, until you didn’t even have to ask anymore. You know you can do the same, right?”

“I… yes. I know that.” Gerry’s answer rang true enough, but Jon could still feel his hesitance.

Jon smiled sadly. “Not so easy to be on this side of it, is it?”

“I dunno how you do it,” Gerry admitted. “I want to crawl out of my skin.”

“I love you, you know.”

Gerry’s heart did a funny little floppy thing in his chest, and Jon had to smile at it. “Yeah,” Gerry murmured, blushing to the tips of his ears. “I know that.”

“Good.”

“It’s like—” Now it was Gerry’s turn to fumble for words. “Like my whole life I’ve just been useful to someone, you know? First my mum, then Gertrude, then these two hunters who picked me up in America—don’t ask, it’s a long awful story and no I don’t want to talk about it—” He broke off, breathing carefully. “So it’s just. It feels right. To help you. It doesn’t feel right when you have to help me.”

Jon nodded. He could understand that. Maybe not his whole life, but the institute had felt like that, and Jonah had made sure to make the institute his whole life at the time.

“I don’t have to,” he said. “But I will anyway.” He paused, then added, “Because I love you.”

He loved seeing Gerry blush. He loved making him blush even more. “Y-yeah, you might’ve mentioned that.” Gerry shut his eyes, passed his hand over his face a few times, and seemed to steel himself. “I-I want to open it,” he said. “The bag. See what’s inside. Could you just—sit with me?”

Gerry was wearing long sleeves today. Jon reached out to squeeze his arm. “I can do that.”

They sat together on the couch, and Gerry placed the bag between them. It was a battered brown messenger bag, the kind that one might bring to work. Gerry opened the side pockets first. There wasn’t much in them, just dental floss, tissues, a nail clip, that sort of thing. Gerry’s hands shook slightly as he undid the buckles and lifted up the main flap.

The first thing he pulled out was a battered notebook, which he quickly opened. He flipped through it, frowning in deep thought. “It’s work notes,” he said. “I know he worked for the institute, in research.”

“I was in research for a while,” Jon offered. “Probably a lot of notes on interviews and meetings.”

Gerry stopped on one page and traced his finger over it. A smile twitched at his mouth, accompanied by a burst of mingled sorrow and amusement. “Look—he doodled in the margins.”

Jon looked. There were abstract patterns, faces, flowers, and at least one cat, all done in blue ballpoint pen. “You do the same thing on pub napkins,” he mused. Gerry’s arm went around his shoulders and briefly squeezed.

Gerry continued to empty the bag, one item at a time. There were a lot of things that Jon recognized. A book from the institute library. Old timesheets dated decades back. A printout titled “Magnus Institute Duty Statement”, crumpled and forgotten at the bottom of the bag. An address book full of names that neither of them recognized.

Finally, Gerry sat back with a huff. “That’s it,” he said. “There’s nothing else.”

“You’re sure?”

Gerry turned the bag upside down and shook it. “Pretty sure.”

Jon nodded absently, then took the bag from him. It seemed to thrum beneath his fingertips, and his eyes widened. This wasn’t unusual, exactly; Objects in a person’s possession often absorbed imprints, especially if there were strong emotions attached. This bag… he wasn’t getting any precise information from it, just a sudden awareness, a knowledge that there was something more to find.

He opened the bag wider, squinting into it to make sure there was nothing caught at the bottom. No, it did appear to be empty, and Gerry’s shaking hadn’t dislodged anything. But maybe—

Jon reached in, searching with probing fingers until he found the little pocket they had missed. The fabric itself was not warm to the touch, but he felt warm touching it all the same. Carefully he slipped his hand inside.

What came to him was not a memory as vivid as the one’s he’d taken from Jess, or Gerry, or even Gertrude. He saw no faces and heard no voices. It was pure sense memory: the position of his arms that might best cradle the warm weight in them. His hand behind a tiny head that fit perfectly in his palm, supporting it gently. The softness of a blanket he’d picked himself. The buzz in his own chest as he hummed to the fussing bundle in his arms.

Love, so thick and all-consuming that it was all he could do to breathe through it. There was a life in his arms, fragile and precious, and he had never loved anything more.

“Jon?” Beside him, Gerry looked worried. “Did you find something else—Jon, what’s wrong?”

He was crying, Jon realized distantly. There were tears rolling down his face as he withdrew his hand from the bag, clutching the photograph he’d found in the pocket. A man with Gerry’s nose and jawline smiled over the child in his arms, the little face half-hidden against his chest.

“Gerry,” said Jon. “I think—I think I’d like to take your hand.”

Gerry started. “O-okay? Hang on, I don’t have any gloves on—”

“No,” Jon cut him off. “Just…” He reached for him. “Just—”

“Are you sure?” Jon could feel his nervousness, but only distantly through the echo of Eric Delano’s love, like hearing a faint voice across a crowded room.

“Just take my hand,” Jon said. “And—and if you need to let go, then let go, you just—”

Gerry curled his bare hand gently around Jon’s, then tightened it with a startled gasp. Worry-shock-confusion-grief rushed in alongside the sense-memory, and for a moment Jon forgot where everything started and ended. With some effort he found himself again, and from there he could pick out what belonged to Gerry and what Eric had left behind.

“Is this—” Gerry choked out.

“It’s—it was him,” Jon answered. “It was left behind. It happens sometimes, with objects that—that mean something.” He laced their fingers together and squeezed. “Are you alright? Do you need to let go?”

Gerry’s breath shook through his chest. “Um. Maybe? I don’t—I don’t want to. But it’s a lot. It’s so much—is this how you feel all the time?”

“Not all the time. Just sometimes.” Jon hesitated. “What if I put the photo down?”

“And let go?”

“No,” said Jon. “Not yet.”

Apprehension pierced through the whirlwind between them. “Are you sure?”

“You can push me out, remember?” said Jon. “We can let go, or you can stop me. I trust you. Do you trust me?”

Always, Gerry didn’t say. He didn’t have to.

Jon let the photograph go, and then it was just them. Gerry gasped out a sob, and the memory of love was replaced with a fresh, new, immediate love that Jon had only ever felt from a distance before. The pitch and timbre of it was different from the memory that clung to the photograph, burning bright as Gerry’s mind always did. For once, Jon didn’t shy away from the intensity, but turned toward it like a flower to sunlight.

“Alright?” Gerry asked.

“I’m alright,” Jon replied. “You?”

“I love you.” Did Gerry notice the tears on his own face? “I just—I love you so much.”

“I—ha. I know.” How could he deny it, when he could feel it settling into his heart alongside his own. “I know.”

“Hey, Jon?” Gerry dried his eyes. “What do you think would happen if I kissed you right now?”

For a moment, Jon considered answering that question there and then. How much more could he fill his heart? How much more of Gerry could he take in? How much more of himself could he give?

Baby steps.

Instead, he drew Gerry close. Gerry followed the pull eagerly, colliding with him, toppling him onto his back. His free hand was in Jon’s hair, fingers running softly through it. Jon pressed into the touch.

“I have no idea,” he admitted, staring up into Gerry’s face, bright and incandescent with all his love and grief and brilliance behind it. “But I can’t wait to find out.”