Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was eight thirty on a Tuesday morning and Gerry Delano was making coffee when there was an explosion in his basement. That was his first thought, at least, when a thunderclap noise from below sent the kitchen appliances shaking and he dropped his second favourite mug. It shattered on the tiles and he watched on in awe as the vibrations petered out like the tail-end of an earthquake. Or what he imagined an earthquake would be like - not that he had ever experienced one. Did Oxford get earthquakes?

He heard a thumping from above and then Sasha came dashing down the stairs, calling: "What the hell was that?"

"Dunno," Gerry said, still staring wide-eyed at the black ceramic shards on the floor, "but I think it came from downstairs."

"Well then let’s go look!" Sasha huffed, and grabbed him by the sleeve to drag him down the hallway and, subsequently, the stairs to the basement. He only now realised that she was still wearing baby blue flannel pyjamas with a toothbrush sticking out of the breast pocket.

"Slow down!" Gerry snarled at her rapid descent. "We don’t know what’s down there!"

Sasha shrugged and let him go, stopping in front of the door at the bottom. It looked innocuous enough.

"Do you smell that?" she asked, hand on the doorknob. Gerry brought his nose close to the door, and there it was: a faint, sharp whiff of… ozone? When he looked down, his brain screeched to a halt, and he laid his hand on his roommates’, who was in the process of turning the knob.

"Sasha, what is that?"

Through the crack underneath the door came a weak pulsating light, tinted green like uranium glass.

"What the fuck… ok. Ok, let’s do this," Sasha murmured and opened the door.

Gerry stared transfixed at the rip in reality that had apparently manifested in their basement, about three feet long and half an inch wide, suspended five feet in the air and emitting a rhythmical glow like a miniature Aurora Borealis tipped to the side. A glance to his right revealed that Sasha wasn’t faring much better in the disbelief-department, if her wide eyes and gaping mouth were anything to go by. 

After an indefinite amount of time, the shocked silence was broken by a strange noise that sounded suspiciously like a choked whimper. Gerry took a wavering step into the room, then another. In the darkness underneath the weird luminous crack in space and time there lay a man crumpled on the floor; he was slight and wild-haired and his face was screwed up in pain, his dirty clothes covered in blood.

"Oh shit," Gerry groaned and fell to his knees, hands hovering. The man’s breath came quick and shallow, teeth digging into his lower lip and nails digging into the floor. Not surprising, that — there was a goddamn bloody knife buried in his chest.

"Sasha, call an ambulance."

"Ok, I…" Sasha started digging in her pockets, a lost look on her face. Gerry fished his phone from his jeans and thrust it in her general direction.

"Take mine, go upstairs, there’s no signal down here. Now, Sasha."

She shook herself, grabbed the phone, and then sprinted through the door, fingers already tapping rapidly. Gerry took a deep breath, then leaned over the man’s face and gently patted his scarred cheek.

"Hey. Hello. Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me?"

It took a while, but the man eventually made a small high sound between his rapid, rattling breaths and squinted his eyes open. Gerry flinched. His irises were glowing bright green, just like the rip in the air above them.

"Ooookay. Listen, this is going to hurt."

Gerry took off his thin cotton sweater, and began bunching it around the hilt of the knife. Then he took the man’s shaking right hand (slippery with blood, and also badly scarred) and pressed it gently into the fabric. "Can you hold this here for me? I’ve got to get you upstairs."

The man made a small Mm sound and screwed his eyes closed again, but made a valiant effort to hold the sweater to his wound. Gerry got his arms underneath the man’s skinny frame and tried to scoop him up carefully, but wasn’t very successful. His right ankle was bent at an odd angle and, judging by his pained groan, hurt almost as much as the hole in his chest when joggled. Probably broke it when he fell from… wherever it was he had fallen from.

Placing his steps as calm and slow as possible, Gerry carried the man up the stairs. His body was light and cool and there was a grey tinge to his brown skin. His rattling breath sounded laboured and… wrong, but he was still conscious when they reached the foyer, his face pinched and lips trembling. Gerry sank down with him on a chair next to the front door and pressed his hand on top of the man’s cold fingers and the wound. Sasha came out of the living room, afghan in hand, still on the phone.

"Six minutes. Do not remove the knife, try to quench the blood-flow, keep him warm, yes, thank you, try to keep him talking. Did he, is he saying anything?"

Gerry shook his head while he and Sasha managed to clumsily tuck the knit blanket around the man’s body, and then she started pacing. "Still conscious," she said to the person on the other end of the line.

"Hey, what’s your name? Can yo look at me?" Gerry asked gently, head bent over the man’s face.

The eyes squinted open once more, and now they where just glassy and a deep brown. Gerry wondered if the green glow had been a trick of the strange light in the basement, before.

"Gerry…?" the man said with a ruined voice. Gerry suppressed a hysterical laugh.

"Your name is Gerry?"

"No, your name’s… Gerry. My… name’s Jon. Am I, am I d-dead?"

"No, Jon, you’re not dead. There’s help on the way. Do I know you?"

"The book… don’t… remember? Ah," Jon started trembling in earnest now, hands clutching feebly at the blood-soaked cloth.

"Sorry, no, I don’t remember… what’s your last name?"

"Sims. Where’s… where’s Martin?" There was a frantic look in his eyes, and he tried to lift his head but didn’t get very far before slumping back down with a dry sob.

"Sorry, there’s no Martin here. Was he with you? When you… fell through that… uhm."

"Yes," Jon croaked, "Together. Promised. We…" Gerry noted with horror the bloody spit that began bubbling up from Jon’s lips as he tried to keep talking. In the distance, the sound of sirens grew louder.

"Yes! They’re almost here, thank you, thank you!" Sasha babbled, then ended the call and unceremoniously threw Gerry’s phone onto the side table. 

"I told them he was our roommate. Couldn’t think of another explanation why there was someone who had been stabbed in our house. Told them he got mugged and made it home. Oh god…"

"No, Sasha, good thinking, that’s good, ok… Jon. Jon, stay with me."

Sasha ripped the front door open and ran down onto the sidewalk, waving, barefoot and pyjama-clad. 

Jon stared at Gerry, trying to suck air into his lungs and obviously failing. His bloodied lips were turning blue. Gerry held him and stared back, murmuring nonsense and rubbing Jon’s cold right arm. Then the paramedics came bustling in, and they took Jon from him and strapped him to a stretcher, and through his numbness Gerry managed to say "His name is Jon Sims," and "are you taking him to John Radcliffe Hospital?" and they said yes, and Gerry told them "Okay, tell him I’ll be there," and then they were gone in a rush of shouts and lights and sirens.

Gerry slumped forwards, head heavy in his sticky hands. Sasha knelt by his side and awkwardly patted his knee. 

"It’s ok," she murmured. "We did all we could, I think? It’s going to be ok? Probably. I mean, statistically…"

"Sasha," Gerry murmured into his fingers, tasting another man’s blood, "I love you. But please, shut up."

------

After a hot shower and a large coffee (sipped from his third favourite mug while wiping ceramic shards off the kitchen floor), the shocked numbness had receded from Gerry’s brain and limbs, and he felt almost like himself again. Sasha had changed into neat chinos and a cardigan and her long wet hair was wrapped up in a towel. She poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned next to him against the counter, side-eyeing him.

"What now?" she asked thoughtfully. Gerry sighed and took a look at the clock above the fridge.

"I’m so late for work. Listen, Sash, I’ll call the hospital at lunch break, then go there straight after my shift. I’ll text you any news."

"Alright. I have a lecture in the evening, but in the meantime I can keep an eye on… god. Should we tell our landlady about the otherworldly… crack-thing that’s appeared in our basement? Like… that’s kind of an issue she ought to know about, don’t you think?"

"I think we can… postpone that conversation. I wouldn’t even know where to start, Christ…"

"Ok. Where did he come from, do you think? I mean, god, is there a rift in the space-time-continuum in our basement where a man fell out from another dimension where he was apparently being murdered? I mean what the actual…!"

"I know, I know!" Gerry interrupted her. They didn’t need another spiral. He didn’t know what they needed, but keeping calm was probably… beneficial.

"There is something very strange going on, that much is evident. Maybe don’t go down there alone. And if you have to-" Sasha rolled her eyes dramatically- "Hey, I know you! If you have to, do not touch anything, ok? Promise me not to touch the crack in the universe. Please."

"Fine," she huffed, "I promise!"

"Good. Thank you. Also do not tell anyone about it yet, including Tim. And stop rolling your eyes. Do you know what else was weird?"

"What, other than literally everything that happened in the last half hour?"

"He knew my name. First thing he said. Looked at me and said ‘Gerry‘."

"Are you sure he didn’t hear me call you that?"

"I don’t think so. And even if. Spooked me. He also said something about a book, and if I didn’t remember."

"Mmh. Customer of yours? Though he did look like someone you’d remember. Well, if we’re lucky, we might be able to ask him about it soon. Anyway, go to work; I don’t want Gertrude biting off your head. Don’t worry about us. Me and the rip in reality, we’ll be just fine."

------

 It was impossible to talk to anyone who knew anything when Gerry called the hospital around noon, neither about a Jon Sims nor a possible John Doe he asked about in case the paramedics had forgotten the man’s name. 

"But he was stabbed, there was a knife in his chest!" he kept repeating fruitlessly.

"I’m very sorry," the nurse on the line explained, sounding harried but apologetic. "We can not give you any information at this time. Try again a little later?"

Gerry sighed and hung up and resigned himself to going there in person in the late afternoon. He briefly considered asking Gertrude if he could clock out early today, but then remembered her very unimpressed glare when he had explained to her that he was late because he had to save someone’s life, no really, he wasn’t kidding, he still had the man’s blood underneath his fingernails!

He spent the afternoon unpacking and shelving a large shipment of books, and intermittently pouring over Sasha’s cryptic texts.

I think it’s changing colour?

Also size

Definitely more narrow now, couldn’t fit a finger in there

Not that I tried

I didnt, I swear!

Light was whitish first, turning more golden now

It’s very pretty

She had tried to attach a photo, but there was nothing on it - it was just a grainy dark rectangle.

Interesting, can’t take pictures of it

Do you think it’s some kind of radiation? Electromagnetic?

Sasha, get out of the basement, don’t you have a lecture to prepare? he typed back at around four p.m. 

Alright alright, I’ll go! Text me from hospital?

Will do.

"Gerard, if you’ve finished that box you can leave, you’re a bit useless today anyway. Go see about your alleged damsel in distress."

Gertrude’s voice was dry, verging on sarcastic; but then it always was. He glanced up to her from the floor of the bookshop and saw (or probably hallucinated) an amused glint in her eyes. Who said the woman didn’t have a heart? Well, basically everyone except him. But then again, he had known her for a very long time.

------

It took forever to figure out Jon’s whereabouts, but Gerry managed eventually. He was waiting at the right nurse’s station, when a short middle aged doctor came barreling past him, stopped abruptly, turned, and looked him over with narrowed eyes.

"Are you Jon Sim’s roommate?“

"Yes, Gerard Delano. Is he ok?" He held his hand out and the doctor shook it once, her small hand surprisingly warm and firm. It calmed his anxiously cramping stomach a bit, for some reason.

"I’m Dr. Siddiqui. He is still in intensive care. He spent the afternoon in surgery - compound fracture of the ankle, collapsed lung, some internal bleeding. He also has a moderate concussion. This can all be attributed to a violent mugging of course, but he is also severely dehydrated and malnourished. Do you have any idea how this could have happened?"

"I, uh…" Gerry felt heat rise to his face and knew that his pale skin must have turned a bright shade of pink. That could be read as embarrassment though, and not necessarily as the symptom of the telling of walloping lies it actually was. 

"He hasn’t been home in a couple days. That’s not unusual for him. But I did notice that he wasn’t doing so well. He doesn’t like to talk about it, he’s very private, and he hasn’t been living with us for very long, so…"

"Alright. Does he have any family? Girlfriend, boyfriend? Anyone we can contact?"

"No, no one I know of, sorry."

"That’s ok. Do you think you can look in his room for something relevant and bring it here - identification, medical records, address book, anything like that?"

"I can try."

"He has a lot of scarring, also two missing ribs. It would be helpful to have some… context."

"Oh. Uhm. Sure. Can I see him?"

"We hope to move him to the regular ward in the morning. You can visit him then. Just give us a call and we’ll give you a thumbs up, alright? That’ll get you directly to this station." she pointed behind her, then scribbled a number on the back of a business card and handed it to him.

"Ok, thank you. Uhm. Will he be ok?" Gerry stammered as he took the card.

"Hm." She looked at him, thoughtful and very earnest, and there was no humour whatsoever in her voice when she said: "I believe so. He’s a very stubborn man."

------

Gerry texted Sasha and then took the bus home, lost in thought. When he entered the house it was dark and silent, but there was a wonderful spicy smell coming from the kitchen. Sasha had left a pot on the stove and a piece of paper next to it. 

Help yourself to chickpea curry! I’ll be late, meeting Tim at the pub after. Lips are sealed. Don’t mess with hole in space-time continuum! xx

He grinned and grabbed a plate and some cutlery. He was just about to start eating, when a soft thump startled him and he froze, fork half lifted to his mouth.

The sound had come from downstairs. Of course. He cursed and put his dinner down, then crept into the foyer and down the stairs to the basement. He slowly opened the door, and sucked in an awed breath. 

It was pretty; it was more than that, it was beautiful. The wafting glow had turned a deep honeyed gold; the kind of light you only saw on late-summer evenings through the dusty windows of a house in the countryside. It smelled different, too. The sharp metallic tang was gone, replaced with a weirdly incongruous aroma. Tea and cream, he thought, shaking his head. 

Underneath the gently moving evening light, on the dusty concrete spattered with Jon’s dried blood, lay a small rectangular object. Gerry stooped down to pick it up, mindful to not come in contact with the streaks of gold above him. It was a passport.

He closed the basement door firmly behind him, carried it up into the mundane light of the kitchen, and sat on the counter next to his cooling curry to examine it.

On the outside the passport looked much like his own. He opened it carefully. It had been issued in 2014 to a Jonathan Sims; this fact and the photograph inside made Gerry blink slowly several times. The picture bore a faint resemblance to the man who had almost bled out in his arms, but this Jon was so very young and bright-eyed; his brown skin smooth and without scars, neat haircut, dark-rimmed glasses, white pressed collar and tie. Handsome in a severe, academic sort of way.

"Who the hell are you?" Gerry mumbled, and crammed a forkful of chickpeas into his mouth, "And where the fuck did you come from?"

Chapter Text

He surfaced briefly when there was something being pulled out of his throat. It would have been a visceral experience, had he not been so far removed from his body, floating in a sticky spun-sugar space. Everything ached and pinched and was loud and confusing; and at the same time nothing was of consequence. He couldn’t move, and didn’t want to. His thoughts were treacle-slow, and when he tried to blink his eyes open to orient himself, his lids were just too heavy, so he gave up on the endeavour.

Martin, supplied his hindbrain, the name floating up like a beacon only to plunge down into his stomach like an icy fist.

Oh god. Martin.

He gasped and tried to call out, call him, say something, but his throat was raw and his lungs were on fire and good lord, it hurt. Someone pressed down on his shoulder, murmuring shhhh, it’s alright, and then more of that strange warm cloying numbness trickled through his veins, and he was pulled under again.

------

The first thing Jon noticed was an itch in his nose. He tried to lift his hand to scratch it, but that didn’t amount to anything. He could twitch his fingers, that was it. He tried pursing his lips. Something was stuck to his face, hissing quietly. Oxygen cannula? Oh. Hospital. Huh.

"Bloody hell, this was a bad idea. Christ. Look at you," someone murmured next to him. They smelled pleasantly of coffee and cigarettes.

He tried turning his face in their direction, and was moderately successful. Looking at them turned out to be more difficult; his eyes were crusty and everything was very blurry. Don’t have my glasses, he thought. Haven’t had them in a long time. And then, didn’t need them. He decided not to follow that train of thought. His memories were vague but overwhelmingly numerous, and things were generally quite hard to hold on to; maybe that was for the best.

The face of the person to his right was closer now, staring at him with furrowed brows.

"Jon…?"

Oh, but that voice was familiar.

"Gerry," he said, or tried to; all that came out of his throat was a quiet croak.

"Yeah, it’s me," Gerry answered, as if Jon had been in any way intelligible.

"I promised I’d come by, didn’t I. I’m not gonna ask you how you’re doing, because…" He lifted his hands and gestured around, "Well. All of that. I was also going to ask you if you needed anything, but the answer is probably more morphine, and I can’t help you with that, very sorry.“ He grinned crookedly.

"Martin?" Jon tried. Maybe Gerry was good at reading lips.

"He hasn’t appeared yet, I’m afraid. This came through though," Gerry slipped something from the inside of his leather jacket and held it close up to Jon’s face. It looked like… a passport?

"I gave it to the nurses to make a copy, hope that’s alright. Should I leave it with you, or…"

"Keep it," Jon whispered, proud of the pretty coherent half sentence. Then he had to close his eyes against a wave of vertigo and confused tears. He really didn’t feel like crying right now, except, of course, of all the ways he did very much feel like crying. He quickly lost the battle against the unpleasantly hot liquid pooling in the corners of his eyes.

"Ah, fuck, no…" Gerry said awkwardly, took Jon’s cold fingers and held them gently in his very warm ones.

"I mean, you have every reason to be upset, but it’s going to be ok! We’ll figure it out, alright?"

Jon tried to nod, but his head was pounding too much, so he just gave Gerry’s fingers a weak squeeze.

"Shit, I’ll be late for work, again. Listen, I’ll be back in the evening, ok? I’ll try to rustle up a phone for you, you’ll want updates on the… well, the door you and your passport came through, I guess. Also you’ll soon be climbing the walls. They’re going to keep you for a while."

There was something soft touching his face, wiping his tears away. He sighed tiredly.

"Will you be ok if I leave now? I can stay longer, my boss won’t fire me or anything."

"S’fine," Jon rasped. "Just come back." There was still no discernible sound behind his words, but Gerry got it anyway.

"Of course. Now get some sleep. I’ll see you later."

------

When Gerry left Jon’s hospital room, there was a police officer waiting in the busy hallway. She was tall and had short blonde hair and the sharpest, bluest eyes he had ever seen. He swallowed convulsively and took a deep breath, bracing himself. She gestured him over to were she was leaning against the wall.

"Gerard Delano?"

"That’s me."

"You the roommate of Jonathan Sims?"

"Yep."

"Detective Alice Tonner. I’m investigating his… case. Did he say anything about who might have attacked him yet?"

"No, and he couldn’t even if he wanted to. Look, can we do this another time? I’m terribly late for work. I’m very sorry, but I’m sure I don’t know more than you at this point." She looked at him intently, a cat of prey about to pounce. Then she folded her arms and pursed her lips.

"Sure. I’ll be around. So will you, won’t you?"

"Definitely."

"Right. Feel free to tell me anything that comes to your mind about Mr. Sims. About what happened to him, and the… time leading up to the incident."

"Sure." He waved awkwardly, then turned and walked down the hallway towards the lift. Don’t turn around, he thought, and don’t run.

He felt her eyes on him until the lift-doors closed behind his back.

------

Jon was fast asleep when Gerry returned in the early evening, his narrow face and spindly arms still drowning in a plethora of tubes and machinery. Someone had braided his long messy hair into a semblance of neatness. The rest of his body was hidden underneath a veritable mountain of blankets.

"Runs cold, this one," the nurse on duty said while changing an IV bag. Gerry smiled at him, took a seat in the corner next to the bed where he was out of the way, and began setting up the cheapish phone he had purchased on the way. He was finished rather quickly, typed in his name and number and, after short consideration, Sasha’s. His own phone pinged then, and he fished it out from his jacket and watched a string of texts appear on the screen with light concern.

JESUS CHRIST GERRY

There was another

Thing! Fell out of the crack!

I think it’s a debit card? Looks a bit weird

But it has his name on it! What the hell

Are you with him? How is he?

Sasha had attached a photograph of a shiny black card issued by an obscure bank that Gerry might have heard the name of before, but couldn’t be sure. And, of course, Jonathan Sims in tiny neat letters. He ran his hand down his face rather forcefully, than typed back:

Ok cool, keep it safe. Please don’t spend so much time down there on your own, I worry.

He’s asleep. Looks rough. I’ll be another half hour or so. xx

He dragged the chair closer to the bed, plopped his chin in his hand and watched Jon’s chest rise and fall for a bit. Eventually his eyes fluttered open, watery and vacant.

"Hey," Gerry said, and Jon looked over at him, comprehension dawning, and smiled. It was a small, wobbly thing, but Gerry’s heart squeezed in his chest something fierce.

"How are you?"

"Been better," Jon rasped, with a voice almost audible to regular human ears. Then he winced and clutched the blanket underneath his right hand in a white knuckled grip.

"Breathing hurts."

"Yeah that sucks, I’m sorry about that. Someone stuck a knife into your lung, that’ll do it."

"Hah," Jon groaned, and winced some more.

"Since I know you are going to ask," Gerry stated carefully, "No Martin yet. The crack you presumably fell through is still there though. Does this look familiar to you?" He held his phone up to Jon’s face, displaying the photo of the black card. Jon squinted at it, then slowly shook his head.

"Huh. Interesting. Has your name on it and everything. Anyway, I brought you this." He held the other phone up.

"Put my number in, and also Sasha’s. You can use the internet and all, it has a prepaid card. You do… have these things, were you come from, right?"

Jon nodded and lifted his hand for it, then grimaced when the motion pulled on the IV-needle stuck in the back of it. Gerry handed the phone to Jon and gently tugged on the tube so it would have more give.

Jon painstakingly moved his thumb across the display, then turned it so Gerry could see. The notes app was open and Jon had typed,

Thank you

Can i ask you questions like this?

"Yes, of course!" Gerry exclaimed. "That’s brilliant, gotta hurt less than talking, right?"

Yes. Who is Sasha?

"My roommate. Or, uhm, officially our roommate. She was there when you… well. She called the ambulance.“

What year is it?

"Oh! It’s 2019. April 25th, to be precise."

Oxford?

"Yes, you’re in Oxford. John Radcliffe Hospital."

Whats your address?

"You mean where you… appeared?"

Yes

"105b Hill Top Road, in Cowley."

The phone thumped onto the bed and Jon hissed out a very clearly enunciated "Fuck."

------

Jon couldn’t get his breathing to slow down. His head was muggy at best and good lord his chest hurt, but Hill Top Road…? Spiders, his panicked brain provided, and gap in reality; what about the fears, and where the hell did Martin go? He had appeared in this universe’s Hill Top Road, were Gerry was alive, and Martin wasn’t there? It had been days! Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He gasped air in and in and in and it wasn’t enough. Darkness crept across his vision and something began to beep frantically and he heard Gerry’s concerned voice, but the words didnt compute. Then there were more voices, and hands, and he tried to feebly bat them away because he just needed some goddamn air, and… suddenly it all stopped. The noise, the pain, the unbearable choking fear. That's... nice, he thought, peacefully sinking into warm blackness.

------

"Panic attack," Dr. Siddiqui said.

"Yes," Gerry concurred, hand buried in his hair, "I’m afraid it’s my fault."

"How so?" the doctor asked, voice low and matter of fact. They were both standing outside of Jon’s room (where he slept the sedated sleep of the just), sipping awful sugary tea from little plastic cups the doctor had kindly provided.

"I asked him about what, what happened to him. I really shouldn’t have. God, I’m so sorry." The lie slipped easily from Gerry’s tongue now. It was so close to the truth anyway, except the truth was way too complicated to untangle, and it was his fault, wasn’t it? Even though all he had done was give Jon his address.

"Hmm. Mr. Sims has had a traumatic experience and needs professional help. You couldn’t have known what would trigger such a reaction. You’re a good friend, Mr. Delano."

Gerry huffed.

"It’s difficult to know what to do and say," Dr. Siddiqui said with her very earnest voice. "Give it time. Lots of time. How about you go home now and have a nice meal, and sleep on it, and come back in 24 hours? And bring a friend. You shouldn’t be alone with this."

------

Jon was having a thoroughly miserable day. He had woken up to grey morning light and there was no one sitting by his bedside. His vision was so blurry he couldn’t even read the clock on the wall. He felt floaty and ill and they wouldn’t leave him alone; they poked at him and asked him questions he didn’t have answers to because his brain was mush, and his throat was still so raw speaking was akin to swallowing nails.

And then they made him eat things.

The concept of ingesting food was bewildering and disgusting, and terribly humiliating because he couldn’t even lift a spoon to his mouth by himself. The whole ordeal left him sweaty and exhausted, feeling like someone had filled his abdominal cavity with jagged rocks. When they finally stopped badgering him in the afternoon, he fell into a fretful sleep full of discombobulated dreams.

He opened his eyes to the setting sun and a cool hand on his forehead and Gerry saying, "Jon, you’re very warm, do you feel warm?", apprehension in his voice.

Jon shuddered and croaked "No!" and clutched the blankets to his chest in case someone made to take them away.

"Sorry!" Gerry held his hands up. There was a woman standing next to him, looming awkwardly over Jon, tall and dark-skinned, with large round glasses and long sleek hair tucked behind her ears. Her face was only vaguely familiar, but her voice when she spoke was very familiar indeed. Even if he only remembered it from tapes he had listened to, again and again and again, in the cabin after he’d…

"Hello, Jon."

"Sasha," he breathed, a disbelieving laugh stuck in his throat. Her eyes grew large and luminous.

"Do you know us? Do we know each other? This is all so…"

"Wait," Gerry interrupted her. He grabbed Jon’s phone from the bedside table and held it out to him.

"Is this ok? You don’t have to." Jon nodded and took the phone, balancing it on his collarbone to type.

I’m from somewhere else. I knew you there. Both of you.

"What?!" Sasha exclaimed in delight. "You did? That’s amazing! How is other-world-me?"

"Sasha, stop," Gerry muttered. Jon stared at the screen, thumb hovering, then squeezed his eyes shut. But there was nothing for it. There was … a lot he would have to come to terms with eventually; he might as well start somewhere. He opened his eyes and wrote,

I’m so sorry. I lost you.

Chapter Text

"Martin!" someone said, and poked a finger into his back. "Martin, wake up."

He groaned and tried to bury his face deeper in the pillow. The pillow was lumpy and smelled of dust and mildew. Ugh, he thought. But still. Why won’t she let me sleep.

"Martin you have a head wound and it’s still bleeding. If you don’t want me to stick it together with cobweb, get up now and let me have a proper look."

That did the trick though. Martin scrambled up and backwards to the end of the sofa, hissing: "Get away from me!" Then he touched his right temple gingerly and his fingers came away sticky red. "Ouch."

Annabelle took a seat at the other end of the sofa and watched him curiously. "Are you done?" she asked, faintly amused.

"Where am I, where…" His panicked eyes scanned the room. "Where. Is. Jon."

The space was large and dusky, white cloth covering the hulking furniture. The big, dust-covered windows looked out into an overgrown garden. It was very quiet.

"You are in the house on Hill Top Road. Well - this worlds’ version of it, anyway. Jon is not here. But he is alive. Will you let me clean your wound now? Also, I’m gonna fetch some ice for your eye. Looks like it’ll be swelling shut otherwise."

Martin took a shaky breath. He had just… he had just held Jon’s dying body in his arms, and everything was falling, crumbling around them, nothing but screeching, agonised chaos and now…

"How did we get here? What is this world, and what do you mean, he’s not here? Where is he?!"

"Martin, dear, stop fussing, stop asking questions and let me help you."

He didn’t get any more warning than that. His jaw was wrenched shut as if pulled by strings. His hands sank down into his lap, soft and unresisting. He closed his eyes and bent forward, towards her right hand and the damp cloth in it.

Well, wherever we are, he thought, rage bubbling up like poison in his veins, she obviously still has her fucking spider-powers.

------

Jon had managed to write down his prescription in his notes app and show it to Dr. Siddiqui, and two days later was provided with a pair of glasses. They had a cheap, translucent frame that probably looked ridiculous on him. He didn’t care one bit.

When Gerry came in the evening, he finally was able to look at him and figure out what felt so off about his appearance. Number one was his hair: no botched dye-job, it was a lustrous blueish black all the way through. The other thing were the tattoos. They were just as numerous as they had been back in Jon’s universe, but instead of eyes on the joints they were all kinds of things, all over his hands, arms, and neck; insects and flowers and animal skulls, geometric shapes, celestial bodies, quotes in Latin. Striking, Jon found himself thinking.

"I brought you these," Gerry said, and took a pair of headphones out of his satchel, still in their box. "In case you want to listen to music, or…"

"Or watch cat videos," Jon interrupted him hoarsely, mouth twitching.

"Or that, sure." Gerry grinned his crooked grin. When he realised Jon was feebly struggling to resume a somewhat half upright position, he fixed his pillows for him. Jon felt immediately exhausted by the small exercise, lifting his new glasses and rubbing at his eyes and the tender skin around them.

"You don’t have to keep buying me things. I’m… alright. I don’t have enough energy to do much of anything anyway," he stated self-deprecatingly, voice rough but precise.

"Well, that’s the nice thing about listening to stuff. Not much energy expended, usually. You sound much better, by the way. Also, nice glasses."

"Thank you, I’m sure they’re atrocious."

"They’re fine! Make you look… anyway. I have good news, and… neutral news I guess. What do you want to hear first?"

"Good, I guess."

"So, Sasha is a bit of a, uhm, small-time criminal, and she figured out the code for your debit card and looked up your bank balance, and apparently you’re rich? Well. It’s a six figure sum."

"O…kay." Jon grimaced. "It’s not my card, you know? Whoever sent it… their motives might be… questionable."

"So you do have an idea about who’s mailing you useful stuff across realities?"

"Maybe. What’s the neutral news?"

"Last Wednesday, when I came to visit you for the first time, there was a cop waiting in the hallway when I left your room. Asked me about you. I was reasonably vague. Well, I saw her again just now. She really wants to talk to you, says she’s on your 'case'."

Jon swallowed painfully. Cold anxiety started to spread through his limbs.

"That’s not… unusual." His voice broke on the last syllable. That’s it for today, apparently, he thought, clumsily grabbed a cup of water from his nightstand and took a careful sip. Gerry helped him put it back; his hands had started shaking badly.

"To be honest, I don’t like the look of her. I’m gonna tell her that you’re not ready. Do you want me to tell her anything else?"

Jon shook his head. "Did she say what her name was?" His voice had deteriorated into a croaky whisper. Again.

"Tonner, I think?"

Of course. Jon took a deep breath. “Ouch.”

"Yeah, don’t do that. You look knackered. Shall I leave you to sleep, or…"

"Can you…" Jon cleared his throat carefully. It didn’t help.

"I need you to do something for me. Do you have a pen and paper?"

"Sure!" Gerry ripped an empty page out of his small pocket calendar and presented it to Jon with a chewed on biro, offering the calendar as a writing pad. Jon put his words down slowly, in a messy, barely legible scrawl.

Annabelle, is that you? Is Martin with you? Is he alright? Please respond in any way you can. Jon

He folded the paper and held it out to Gerry.

"Can you try and, uh, throw it into the rift?"

"Yes, of course! I was actually waiting for you to ask."

Jon nodded and blinked groggily. "Thank you. And - could you stay until I…"

His face felt hot, but he was too exhausted to care. He just didn’t want to lie there, awake and afraid and all by himself, while this universe’s version of Daisy was lurking outside. The notion filled him with deep dread and sadness.

"Yeah, I’ll stay until you fall asleep. Do you want me to read you something?"

"Mh, no, just… tell me something about you. Anything."

Gerry looked surprised. He scratched his head and blinked several times.

"Alright? Uhm. I was born in London? I started working at my mother’s bookstore when I was 15…"

------

Gerry was halfway into his foray into juvenile delinquency when Jon lost the battle against consciousness. Gerry took his glasses off and put them on the bedside table, then tucked the blankets securely around him. When he left the hospital room, Detective Tonner was gone.

He took the bus home as usual. When he closed the front door behind him, he shook himself, lowered his shoulders, unclenched his jaw; just now realising the hyper-alert strain his body’d been under all the way from the hospital. Sasha had already left for her evening lecture. She would resent him for doing this without her; she had pestered him for days to try and send something back. But Gerry was adamant that it had to be Jon’s decision — his explicit wish to do so. He had coached Sasha very thoroughly to not put any pressure on Jon. Not ask any leading questions, not make any suggestions. His mental state seemed rather fragile, and Gerry really didn’t want himself or Sasha to be the cause of another panic attack.

He took the folded note out of his jacket pocket carefully, and carried it down the stairs and into the basement.

The rift was looking smaller today. It was only about two-and-a-half feet long now. Even the light seemed a little dimmer; still a beautiful golden glow, but more gentle now, the wafting movement slower, syrupy. The smell was different, too: less cream, more over-steeped tea, bitter and dark.

Gerry moved towards it, as close as he had ever dared — almost touching, his nose half an inch from the wavy light. Here goes nothing, he thought, slowly moving the paper into the glow.

Nothing happened.

The light would eventually have to touch his skin in order for him to reach the gap. He took a slow, unsteady breath and moved his hand in. His skin began to prickle and he flinched, but quickly realised that the sensation was not a bad one, it was actually almost… pleasant? When he touched the bright narrow gap with the paper though, a small jolt went through him, like a weak electric current. He huffed and tried to inch it in and felt a strange resistance, as if pushing something iron against the wrong end of a magnet. And then it caught fire.

Or that’s what it looked like, golden flames licking at the note and engulfing it rather quickly; but there was no heat, and no blackening of edges. It looked almost as if it was being eaten away by many very small, very fast animals. Gerry shuddered and tried to yank it back, but managed only to draw his hand away. The note was devoured, suspended in the air, in a matter of seconds.

Gerry stared at the unaltered, unfazed rift, and then at his unscathed hands and breathed "What the hell…?"

------

On Monday morning, six days after he had appeared in this world, Jon managed to eat half a bowl of plain porridge, after which he felt surprisingly clear-headed for a change; so he grabbed his new phone and did a bit of research.

Things were mostly the same internet-wise; there was Google and Twitter and Instagram. It quickly became apparent that while some people were very easy to find, others simply didn’t seem to exist in this reality.

No Jonathan Sims, no Martin Blackwood. No Georgie Barker or Melanie King. After looking at a couple of selfies of Tim and Danny Stoker grinning into the camera while rock-climbing in garish tie-dyed shorts and T-shirts, he began to formulate a vague theory of sorts. It was then that Sasha bustled into the room without knocking, wearing her most luminous smile.

"I brought you flowers! It’s something people do when you’re in hospital. I presume it’s to brighten up the room. Do you like them?"

She held an elegant bouquet into Jon’s line of sight, consisting of delicate white and pink blossoms and eucalyptus leaves.

"Thank you, that is very kind. I don’t think anyone’s ever given me… ah." That’s not true, he realised with a pang, remembering a walk in the highlands and a scraggy bunch of heather and gorse Martin had pressed into his hands, blushing furiously.

He took a shallow trembling breath and his eyes started to burn. Sasha didn’t seem to notice.

"Good! Look, this mornings 'arrival'." Sasha held out a thin beige folder, then opened it and went through the small stack of documents within with barely suppressed excitement.

"Birth certificate, certificate of citizenship. University degree. A letter of recommendation from a… Ragnar Institute London. Apparently you worked there as a researcher. Death certificates for… uh. Thomas and Naveen Sims. Were those your parents?"

"Yes. They died when I was little."

"I’m very sorry, Jon."

"It’s… fine." He swallowed thickly, then fished out the institute letter and scowled at the sheet of paper in dismay. "It was not called The Ragnar Institute. That’s a ridiculous name."

It stated the facility as "an academic institution dedicated to researching the esoteric and paranormal in eighteenth century literature and onward". How lucky, Jon thought, they only have to deal with it in fiction apparently. Hopefully.

Head of the institute was a Dr. Christine Geulen. Jon had never heard of her. She had written him an excellent reference, appearing genuinely sad to see him leave.

"That’ll make looking for a job easy, once you’re well enough!" Sasha said, voice full of encouragement.

Jon blinked, then sniffed. "Uhm. I… guess. Can you keep this safe for me?" He handed her the paper, staring blankly straight ahead, and she tucked it back into the folder.

"Of course. I will put it in your room!"

"My… room?"

"Did Gerry not tell you? He and I are refurbishing the downstairs office, so you can move in once you are discharged! We hardly use it anyway, I just made space for my writing-desk in the living room. We’re going to take the car to IKEA on Saturday. Do you want to look at the website and choose some furniture? Bed, wardrobe, desk, maybe new sheets and a rug?"

Jon opened his mouth but nothing came out; it was as if someone had tied his vocal chords into a very elaborate knot. All he could do was stare at his hands and breathe unsteadily. He felt nauseous all of a sudden and his head started pounding viciously.

He didn’t really understand what made him react this way. Maybe just the notion of there being something after this. A future he never thought he’d deserve. Never even wanted. Not without…

Sasha left after making him drink some water in small sips and fretting until he closed his eyes and pretended to fall asleep. And he almost did fall asleep, but then there was a knock at his door. Please don’t be lunch, he thought, still very much fighting an all encompassing nausea.

It wasn’t lunch.

------

Daisy was looking well; sharp haircut, muscular arms filling out her neat uniform, posture alert and nonchalant at the same time. Her skin had a healthy glow and her smile revealed a row of very white teeth that looked a little too sharp.

Jon had managed to get himself into a reasonably upright position all by himself and kept trying to straighten his hospital gown with trembling hands.

"So what you’re saying, Mr. Sims, is that you don’t remember anything."

"Yes. Sorry," he winced. He had regained some of his stupid croaky voice at least.

"You can’t even point me to the general area you were attacked in."

"It’s all, uhm, gone, I’m afraid. I remember going to the pub Monday evening, and then waking up in hospital on Wednesday."

"Who did you go to the pub with?"

"No-one."

"Uh huh."

Jon was very aware that he wasn’t a particularly good liar. But he hoped that his general aura of bone-deep exhaustion paired with badly suppressed anxiety would be enough to distract her from that fact.

"Maybe it’s the concussion," he said, gingerly touching the still-sore lump at the back of his head.

"Okay, Mr. Sims. Well. You realise I have nothing much to go on here. But anyway, call me if you think of anything." She handed him a business card with an unreadable expression on her face.

"Thank you, I will. And, uhm, sorry. Again."

"Alright." She shot him one last sharp look and made to leave.

"Ah, Detective Tonner?" The strange mixture of hope and dread in his voice was probably very audible. He wondered what she would make of that.

"Yes?"

"Do you by any chance know a Detective Hussain?"

"Who?"

"Basira. Basira Hussain. She’s not… with you, I mean, uh, on the force? You don’t know her?"

"No. Should I?"

"Mm, apparently I’m in the dead-people-dimension, so no I guess," he muttered under his breath.

"What did you say?" She looked confused now, and a bit annoyed.

"Nothing. She used to work out of London anyway, so…"

"I used to live in London."

"I see. Uhm. Doesn’t matter. Sorry for keeping you."

"Right. Well. Get well soon." She left the room with a last look at him that seemed a little lost. It softened her face significantly.

Jon let out a long hard breath and grimaced at the stabbing pain in his chest. That hadn’t gone as horrible as it could’ve though, he thought, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and instantly fell into a black exhausted sleep.

------

Gerry and Sasha were having a very fraught supper; she was miffed because he had tried to throw something into the rift without her, and he had admonished her for springing the IKEA-thing on Jon.

"Well, how do you want to do this?" she said, breaking a tense silence filled only with the sounds of both of them picking at their pasta, frustration clear in her voice. "Take him home once he’s well enough and then push him into the room and say 'By the way, you live here now'?!"

"No! I don’t know! Maybe give him more time? Be more… tactful about it?"

"I am plenty tactful! It’s just that Jon is basically, literally made of glass or something! And I understand, I do, but what am I supposed to…"

Of course, because this was their life now apparently, this was exactly the moment when there was a familiar thump coming up from the basement.

Gerry groaned. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Sasha jumped up from her chair, frustration instantly forgotten.

"Hah! What do you reckon? Driver’s licence? Library card?"

------

It turned out to be a photograph. Unmistakably some kind of Polaroid, even though the format was weird and the colouring slightly off. It showed a large heavy man sitting on a floral sofa, a dainty teacup in his hand and a very disgruntled look on his round freckled face.

There was a square white bandage stuck to his right temple. His right eye looked a bit worse for wear, the skin around it a blotchy yellowing purple, and he had faint scratches on his arms and hands. Gerry turned it around. On the back of it was written in a spidery hand:

Martin doesn’t like my tea.

Chapter Text

Martin had stopped to count how many times he had wandered the rooms of the ground floor of the house on Hill Top Road. 

Dining room, drawing room, library. Kitchen, pantry, laundry. He circled the entrance hall endlessly, staring at the large, dusty paintings of sea-scapes and dark woodlands for the 300th time. Or thereabouts. There were two doors he had never touched, and a staircase leading to the upper floor. Or floors. He wouldn’t know, he couldn’t set a foot on it. Just as he couldn’t touch the front door, and the door to the basement. She had made sure of that.

Every morning, Annabelle made a lacklustre breakfast she didn’t touch herself, and then left the house, always with the same sentence: „Don’t go upstairs, don’t go downstairs, don’t go outside.“ It stuck. Martin was left sitting in the drawing room on the lumpy sofa that was also his bed now, cradling a piece of half-burnt toast and shaking with rage.

One time he had had enough wherewithal so stumble up behind her and watch her, his face pressed against the entrance hall window, leave on a bicycle of all things, disappearing beyond the crest of the hill the house was sitting on. There were no clues to where she was going.

In the day, there was nothing to see through the windows of the house but rolling green hills, scrubby woods, a few dirt roads, and a muggy sky with slow moving clouds.

Sometimes on clear nights he could see faint lights in the distance from the windows, but he knew that even if he’d be able to open them and scream for help, no one would ever hear him.

He was left alone most days in the silence of the house, and so he wandered. The house was… strange. It was obviously old, and had obviously been quite impressive at one point, but was now faded with neglect and covered in a thick layer of dark dust. There was no central heating, and he struggled with the fireplace in the drawing room on cold evenings, barely managing a fire that ensured he wouldn’t spend the night awake, shivering miserably under the thin, musty covers. 

There was electricity; light switches you had to twist instead of press, which made weak sodium-yellow bulbs flicker humming into existence, and a monstrous rattling fridge in the kitchen; even a washing machine in the laundry room which Annabelle turned on sometimes, whereupon the whole house started shaking and Martin had to steer clear from the dangerously clanging chandeliers.

There were no personal artefacts revealing anything about the former inhabitants of the house. No phone. No music, no television, no source of entertainment except for the books. And the books were weird.

Martin felt as though he had stumbled into some kind of gothic parallel universe (which was probably just the truth of the matter). He didn’t recognise most of the authors, but the subjects seemed to circle the same themes, throughout the hundreds of artfully bound, beautifully illustrated volumes: haunted houses, windswept moors, crumbling castles, tormented protagonists and tragic romances. Ghosts and horrors and existential dread. Great, Martin thought, letting another book fall half-read onto the faded Persian rug and tearing at his hair, because I haven’t had enough of that in my life!

The few volumes of poetry he found weren’t much better — he used to really like Poe, Rosetti or Shelley, but when every line he read just filled him with even more melancholy despair it was… well. He wasn’t ready to just fall apart. Or lie down and die of sadness, or whatever she expected of him. He wouldn’t make it that easy for her.

When looking for another distraction in every little nook and cranny he quickly found that — naturally — the house was also full of spiders. They seemed to not mind him, leaving him alone mostly, but still liked to make their presence known from time to time. Look, they seemed to say, scuttling lazily across dark, elaborately carved furniture, this is our house, too.

Almost every afternoon, when she returned from her mysterious errands, he heard her steps descend to what must have been the basement. What was she doing down there…? It was very clear that she had some kind of plan. But then again, she was always scheming. Martin pretended to ignore her, listlessly pushing down the keys of the incredibly out-of-tune grand piano, or brewing another pot of (at least mediocre) tea. It was in her nature, he thought, picking at his scabs until they bled. And it was absolutely against her nature to let him in on any of it.

She had apparently made her nest somewhere upstairs, where he could hear her pacing regularly, sometimes half the night, muttering to herself (presumably).

He pestered her about Jon every day, when she deigned to spend time downstairs, almost incessantly. He wondered why she didn’t just forbid him to do so. But she didn’t seem to mind, answering patiently, variations of "he’s fine, don’t worry about him," or, "he’s well taken care of, I promise!"

He would have very much liked to strangle her in his frustration. Instead he just screamed into his hands.

Almost a week after they had arrived here, she came to him with a cup of her disgusting tea and a clunky, old fashioned, very odd looking camera.

"They haven’t invented TV or telephones," she told him, her eyes twinkling with delight, "but they do have incredibly large, noisy fax-machines and, oh, this polaroid camera with a non-optional spooky filter. Remarkable."

"You should feel right at home here, then," Martin muttered darkly.

"You know what? I do! Say 'cheese'!"

He did not say cheese.

It was the morning of the twelfth day of his involuntary stay with Annabelle and her dubious hospitality. She had woken him up at dawn, handing him another horrible piece of toast, black at the edges.

"How many times—" Martin grumbled, "just let me make my own godforsaken breakfast. And let me sleep, please…!" But she just grabbed his chin in her cold, long-fingered hand, and said: "Don’t go upstairs, don’t… " She stopped and stared at him with a deliberately bland smile. "Don’t go outside."

Martin didn’t move, didn’t blink. He sat on his abhorrent sofa, stiff as a board and quiet as a mouse, until he heard the rattling of her bike grow distant. Then he got up, brushed a few errant crumbs from his jumper, and walked into the foyer. Martin put his hand on the tarnished brass door knob, and turned it. He pulled the door open, and took the stairs down to the basement.

------

Tuesday morning, one week after Jon’s appearance in his basement, Gerry entered his hospital room with perhaps the most significant feeling of trepidation so far. There was an otherworldly polaroid in the back pocket of his torn up jeans. He took his place next to the hospital bed and Jon waved at him weakly, looking a bit low. Was he getting thinner?

"Hey you. I heard that police officer came to visit you yesterday."

"It was fine," Jon sighed. "She was… fine."

"Okay, good… so. How are you today?" Gerry asked stiffly and felt himself flushing.

"Sore. Would like to be rid of this," Jon said, oblivious, pointing to the tube still sticking out between his ribs (next to the large white bandage covering his stab wound), draining air from his chest cavity.

"Apparently my lung still hasn’t expanded back to regular." He absentmindedly shuffled his legs and then groaned in pain. Gerry winced in sympathy.

"How’s your ankle?"

"Great. They did kindly put about a pound of metal in there."

Gerry hummed thoughtfully.

"Maybe I should take a marker to your cast, make it look fancy. But anyway, Dr. Siddiqui is optimistic it’ll heal well. You might have to do a lot of physiotherapy—"

"Thing is," Jon interrupted him, and laboriously pulled the blanket away from his injured leg, "this leg wasn’t all that great to begin with."

The outside of his bony right knee sported a cluster of the strange pitted scars that littered all of his skin.

"Nerve-damage. Also they chewed on my ligament, a bit."

"What… did that?"

"Supernatural worms."

"Ah."

Gerry would have laughed in disbelief, if it wasn’t for the existence of a trans-dimensional rift in his basement — and the man in front of him, who had definitely fallen through said rift. Instead he found himself thinking aha, now we’re getting somewhere.

"How about this one?" he asked cautiously, pointing to the large gnarled burn-scar enveloping Jon’s right hand.

"Shook hands with a woman made of melted wax."

"And that one?" Gerry drew his finger across his own neck. Jon’s eyes followed the gesture warily.

"My universe’s version of detective Tonner."

"What?!" Gerry almost jumped up in dismay. "Why didn’t you say something? She snuck into your room to question you when she knew none of us would be there! This should never have happened, Christ!" He had a vivid vision of punching her in the face. Wouldn’t that be something.

"It’s fine, we were… friends, in the end. At least that’s what I like to think. And I get the feeling that this version of her isn’t so bad either. Well. For a cop, I guess. Anyway —" Jon took a slow, shaky breath, bracing himself — "You wrote that another thing fell out of the crack?"

Gerry sighed and gave Jon, who was sitting up in his bed stiff as a poker, a long apprehensive look.

"I don’t know how to break this to you gently. But I guess it is an… answer of sorts?"

He laid the photograph in Jon’s lap.

Jon stared down at it for a while in complete silence, holding his covers in a white-knuckled grip. He didn’t seem to be breathing. Then he said, with a rasp devoid of any inflection, "I would like to be alone, please."

Gerry bit his lip. "Are you sure? I don’t think you should—"

"Please."

"Okay. I — I’ll be outside. Make noise if you need m... anything."

He glanced back before closing the door softly behind him. Jon hadn’t moved.

------

Gerry had been sitting in the hallway for almost an hour, playing listlessly with his phone, straining his ears for a sound from Jon’s room.

"Gerard," a pleasant voice said above him, and he flinched and looked up. It was Manuel, one of Jon’s nurses. "You’re still here?"

"I have the day off," Gerry shrugged. He had actually tried to make up a story about why he had taken a leave day to be with Jon, but he hoped that no one would feel the need to enquire.

"That’s great! I was actually hoping to talk to you or Sasha. Ask for your help."

"Ok? Sure, what…"

"So - Jon has trouble eating. We think both the pain killers and his anxiety are making him nauseous, but it might be another thing altogether, it’s hard to say. He refuses to talk about it, also refuses to see a therapist. He even chased our nutritionist off. His doctor would like to spare him the additional stress and discomfort of artificial feeding, if somehow possible. But we’re just not able to give him everything he needs via IV. He has no resources, and it's compromising his recovery."

Gerry felt the blood drain from his face. How had he not noticed?

Manuel scratched his ear. "Is there anything he really likes to eat? I have asked him a couple of times, but he keeps saying he can’t remember. But maybe you have an idea. Or could figure something out… It doesn’t matter if it’s nothing but chips and chocolate cake. Anything will do at this point."

Gerry found it difficult to imagine Jon as someone who would ingest food just for pleasure. He shook his head. "I can’t think of anything right now, but I will find out. I’ll find something. We could try different things? Sasha and I can drop off something at least twice a day, see what works…" He realised that he was sounding a bit frantic.

Manuel touched his shoulder briefly. "I’m sure together we’ll figure something out. By the way, why are you not in there?"

"He sent me away. He’s having a bit of a… day. But I’m going to check in on him now."

------

Jon lay half on his side, curled around the polaroid as much as his injuries allowed, grey-faced, with dry, half-lidded eyes. Gerry felt a desire to kick himself, or, alternatively, any inanimate object in the vicinity.

Instead he sat down and let out a shuddering breath.

"Oh Jon. Can I touch you?"

"Mhm."

Gerry gently brushed a lanky strand of hair out of Jon’s face, then let his hand rest lightly on his head. "What’s going on in there?"

Jon swallowed with an audible click, and touched the face in the photograph with stiff fingers. Martin’s face.

"I don’t think he’s coming here." His voice was still quietly monotone.

"Why?"

"Because he didn’t die? I don’t really know how it works."

"But you didn’t die either, Jon."

"I did though. In a manner of speaking."

Jon closed his eyes, clutching the polaroid to the undamaged side of his chest. Gerry didn’t know how to respond to that. So he just slowly stroked Jon’s hair and watched him drift off into an uneasy sleep.

Chapter Text

Jon had slept through lunchtime, dead to the world but with eyes moving wildly behind his closed lids. Gerry had occupied himself with sending Sasha a long string of elaborate texts. She arrived in the early afternoon, hauling a large canvas bag. She tiptoed towards them, then opened the bag next to Gerry’s chair. 

"This is just what I could whip up with what we had at home, off the top of my head," she whispered.

"Sasha, you’re brilliant, amazing, a wonder et cetera," he whispered back, staring at the wide range of food containers in the bag.

Sasha was a great cook; one of those lucky people who made it look completely effortless. Gerry had gotten used to her chatting with him, sipping from a glass of wine and not even looking at what her hands were doing, and then there suddenly appearing an intricate meal in front of him that smelled fantastic and tasted like heaven. If Jon could be made to eat anything, he thought, it would be Sasha’s cooking.

She squeezed Gerry’s shoulder and then gave Jon a once-over, scratching her neck. "God, he looks like death warmed over. I take it that giving him the photograph didn’t go over so well?" she murmured in a low voice.

"He got incredibly quiet. Like… frozen with shock, I guess. It was dreadful." Gerry answered, just as hushed.

They both startled when Jon very suddenly jerked awake and struggled to sit up straight, gasping. He whipped his head to the side and stared wide-eyed at their expectant faces, shrinking back with a small scared sound.

"Woah Jon, you’re OK," Gerry murmured, lifting his hands placatingly.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Sasha asked softly, brows furrowed.

"I don’t—" Jon coughed, grimaced, panted for air, grimaced some more. "—don’t remember. I never do, h-here." He was still clutching the polaroid to his chest with an unsteady hand. "Is there some water?"

"Sure!" Gerry handed Jon the cup from the bedside table. He had to restrain himself not to keep holding it for him while Jon sipped from it rather shakily.

When Jon was done drinking and his breathing had slowed down, he bestowed them both by turns with a weirdly determined gaze. "I need to see that rift," he said, voice rough and sounding more intense than Gerry had ever heard him.

Gerry sighed. "Of course you do. But you have to get better first. It’s not running away." Needless to say, that was probably a lie. The thing was already almost half a foot shorter than it had been a week ago. But Gerry had presently no qualms about keeping that fact from Jon, who looked way too agitated for his own good.

Sasha leaned forward. "I have a proposition."

Jon blinked at her, slightly taken aback.

"So we heard that you — gasp! — don’t like hospital-food." Sasha’s smirk was a little sly. "Let’s make a deal. If you want to see the crack in the universe, you have to eat my food."

Jon let out a disbelieving breath. "Extortion?" he rasped. His face flushed dark and he started worrying at his covers.

"Sasha, that’s not at all unethical." Gerry said deadpan and rolled his eyes. She just shrugged, unrepentant.

"I brought you some home-cooked stuff. I am not half bad, I swear; just tell me what you would like to try. We have…" she started stacking the containers on Jon’s bedside table.

"Pasta, plain." Jon shook his head.

"What if I added tomato sauce? Or some cheese?" Another head shake.

"OK, lentil curry?" Head shake.

"Apple crumble? Scones?" Head shake.

"Rice?" Jon hesitated.

"It’s jasmine."

"I don’t know. Maybe," he said, then buried his face in his hands.

"Great! Just a bite. If you don’t like it, I will put it away immediately."

Jon managed six forkfuls of rice before he said, "OK, stop," and leaned back, face ashen.

"Well done," Sasha said, closed the container and stowed it away in her bag.

"Are you feeling nauseous?" Gerry asked, worried and a little sheepish.

"Not really, I just, I… eating. It. It’s exhausting and feels… bad," Jon scrunched his eyes shut. He felt around underneath his pillow, where he had tucked away the photo while picking at his food. He fished it out and squeezed it nervously between his fingers.

"Bad in what way?" Sasha apparently couldn’t restrain herself; Gerry groaned inwardly.

"As if I shouldn’t be doing it? Like my body thinks it’s wrong. I’ve kind of— unlearned it."

"So, do you think you could re-learn it?" She had a look on her face Gerry knew only too well. Sasha-on-a-mission, which meant she had found a project that she would obsess about for the foreseeable future. He wasn’t sure if, in this particular case, this was a very good, or a very bad thing. It was entirely possible that he would have to forcibly rein her in at some point.

Jon let out a long slow breath. "Maybe. I mean, I think I have to. I’m trying." He choked a bit on the last word. Gerry softly touched his arm. "We know you are. I’m sorry this is so hard. Do you want to go through a list? Figure out what sounds like something you could try?"

Sasha produced a notebook with a densely covered front page and a pencil. Jon nodded, covering his face with his free hand again.

Sasha went through her list of foodstuffs and dishes, reading the whole thing to Jon patiently, marking most items with no and some with maybe. When they were finished, Jon looked suspiciously green around the gills.

"I’m, uhm, going to lie down now," he said, voice trembling.

"Sure, Jon. You did really well," Sasha said, beaming. "I’ve got to go prepare for my lecture now, but I’ll be back tomorrow at lunchtime with something from that list! Do you want me to leave the rice for later?"

Jon shrugged, glassy-eyed. "I guess…?"

Gerry shook his head at Sasha, took the lunchbox from her, and shooed her away. To Jon, he said, "Don’t worry about it. I’ll be staying for a while; if you want something later just tell me."

Jon hummed tiredly and his eyes fluttered shut.

While Jon took another nap, Gerry went to get some decent coffee and smoke one (or three) of his cigarettes. When he came back, Jon was staring at the polaroid again, eyes red-rimmed.

"Do you want to hear my opinion?" Gerry asked, pointing at Martin’s figure in the photograph. Jon nodded, not taking his eyes off it. "I think there is still a chance he’ll find his way here."

"How."

"Well. Whoever sent all these things through the rift — they are very generous, aren’t they? Why should they keep the most important thing from you? Just tease you with this?" He gestured at the picture.

"Maybe that’s the point."

"I don’t think so, I really don’t. Get well, and come home with us, and we will figure something out, OK?"

Jon shuddered, drawing in on himself. "OK."

"Are you cold?"

"Yes. No. I don’t even know. Just incredibly… sore. Could you do me a favour?"

"Anything."

"Can you read the news to me? I don’t have the faintest idea what’s going on in this world."

Gerry smiled, taking his phone from his jacket.

"With pleasure."

------

Jon spent a very confusing night shivering out of his skin until his whole body ached, drifting in and out of noisy, nonsensical dreams he couldn’t remember anything about; wondering why all of a sudden the fabric of the sheets and the hospital gown felt unbearably awful. He finally understood what was going on the next morning, when Manuel took one look at him and then took his temperature and sucked in a sharp breath as he examined the beeping thermometer.

Jon’s consciousness dropped out again for a while then; the next thing he registered was a vaguely familiar, dark face above him.

"Wha…?" he croaked. 

"You’ve got a bit of a fever, Jonathan. I‘ve put you on antibiotics. We‘ll sort this out in no time."

Jon hummed, and then a violent shiver made his teeth chatter. "’s cold," he complained.

"I can’t give you any more blankets I’m afraid, you need to cool down a bit. Sasha is waiting outside with lunch. Do you feel OK to see her?"

Jon nodded, puzzled. Why wouldn’t he want to see Sasha? She was his assistant, and… also his friend, wasn’t she?

Sasha came in and exchanged some words he couldn’t follow with the stern Pakistani woman who wouldn’t give him any more blankets. Then she was next to him, biting her lips and carefully touching his forehead with icy fingers. He twitched away from her and glared. His head hurt.

"Oh dear," she muttered. "Sorry, Jon. I brought you lunch, though I’m not sure…"

"I was going to get lunch with Martin," he blurted out. Yes. That sounded right. Except for the horrible cracking of his voice. What was that about?

Sasha blinked, then she said, tentatively: "Martin is— busy, so I brought you some sandwiches. There’s cheddar and pickles, egg salad, or avocado."

"Avocado, please. But what about tea? Will he have time to make tea?"

Sasha took a lunchbox from her bag, and a small thermos. "I brought tea! The way you said you liked it — unhealthy amounts of sugar, splash of cream."

"OK." Jon scrunched up his nose a bit. Sasha pushed the open lunchbox into his hands. It was filled with small bite-sized pieces of fluffy white bread filled with guacamole. He dropped one into his mouth and started chewing, wondering about the wide-eyed stare Sasha was giving him. Was she worried the sandwich wasn’t good? He swallowed and took another piece.

"This is very nice, thank you," he mumbled around the bread, and meant it. He realised, chewing slowly, that for some reason this was one of the best sandwiches he had ever tasted. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, an incredulous look on her face. But that was Sasha; sometimes her reactions were a bit— odd. That was fine. He actually liked that about her.

It took him a very long time to finish off all the pieces in the box, and afterwards he felt curiously exhausted and shivery, but Sasha’s triumphant grin made up for it. "Tea?" she asked, handing him the thermos, and he sipped with a satisfied hum. The tea was also very good, and almost too hot, which was brilliant because he was still so cold. It wasn’t Martin’s tea, but it came close.

Sasha kept watching him, smiling, chin propped on her folded hands. When he had finished almost the whole thing and handed it back to her with a slightly embarrassing hiccup, she chuckled. "Who knew! All we had to do was overheat your brain a little."

He huffed out a dry laugh. She always said the strangest things.

------

There was a glowing crack in the fabric of reality, a little over two feet long and suspended in the air in the middle of the damp, dirt-encrusted wine cellar of the house on Hill Top Road. Martin had been circling it, staring at it for so long his eyes had started to burn. Beautiful honey-coloured light was flowing in and out of it in a slow and steady motion. The mouldy smell of the room itself couldn’t drown out the incongruous aroma of curry-spices that seemed to leak from the rift.

"Bloody hell," Martin murmured, and slowly moved his right hand towards it. The light prickled pleasantly across his skin. When he was almost touching the gap itself, he felt a strange pull, as if his fingers were magnetic, and bumped against it only to quickly yank his hand back with a yelp. The crack wasn’t even wide enough to reach in, but apparently its edges were sharp. He sucked his bleeding index and middle finger into his mouth.

"Fuck, ok, ok—" he mumbled around his smarting fingers and swallowed a small mouthful of blood. "Ugh." He took them out again and stared at the deep cuts, blood immediately running in small rivulets down his hand, then he quickly wrapped his fingers in his shirttail. He hated that shirt anyway. It was stiff and pinched and Annabelle had given it to him. 

There was a moment where he just stood there, shocked into indecision. Then he wheeled around and stormed up the stairs and into the kitchen, where he started tearing out drawers, upending their contents onto the floor. He fell to his knees and rifled through them, getting blood all over the cutlery (and couldn’t have cared less). There it was — a long silver bread-knife, with a narrow handle. It was thin but looked sturdy. It would have to do.

He grabbed it with his uninjured hand and ran to the entrance hall and down the stairs again. Sweat started sticking his shirt to his back.

Back down in the wine cellar, he skidded to a halt in front of the rift. His way out. To where Jon was. Where Jon must be. He couldn’t let any other possibilities enter his mind. He wrapped both his hands around the handle of the knife and slowly inched it into the gap, trembling with adrenaline. The pull was strong, and his palms were slippery. Once the blade was almost fully submerged, he grit his teeth and wrenched the knife to the side, trying to use it as a lever. There had to be some way to make this thing wider, there had to.

But the knife just creaked ominously and then slipped from his hands to soundlessly disappear in the golden opening. "Fuck!" he cursed, narrowly escaping another collision of his fingers with the razor-sharp edges. He buried his hands in his hair and yanked, and then shouted "JON!" into the crack, just in case his voice would slip through as the knife had. "Jon, I’m coming, OK? I’ll find you!"

Back up the stairs he went again, breathing heavily, pushing open the door to the library. He ripped a random book from the nearest shelf and tore out the first page, then grabbed an ink pen from the writing desk and scribbled a frantic note underneath the ridiculously long title.

Down again to the cellar. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. The piece of paper was sucked in, quick and noiseless. What now? A bigger lever? A, a hammer? No, he didn’t want to irreparably damage the thing. Just, god, make the passage big enough to squeeze through. He also had to ponder the possibility that this was not attainable by… anything humans could do. The rift did not look like something that followed any natural scientific laws (at least none he knew of).

Martin grimaced and took off his bloodied shirt, and wiped the sweat from his face with it. He would have to talk to Annabelle, wouldn’t he.

------

Annabelle did not return that night.

After awkwardly bandaging his fingers, Martin planted himself on a stool at the large wooden table in the centre of the kitchen, jittery, legs bouncing, drinking ungodly amounts of tea for hours on end. At about two o’clock in the morning (according to the looming grandfather clock in the drawing room), he gave in and started opening the kitchen cabinets in search of something edible. The sight that greeted him was a bit… disconcerting. He could not remember them being crammed full as they were with tins of soup and beans and vegetables and, to his great vexation, peaches. There were also disproportionate amounts of flour, pasta, rice, cereal, crackers, evaporated milk, tomato sauce and cooking oil. He went to the pantry then, where he was greeted by a similar situation.

How had she managed to stuff all that food in there, without him noticing? She must have done it last night, while he'd been asleep. What the hell was she up to?

He heated up a tin of noodle soup at the gas stove and ate it sluggishly. It didn’t taste like anything to him. Then he went back to the basement to stare at the glowing crack until his eyes burned again, and at long last dragged himself to bed.

The next morning, Martin realised how incredibly hard it was to produce a piece of toast with the ancient, cast iron toaster that wasn’t either underdone and limp, or utterly burnt. He felt no remorse when he threw the blackened bread against the drab pastoral painting hanging opposite the kitchen cabinets. He also didn’t let himself feel bad for Annabelle, deciding that he would develop Stockholm syndrome over his dead body.

He had a sad but unburnt breakfast of crackers and extra milky tea. There was no sign of her whatsoever. The compulsion she had imposed on him was unfortunately very much intact.

It had only been 24 hours, but he nevertheless came to an uneasy conclusion: She had left him alone, with enough food to survive for at least two months, in a house he couldn’t leave, with a door to another world he couldn’t pass through.

She didn’t return the next day, either. He studied the rift in the basement for hours, trying to notice any changes, trying to come up with any brilliant ideas. Nothing happened. So he fed it another note to Jon. What else was there to do?

The house was incredibly quiet; It didn’t even creak at night, as old houses were wont to. There was no birdsong coming in from the garden, and even the spiders seemed to have withdrawn. The only sound was the steady, echoing tick-tock of the grandfather clock.

It was two days later when Martin first noticed the fog.

Chapter Text

"Did you find it?"

"Yes, Sasha. Your labeling system is excellent, and you know it."

"OK great. You know I forget my own mother if I don’t put labels everywhere. Heat it up and add a little bit of water."

Gerry trapped his phone between his ear and shoulder, put a small pot on the stove and dropped the brick of frozen chicken soup into it, then turned the heat on.

"When it’s done, put it in the round silver container with the screw lid. And maybe pick up some bread-rolls on the way? I think he likes soft white bread."

"Aye. You OK to stay until I’m there?"

"Absolutely, I’ve got nothing on today. Well, I should work on my thesis, but when shouldn’t I." He could practically hear her eye-roll over the phone.

"How is he doing?"

"Gerry, you asked me that two minutes ago. I’m still at the cafeteria. He fell asleep immediately after eating that whole avocado sandwich and drinking about half a litre of tea. He was exhausted."

"OK. I’ll be there in—" Gerry eyed the defrosting soup a little warily, "—about 45 minutes."

------

Sasha was waiting for Gerry in the hallway outside of Jon’s room, playing some game on her phone. She looked up when he approached, smiling pityingly. He must look as harried as he felt.

"Hi."

"Hey. So, what’s going on?"

"I briefly spoke with Dr. Siddiqui in the afternoon. Since Jon’s not coughing his lungs out - small mercies - it’s most likely his ankle that’s got infected. But could also be any random bug that’s going round here, god knows hospitals are full of them. And his immune system is… well."

"I can imagine. Well, shit."

"Manuel was here to take his blood about 20 minutes ago. Let’s see if he’s awake and in a favourable mood."

Gerry took a bracing breath, clutching the bag of food to his chest. "Alright."

Sasha opened the door a crack and they both peeked in. The light was low and Jon was sitting half inclined and still, staring at the ceiling, muttering to himself. His quiet, hoarse voice had taken on a strange cadence, a melody and frequency that made a cold shiver run down Gerry’s spine. They quietly walked over to the bed.

"…a mind of its own; to plot and plan and draw its own connections, its own conclusions. Wheels, within wheels within wheels... It would not, could not tell its other parts, for were they even able to understand such things, which they could not, to trust, to share in such a way ran counter to its very essence…"

"Jon." Gerry touched Jon’s faintly trembling arm, feeling his skin hot and dry underneath his fingers. Jon twitched, but did not stop his uncanny incantation, pupils blown and eyes vacant. Sasha just looked on, head tilted, spellbound.

"And so it drew its plan to escape not only this ephemeral cage of non-existence, but even the very reality into which they might break, and it chose its fool: The Great Eye, the most unwise of all the fragments, forever seeking and consuming knowledge that it could not comprehend…"

"Jon, look at me. Jon. Wake up. Come on." There was a desperate desire bubbling up in Gerry to stop Jon from doing whatever he was doing, stop him speaking those strange words, stop him staring, insensible, into some faraway, awful place. He felt scared, terrified all of a sudden. He shook Jon’s shoulder, more ungently than he intended. It made Jon snap out of his eerie monologue with a gasp. He flailed his arms and then looked around saucer-eyed, his glassy gaze eventually coming to rest on Gerry and Sasha.

"W-what are—" he painfully cleared his throat, "—what are you doing here?"

"We brought you dinner!" Sasha answered with false cheer, taking the bag from Gerry and pulling out the soup container.

Jon shook his head, clearly distressed. "No, no this is all wrong, I was… recording a statement? No, I… Gerry? I, I thought I burned your page — I swear I did, oh g-god, I’m so sorry…!" He sounded utterly heart-broken now, tears welling up in his eyes. Gerry felt his throat constrict with confusion and sympathy. He sat down deliberately, pushed Jon’s sweaty hair from his face and then let his hand rest on his shoulder. "Jon, uhm," he said, "where do you think this is?"

Jon slowly looked around the room, realisation dawning in his watery eyes. "This is not the archives, is it." He lifted his right hand to study the IV still stuck in the back of it, and the white hospital bracelet around his bony wrist. Sasha handed him his glasses, which he managed to put on with great effort. Then he shivered, drawing in on himself like a miserable hedgehog. "Cold."

"Jon, you have…" Sasha counted exaggeratedly with the fingers of her left hand, "four blankets. If you want more we might have to start stealing them from other patients."

"No! Don’t do that. It’s not that, that b-bad." Jon looked up at her in honest agitation.

"Jon, I was joking."

"Your j-jokes are bad." He squinted at her.

"So I’ve been told."

"Christ, Jon." Gerry rubbed his very tired eyes. "You’re radiating heat like a bloody furnace. I told you to get better, not worse."

"I’m… sorry?" Jon said with a quiver in his voice, suddenly looking again as if one more even slightly stern word would actually make him cry.

"Oh for… no, I’m sorry Jon, please don’t be upset, it’s not your fault!" Gerry tried to desperately reassure him. "You’re sick, you can’t help that, I’m not mad at you! I’m just worried." Gerry sighed deeply, burying his face in his hands. He felt Sasha patting his back awkwardly. "Uh, well. That’s not helpful. Jon! Would you like some chicken soup? Or bread rolls? Or both?"

There was a hot, hesitant hand alighting on Gerry’s arm and he lifted his head. Jon looked directly at him, a little lost. "I, uhm. OK?" he stammered, but what he actually seemed to say was Would that make you happy?

"Great!" Sasha beamed and unscrewed the container, then carefully placed it on Jon’s lap tray with a spoon and a roll. Jon began to eat, not taking his eyes off Gerry, who managed to grin at him, crooked and soft. After a couple of spoonfuls Jon stopped, visibly exhausted but seemingly not disinclined to continue. "It’s… good. What’s that spice?"

Sasha smiled softly. "Star anise."

"Hm. It’s nice."

He managed about two-thirds of the bowl and half a bread roll before having to give up, eyes unfocusing and hands trembling too much to hold the spoon any longer.

Sasha packed up the remaining food and put the tray away, and Gerry helped Jon lie down and tucked his blankets around him. Jon’s words were starting to slur, his skinny frame wracked with shivers now almost incessantly. "When can we go home?" he asked plaintively, screwing up his eyes. "I need to look for Martin." He fumbled underneath his pillow for the photograph. It was starting to look a little creased. "What’f he… falls out and I’m not here?"

"We are watching the rift, Jon. You don’t have to worry about it, we will know when something— or someone— comes through." Sasha picked up her bag. "I’m going there right now, alright? I’ll write you if anything happens."

Jon hummed, sounding doubtful. Sasha shot Gerry a look, and he hurried to add: "I’ll stay a little longer with you, yeah? It’s only seven, they won’t kick me out until nine. I’ll see you then, Sasha."

"OK, see you later. See you tomorrow, Jon." She bent down to take Jon’s hand and squeeze his fingers. He twitched a little from the perceived coldness of her skin and whispered: "Night, Sasha." She left the room with another soft pat on Gerry’s back.

Jon curled in on his right side as much as possible, teeth chattering. "C-can you…" he muttered, "I’m very s-sorry, I know my hair must, must be disg-gusting but—" His face flushed even darker than it already had been with the fever.

"Heh, never mind that," Gerry interjected, and put his hand on Jon’s head. Jon’s responding sigh was profound, the deep creases in his forehead smoothing out, and he fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

------

"Sasha, what do you think that was, that creepy… litany he was reciting, when we came in?"

They had a late supper of toasted cheese sandwiches, sitting at the kitchen table. Sasha swallowed her bite and eyed Gerry, a little bemused.

"I don’t know, just some nonsense, maybe something he read somewhere? He was delirious with fever, could have been anything! Why does it bother you so much?"

"I don’t know! He said he was 'recording a statement', and then he got distressed because he hadn’t 'burned my page'. He thought he was in some kind of archive. You tell me what any of that means."

"Well, number one: as I said. Fever. Delirious. And number two: We’re already suspecting that he comes from a weird place, where things apparently are very different compared to our world. It will probably take a long time for him to explain it all to us. If he even wants to do that."

Gerry rubbed his temples. "Yeah. I get the feeling that the world he came from was not only weird, it was downright horrible. And the only good thing in it for him was Martin. And I’m afraid of what happens if we can’t reunite them."

"Well — we have to take that possibility into account. But we are far from giving up, aren’t we? The rift is still here."

"Sasha, it’s getting smaller every day. We haven’t even told him that, Christ. And there hasn’t been anything coming through since the polaroid the day before yesterday."

"Hm." Sasha chewed pensively.

Gerry halfheartedly pushed the remnants of his food around. His voice was low and halting when he said: "I’m just scared that we might be in over our heads here… It’s one thing to take care of someone recovering from serious injuries and illness. A whole other thing if that person is also grieving for the love of his life."

"Love of his…?" Sasha frowned. "We don’t even know what their relationship was— is!"

"Have you not noticed the way he looks at that photograph…?"

"Well, OK, romance expert. Rope in more people then. Jon needs a support network. Tim is dying to meet him anyway. So is Agnes. And your dad will love him, you said so yourself."

"I mean— you’re probably right about that… Wait. You told Tim?!"

------

Dull half-light filtered through his closed lids; in his ears was nothing but white noise. Where was he? The tunnels? Upton house? He felt awful. His mouth was dry, his head was pounding, his skin felt brittle, nerves firing confusing signals — he didn’t even know if he was too hot or too cold, everything just hurt.

Maybe he was still in the archives. Maybe he hadn’t fed in too long. Yes, that must be it. If he could just find a statement…

He tried moving his legs. The pain lancing through his right ankle made him whimper, nausea rising in his guts like an icy wave. He gripped the fabric underneath his hands, fighting the terrible vertigo, the urge to vomit. What the hell was going on?

Well, there was only one way to find out, if his body was set on betraying him like that. He tried to Know.

White hot agony exploded behind his eyes.

There was a black pit opening up beneath him, and he was gone.

------

"Jon."

Someone was carefully touching his arm. Their fingers felt like ice-picks on his skin and he flinched, laboriously opening his gummed-up eyes. Bright daylight was trickling in through the blinds.

"There you are. Very hard to wake you today. I got a little worried, you were out for a long time. It’s almost two in the afternoon." Their voice was light and pleasant. Manuel, then.

Jon shifted, groaned. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. It was too bright, searing, and he felt like a building had collapsed on top of him.

"You’re still burning up. Come on, have a drink."

Gentle hands lifted his head and held a cup to his parched lips. He managed a few sips of lukewarm chamomile tea, which felt absolutely heavenly.

"Sasha dropped off some lunch for you. Are you… up to eating something?"

Jon just shivered, weakly pulled his blankets up to his chin, and breathed "Hn-no."

"Fair enough. I’ll ask her or Gerry to bring you some soup later, alright?"

Jon lifted his hand, then let it drop back down to the mattress. Go on. He’d never felt this tired in his entire life. And he remembered being incredibly tired before. It was no use, trying to fight the darkness encroaching on his mind. He just let it take him again.

------

Gerry arrived at the hospital at five thirty, pondering ways to make it up to poor Michael, who had agreed to take on yet another evening shift for him. Also Sasha had dropped off three thermos flasks containing different kinds of broth at the bookstore, before rushing to some university networking event. He could only shake his head at her manic energy sometimes. That, and feel profoundly grateful.

He bumped into Dr. Siddiqui in the hallway, who waved him aside. He took in her somber face with apprehension, asking "How’s Jon?"

"Fever seems to be going down a bit. But he’s not really been conscious much today," she said, tapping her fingers against her clipboard.

Gerry swallowed. "I see."

Dr. Siddiqui was side-eying him. "Maybe he’ll try for you. It would be great if you could get some nutrients in him."

"I’ll do my best."

"Oh, there’s something else I wanted to ask you. What is up with that photograph?"

Gerry blanched a bit. "It’s his, ah, boyfriend. He’s not in the country currently. Hard to contact. It’s— complicated."

"So I gathered. He looks a bit beat up in the picture." Dr. Siddiqui’s voice remained carefully neutral.

"Yeah, they are… they get in trouble, the two of them. I guess. I don’t really know Martin, though."

The doctor worked her jaw, as if trying very hard not to say something. What, Gerry could only guess. He was glad she didn’t. He hated having to keep lying to her. "I’ll go in then, uh, goodbye—"

"Alright, Mr. Delano. You—" she took his hand in hers, meeting his eyes with a fierce expression, "—look out for him, won’t you?"

"I, I am, I will!"

"Good." She turned and disappeared quickly down the busy hallway.

"Jesus." Gerry dragged his hands down his face before entering Jon’s room.

------

Gerry’s phone lit up while he was slipping into his painting clothes.

Any news? Sasha had written.

I’m back home, he kept falling asleep he answered.

Got him to drink a little bit of chicken broth, though. He really likes that star anise.

Oh good!<3

Gonna do the second coat of paint now, it’ll dry until Saturday.

Perfect! Sorry I can’t help you, this thing is taking forever…

Don’t worry about it, you know I like to paint all night:)

I know! Don’t though, please, tomorrow’s only Friday. I’m still scared of Gertrude eating you alive.

OK, haha.

Gerry put his phone in the back pocket of his paint-spattered jeans and entered the downstairs office. The room was cleared out, the nice light grey carpet covered with a plastic sheet. They had chosen a pale sage green for the walls. He really hoped that Jon would like it, since he wasn’t able or willing to offer any preferences. Oh well. Gerry could always paint over it again if necessary.

He put his headphones on and dipped the paint roller into the bucket and tried not to keep fretting about his visit tonight. About how Jon had not said a word, had just stared right through him, looking even more haunted than usual.

Chapter Text

After suffering through the certainly sweatiest night of his life so far, Jon’s fever broke on Friday morning. It was a novel experience, to wake up reasonably clear-headed. For once he immediately knew where he was, and approximately what had happened in the last two days, even if the details remained rather… foggy.

He dozed, luxuriating in the feeling of being warm and almost comfortable, until his stiff hospital gown and itching scalp made him heave himself up grumpily.

When Dr. Siddiqui came in at around eight and asked him how he was feeling, all he said, grimacing, was "disgusting". She just huffed out a dry laugh. "Manuel will come take you to the X-ray department in half an hour. I’ll have your sheets changed then. Go eat your porridge." He sighed quietly, slipping the polaroid out from beneath his pillows and stowing it away in his bedside table drawer. He did feel actually quite hungry now, but the congealed oats before him were posing a bit of a challenge.

The doctor didn’t leave before she hadn’t seen two spoonfuls disappear in his mouth.

His chest X-rays were looking very auspicious; so much so that he had his chest tube finally removed in the afternoon. Manuel came in afterwards, while Jon was still floating on a nice candy floss cloud of light sedation and local anaesthetic.

"We should celebrate," the nurse said, smiling down at Jon’s drowsy face. "How about a little later I give you a decent shave and wash your hair?"

"That sounds abs’lutely brilliant," Jon mumbled, and gave him a dazed smile, which Manuel answered with a dazzling grin. "Alright, sweetheart."

------

Gerry and Sasha went to visit Jon again in the evening, multiple bags of Indian take-out in tow. Gerry did a double take when entering the room. Jon was sitting up in bed, patchy stubble gone from his face; his dark, grey-streaked hair was falling down to his shoulder blades in soft waves, brushed out and still a little damp. He was poking around in a bowl of what looked like mashed potatoes and peas, and scowled rather intensely at them when they entered.

"Thank god you’re here. This is dreadful." He gestured at the contents of the bowl with his spoon. His voice was still rather rough, but he sounded so acutely annoyed. Gerry exchanged a delighted look with Sasha.

"Weeeell good evening to you too!" she said, hardly suppressing her laughter. "Would you like some malai kofta instead?"

"Yes please."

They had a proper feast then, all three of them sitting on Jon’s bed, sharing four different curries, rice, and naan, until Jon had to admit defeat, sinking back into his pillows looking sated and a little self-conscious. "That was, uhm. Thank you."

"You’re very welcome. We’re glad you’re feeling better." Sasha smiled and patted Jon’s good knee. "I… am!" he said, a little bewildered.

"Great! So… I don’t know if you remember, but we were going to get some furniture for your room tomorrow. Do you feel like picking something out, now?"

Jon shot her a quick distraught look, then fixed his gaze at the ceiling, taking two deep breaths before speaking. "I don’t really care. Whatever is cheapest? And take Annab… take my debit card. If it works. I hope it works!" He rubbed his forehead.

"Jon," Gerry said softly, "please don’t fret. We can absolutely just do this for you. I have impeccable taste..." Sasha scoffed and rolled her eyes, "but I really think it would be great if— if your room was something you liked, aesthetically. I think… something to look forward to, you know?"

Jon pressed his hand against his mouth and nodded. Then he blurted out: "Why are you doing this?"

"What, what do you mean?" Gerry frowned.

"Care so much. I mean you’ve known me for less than two weeks, and in that time I’ve been mostly… in pain, and cranky, and confused, I guess," he said grimly, and started to pick at his cuticles.

Gerry scratched his head. "Well, obviously! You…"

"It’s like— you know when a little bird crashes into your window?" Sasha interrupted Gerry by putting a hand on his shoulder, "and you feel responsible, so you take it in and try to nurse it back to health?"

"Sasha, that’s awful." Gerry said, fighting back a grin, at the same time as Jon was exclaiming "Do not compare me to a little bird!" whilst looking incredibly affronted.

"You are suspiciously small and bony though," Sasha said with an innocent expression.

"Yes alright, ha ha," Jon grumbled, cheeks dark.

"Seriously, though," Sasha went on, "it's pretty simple. We’ve saved your life, now we’re responsible for you. Sorry, that’s the rules."

Gerry nodded solemnly. "Yep. Additionally, we recognise the necessity of you being close to the rift you fell through. Whatever happens with it… It 'belongs' to you in a way. You have a right to access it. Therefore you need to come stay with us. Right?"

"But…!" Jon seemed to gear himself up for another protest, but was stopped by their raised eyebrows and scarily determined looks.

"Uhm, alright, just…" Jon’s voice started cracking a little. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs and head in his hands. "Before you let me come live with you, you should… know some things about me."

Gerry swallowed hard. This felt momentous. Sasha vibrated next to him with barely suppressed enthusiasm.

"I don’t even know where to start, but. The world I left— that Martin and I left behind, it was utterly ruined. Just a horrible nightmare wasteland. It had ended. And— and I was the one who ended it." The last half of that sentence was nothing but a shaky rasp.

Sasha was pressing her lips together with all her might. Gerry didn’t move, hardly dared to breathe. He just watched Jon’s trembling hands tear at his lovely hair.

"It was not by choice, but… that’s no excuse. I’ve made some, some very bad decisions."

"Wait, so— just to be clear," Sasha couldn’t contain herself anymore, though she managed to sound surprisingly calm, "what you are saying is that you… brought about the end of the world."

Jon closed his eyes, nodded.

"How?"

"That— that is a very long story, but there were forces in my world — powerful entities of fear — who needed an apocalypse to fully manifest and control reality. And they made me the lynchpin of their ritual." His halting voice turned bitter. "Well, one man in particular. I had to die to— to drive them out. I… I left my world to try and save it."

"That is… wow. I have so many questions…!" Sasha was blinking rapidly, gripping her own elbows hard.

"Maybe give the man a break," Gerry whispered, gesturing at Jon, who’s head had bent further down, face hidden behind a curtain of recently mussed hair, arms wound tight around his torso.

"No, it’s alright," Jon croaked, "you deserve to know. It was me who asked Martin to stab me. It was the only way to. To sever the forces I was part of, rip them out of our universe. I never expected to survive. I don’t think he did either, and now he’s not even here—"

Jon took a shuddering breath, then another, picking up speed. Gerry surged forward, pulling Jon’s cramping hands from their grip around his upper arms, squeezing them. "Jon. Can you look at me?"

Jon did, his eyes wide with panic, wheezing shallowly.

"Can you try and breathe slowly? Like this—" Gerry took an exaggerated breath in and out, eyes locked with Jon, who gave it his best effort, grasping Gerry’s hands. Sasha had jumped up from the bed and now stood hovering, frozen with indecision.

"Uhm, Sash, do you want to go get some tea from the cafeteria?" Gerry said, not leaving Jon out of his sight. "Right," she muttered, but waited to leave for another minute or so, until Jon appeared able to match Gerry’s breathing, reasonably calm once more.

When she had closed the door behind her, Jon slumped forward, rubbing his sweaty hands on the sheets, mumbling "Sorry".

"Don’t be." Gerry inched closer to him, laying a careful hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to…"

Jon made a high sound in his throat, pressed his face into Gerry’s chest, and let himself be pulled into a gentle hug. It didn’t take long for something hot and wet to seep through the fabric of Gerry’s T-shirt.

"They, they wanted me to do this." Jon’s voice was thick and muffled. "So they could spread. To other worlds. I have been so selfish! Because I couldn’t, I wouldn’t watch him die!" His shoulders hitched with a silent sob.

"But if we succeeded, it means… they probably came with me, here. And not only here, but… everywhere. Oh god, I am so, so sorry… Good lord," his voice turned high, hysterical, "this must sound completely insane to you…!"

"Mh, sure," Gerry said, stroking Jon’s back, "but I believe you anyway, if you’re worried about that."

Jon laughed wetly. "OK. Great. So now you know. Maybe c-consider twice taking in an eldritch m-monster, who probably let forces of, of unspeakable evil loose in your reality. Wouldn’t recommend."

Gerry just hummed pensively.

"When we first met — in this world — you called me Gerry."

"W-what?" Jon looked up, confusion in his tear-swollen eyes.

"Only my friends call me Gerry. Ergo — we must have been friends, back there. So you can’t be all that bad, you know?"

Jon pressed his lips together and closed his eyes against another surge of tears dripping down his cheeks, then hid his face in Gerry’s chest again.

------

At one point Gerry had migrated to lean against the headrest of the bed, letting Jon lie half on top of him as he drifted off. He didn’t dare move; every time he carefully lifted his hand from Jon’s head, Jon started to mutter and twitch. So he left it there.

Before long, Sasha tiptoed in with three cups in a cupholder, not even batting an eye at their respective positions.

"I brought decaf. Not that I’ll be sleeping a lot tonight, anyway. What did I miss?" she whispered.

"He thinks he let evil eldritch creatures loose in the universe. Presumably brought them here with him somehow." Gerry whispered back, inching his hand over Jon’s left ear.

"I mean… I suspected his story to be quite wild, but everything about this is so much more unhinged than I could ever have imagined!" Sasha put the tea down and sat down quietly in the visitors’ chair.

"Yes. Well. We’re agreed that it’s all true though, right?" Gerry lifted an eyebrow at her.

"Absolutely! Why should someone make this up after falling through a crack in the universe. Which we both saw with our own eyes. In our basement," Sasha hissed.

"Good. Any reservations about letting him live with us?"

"What? Why?"

"Just making sure. In case we have to start fighting off eldritch horrors, you know."

"Why would I have a problem with that?"

They grinned at each other.

"Didn’t think you would."

------

Saturday morning found them at their kitchen table again, Sasha handing Gerry a — judging by the smell — very strong cup of coffee, dark shadows underneath her eyes.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked, and then took a large swig, almost burning his tongue.

Sasha huffed self-deprecatingly and placed her elbows on the table. "Never mind that. Are we gonna gloss over the fact that it was Martin who stabbed him?"

"Is that what you’re most worried about? I mean, I get it, but…"

"I don’t now, just something that stuck—" Sasha was rudely interrupted by an echoing CLANG coming from beneath them. They both flinched hard and stared at each other.

"What the fuck - I felt that in my teeth." Sasha started up from her chair, Gerry following close behind her. "Ah, yes," he muttered, "in case we were unsure about how absolutely whacky our lives have become…"

They hurried down the basement stairs, threw open the door and then stopped dead, both gaping at the thing on the floor underneath the gently glowing rift. Then they simultaneously bent down to have a closer look, all but smacking their heads together in the process.

It was a silver bread-knife, badly bent, the handle smeared with… well. That could only be blood. Gerry sucked in a sharp breath.

"Oh god," Sasha said, dismayed. "Do you think something happened to him?"

"Martin?"

"Yes." Her hands hovered uncertainly.

"I don’t know, I… I think maybe he tried to get through?"

Sasha hummed, a quizzical look on her face. Then she cautiously lifted the knife by the serrated blade.

A strange static was starting to fill Gerry’s ears. He grabbed Sasha’s arm. "Do you hear that?"

"What, like…" she inched back from the rift warily, pulling him with her. "White noise?"

"Yeah."

Their eyes wandered up to the crack. Did it look brighter than before? Gerry squinted at it, the hair on his arms standing on end. All of a sudden there was a flash of blinding light, and then something shot out of the gap with astounding speed straight down to the floor, landing with a thud. It’s descent reminded Gerry of depictions of spacecrafts entering the atmosphere, alarmingly fast and engulfed in flames. Only, looking at it closely after the initial shock revealed it to be nothing but a folded piece of paper. The golden flames were fading fast, and so was the static in the air.

"Christ!" Sasha exclaimed, sitting back hard on the dusty floor. "No wonder all these little things made such noise, crash-landing like that…!"

"Yes," Gerry concurred, and sat down heavily next to her. "I’m also not at all surprised that Jon completely wrecked his ankle, if he fell through this way. It’s a miracle he didn’t break every bone in his body!"

"Huh! God, you’re right. Do you want to do the honours?"

"Sure." He scooted forward, and picked up the now very innocent looking note.

It was a yellowed page, apparently torn from the front of a book, that read Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire. Underneath the printed book-title were a few hastily scribbled lines, smeared with ink and what looked to be more blood.

Jon, I hope you read this

Please wait for me! I’ll find a way through this thing

I love you

Martin

------

Jon woke with a gasp to a searing pain in his chest. It was fading quickly, but for a moment he was sure something cold and narrow had passed through his torso, again. Something with teeth. He groaned and rubbed his sternum. His head was pounding. And in the back of it, something stirred. Something dark and deep and nauseating.

He remembered then with sudden clarity how in his fevered confusion two days ago he had tried to reach out to the Eye. How it had hurt, and had pushed him into an abyssal unconsciousness.

He took a couple of slow breaths, squinting at the morning light seeping in through the blinds. Then he closed his eyes.

Gingerly, he inched his mind closer to that vast dark space, and was immediately greeted with a blinding headache. Ah, no, he thought a little panicky, not doing that again. He opened his eyes wide, and tore his awareness away from that terrible place.

What is happening?

What do you want from me?

There was no answer, of course. Just a fading headache and a muzzy blankness. Jon thumped his head against his pillow, twice, and then rubbed his face, muttering "Oh god, please leave me alone…"

On his bedside table, his phone pinged with an incoming text.

Chapter Text

On a rainy Tuesday evening, two weeks after Jon had fallen through the rift into the basement of 105b Hill Top Road, he was up and walking with crutches for the first time. Manuel and Gerry were hovering at his elbows as he painstakingly made his way back from the bathroom to his bed, grimacing with determination (and, truth be told, quite a lot of pain).

He reached the hospital bed panting, sweat beading on his forehead, but with a triumphant huff. What an achievement, to be able to go to the toilet by oneself, he thought, grimly amused. But — they were possibly going to release him at the end of the week, and he would be damned if he wouldn’t endeavor to make himself as little a nuisance to Gerry and Sasha as humanly possible.

They had shown him photos of the room they had decorated for him. It had two large windows, sage coloured walls and a fluffy grey carpet. They had bought a dark wooden bedframe, dresser and desk, a dark green velvet armchair, a large kilim rug and white bedsheets with a pattern of blue wildflowers. They had gotten him potted plants for Christ’s sake. He had never in his life inhabited a place that had looked as nice as that room. It made him very uncomfortable; but he was getting used to that.

After his exciting (and rather exhausting) trip to the loo, he had a bit of Sasha’s pretty decent biryani for tea, while Gerry tried to interview him on his preferences for clothes, toiletries, electronics and all kinds of other things Jon would never even have considered he needed. He tried very hard not to say "I don’t care", "Please don’t bother", or "Whatever’s cheapest" too often. It was very hard. 

"Well, you look knackered. Text me whenever you think of something you’d like, alright?" Gerry had said when packing away his list, a little exasperated but gentle as always. "Don’t hold back. We haven’t even made a dent in your spooky bank account."

When he was left to his own devices at last, Jon took the photograph and the two notes from Martin out of his bedside table drawer. The second one had come this afternoon, and Gerry had brought it to him with his tea. Jon had read it at least eight times before being able to concentrate on anything else. 

He unfolded it carefully. It was much cleaner (reassuringly unbloodied) and more deliberately written than the first one, on faded but decent-looking stationary.

Jon,

Annabelle has left me alone in the house (Hill Top Road). I can’t leave it.

Since there is no answer coming through this portal-thing, I have to assume it only works one-way?

Or you’re not on the other end of this? If you are, and you can send a message, please do!

I love you, I miss you

Martin

Jon let out a shuddery breath and pressed the note to his face. It didn’t smell anything like Martin. Just like old paper and maybe woodsmoke, if he was being fancy.

When the first note had come two days ago, he had immediately penned a reply:

Martin, are you alright?

I’m here, tell me what to do to help you get through!

Is Annabelle with you?

I love you too

Jon

Then he asked Gerry to throw it in the rift. According to Gerry, what had happened to his first note had repeated itself: it had burned away to nothing when coming in contact with the gap. Martin’s second message, now, seemed to shed more light on that mystery — Jon’s notes weren’t getting to him. The passage was in all probability one-way only. He had thought of Anya Villette then, who had never been able to return to her world of origin.

Gerry and Sasha had also, very carefully, told him about the knife. His heart still started beating faster when he thought about it. Thank goodness the note had arrived after it. 

Still, there had been blood on both, most likely Martin’s (because who was he kidding). It was disconcerting and quite sinister, though he was almost certain that nothing truly horrible had befallen him. Almost. So what has he been doing with the knife? Why did it slip through, and why…

He let the note fall into his lap with a yelp when there was an acute grisly pain moving through his chest, as if someone was wrenching a metal sheet from his lungs. He pitched forward, eyes-wide with shock, drawing in huge gulping gasps and clawing at his blankets and then as fast as it had come it was just… gone. He groaned in relief, then pulled down the hem of his hospital gown. But there was nothing, just the large white dressing. Jon let his head fall into his hands, heavily, numbly. Is there something… perhaps, a little… wrong with me, he thought, counting his breaths to calm down. There was an itch at the back of his head, but he ignored it.

About five minutes later, is phone started vibrating, Gerry’s name on the display. Jon cleared his throat and picked up.

"Uhm, yes?"

"Jon. Just to tell you that another thing came through. It’s a bit… odd. Nothing to worry about…"

Jon dug his nails into his arm. "What is it?"

"I think it’s a— a tray? Like a silver tea-tray. It’s bent, like the knife was. I think Martin was using them as levers maybe? And then they got… sucked in? Does that make sense?"

He took a couple shaky breaths and pinched the bridge of his nose. What the…? "When exactly did it come through? Did you look at the clock?"

"I didn’t, but like… five, six minutes ago? Jon, are you OK?"

"Yes, yes, uhm. Do you— can you send me a picture?"

"Sure."

"Was there a note?"

"No, but I will keep my ears peeled for one. Will you be able to sleep?"

"I don’t know. I’ll try. Thank you for letting me know."

"Yeah. I’ll keep you updated. Try closing your eyes. Goodnight, Jon."

"Goodnight, Gerry."

Jon ended the call and only had to wait a couple of seconds for the photo. It was of an oval silver-coloured plate with a decorative rim, badly scratched and bent in the middle. At least this time there was no blood on it.

Jon slumped back into his pillows and, staring at the ceiling in the semi-darkness, had a long hard think.

------

Someone was stabbing Jon in the back with a goddamn butter knife and then pulled it out through his sternum, hilt and all. Jon woke up wheezing and struggling against some invisible force, so much so that he smacked his hands against the bed-rails painfully, which jolted him towards full consciousness. "Shit," he hissed, grabbing for his phone. It was almost 9 a.m. Gerry would have left the house already, but maybe Sasha was home. He dialled her number with unsteady fingers. She picked up on the second ring.

"Jon??"

"Sasha, hah, did something— something fall out of the rift j-just now?"

"I’m… Jon I’m on my way down. Jon— HOW DID YOU KNOW?"

"I, uhm, I…" his voice dissolved into a shaky warble. He swallowed convulsively, trying to find it again. "Sasha, p-please have a look a-and call me back when… Sasha I think it’s a, it’s possibly another knife."

"Fuck, OK, I’ll call you back, just give me a second!"

The line was cut. Jon’s hands were cramping around the phone while he stared at it, waiting. Less than a minute later, Sasha’s name reappeared on the screen, and he picked up and pressed it to his ear.

"Hah! You were right. Oh my god. It’s a, a butter knife. Large, silver. Bent, as usual. Jon, HOW could you have known?" She sounded breathless, awed.

"I can still… Know some things, apparently," he whispered, feeling light-headed and nauseous and on the verge of tears. "I just don’t know what that means."

"Jon, I’m coming over. Do you want me to come over?"

"Uh. Yes. If you, if you don’t mind."

"Of course! I’ll bring tea, and pastries."

------

Sasha swallowed down her second Danish, while all Jon managed were little nervous sips of sugary decaf tea, intermittently eyeing Sasha’s canvas bag, which held the bent butter knife.

"By the way," Sasha said, offering Jon the paper bag of pastries for the third time, and receiving another close-lipped shake of the head, "I put a large pillow underneath it, because one of these days the sudden crashes are going to give me a heart attack. Also, there are already dents in the concrete from the impacts. By some miracle our landlady — who lives next door! — hasn’t heard anything yet. Or at least she hasn’t remarked on it. She is pretty cool about a lot of weird stuff I guess."

Jon grimaced sheepishly. "I’m sorry."

"Well. Not your fault, is it? So. You said you can still know things. Any correlation to any, uh, apocalyptic supernatural gifts of yours?" Sasha’s question was cautious, soft.

Jon’s eyes got a far-away look, and he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before starting to answer, his voice sounding mechanical.

"I used to have… well. I could know things, first randomly, then later deliberately. I could make people tell me things. Things they didn’t want me to know, that they didn’t want anyone to know. I made them tell me all about the horrible things that had happened to them. This was how I… fed. What was keeping me alive."

Sasha nodded, ostensibly unperturbed. "So what happened to your superpower?"

"I think I left it there, back in my world? The part of myself tied to the… the entity I served. I mean, that’s what I thought, when I woke up here. That I couldn’t feel it anymore, couldn’t access it, so it must be gone. It was as if… it had been ripped out of me, and only left me with… these dark, empty spaces in…" Jon made a small pained sound, clutching his head.

"Alright, alright." Sasha placed her hand on his shoulder. "Don’t overdo it. We’ll figure it out."

"I’m, huh…" Jon dragged his hands down his face, shuddering, "I’m in the habit of never figuring things out until it’s too late, you know? I just hope this time I don’t do irreparable damage to reality."

Sasha smiled, looking him straight in the eye. "Not if I can help it, OK?"

Jon smiled back at her faintly, saying: "I’ll hold you to that." Then he shook himself and cleared his throat. "A-anyway, uh, Dr. Siddiqui is coming at two, to discuss the discharge process. I’ll be OK to go home tomorrow or Friday morning in all probability. Are you… still fine with picking me up?"

------

"Your time with us is drawing to a close, Jonathan. So. Best practice would be to send you to a rehab facility for six weeks minimum as soon as possible to get you back on your feet, so to speak."

Jon shook his head emphatically. "No."

Dr. Siddiqui quirked an eyebrow, but her voice remained even. "You don’t necessarily have to do that right now. I just really recommend it. But I recognise that presently, familiar surroundings and people are very important for you, and you are understandably very desperate to go home with Mr. Delano and Miss James. Let’s discuss some options, since they are not trained health professionals."

He fractionally relaxed his hunched shoulders. "Alright."

"You will have weekly check-ups with me at the hospital until further notice. These will involve consultation with a nutritionist, at least until you’re not underweight anymore."

Jon pulled up his shoulders again.

"I insist, Jonathan. Once your cast comes off, we can arrange appointments with a physiotherapist who does house-calls, twice a week. With your general state of health, I can, and I will, prescribe this to you indefinitely."

At this, Jon frowned, indignant. "The NHS does not work like that!" in my universe, he didn’t add.

The doctor just blinked, unfazed. "The NHS works exactly like that! Are we agreed on this plan so far?"

Jon let out a heavy breath. "Yes."

"Great. Additionally to your medication and diet plan, I will give you a list of mental health professionals I can highly recommend. For now, just keep it somewhere you will find it again. And if you are ready, we can talk about it. Go through it. How does that sound?"

"Uhm. Fine. That sounds— fine."

"Wonderful. How are you doing with the crutches?"

"Oh, moderately awful I think."

------

Jon had his earphones in, drowsily listening to Bach violin concertos. At the back of his mind, something was stirring, almost imperceptibly growing in size until it manifested in a sudden rush of static that made him rip the earbuds out with a gasp. There was a flutter in his chest, and then a sting like a small cut.

Piece of paper, he thought, amazed. Martin has sent another note.

Chapter Text

Jon, 

I’m just going to keep talking to you, I don’t know what else to do.

This world is really weird. I feel like I’m inside some creepy gothic novel, but a really boring one. I hope the universe you ended up in is a bit more cheerful. Did you even end up somewhere else? You must have.

Oh god, I hope you’re alright. I miss you so much. I am so sorry. 

I don’t want to be stuck here forever, it’s really tedious. I just don’t know what to do with that stupid portal! I’ve tried a couple things to make the gap wider, but nothing works. It’s getting smaller, I think. How the fuck am I supposed to fit through there? Well, I am going to keep trying stuff. I don’t think I can damage it. And it can’t get any worse than that, can it?

Annabelle has not returned yet. I don’t know what she is planning. I don’t know why she compelled me not to leave the house. I also can’t go upstairs where all her stuff is. The only way to keep myself busy is pondering the portal and reading dismal poetry. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but having her here (and believe me, she is incredibly annoying) was much better than being alone.

I hope you’re not alone.

I love you,

Martin

------

Gerry entered the kitchen and put his phone down on the counter, biting his lips. "Jon insists we pick him up, even though the doctor is not a hundred percent on board with it."

"Why? Did something happen?" Sasha interrupted her sandwich-making to look at him with concern.

"Apparently he didn’t sleep. Too anxious. He kept re-reading the letter."

"Oh dear."

"Yeah. I feel really guilty about giving it to him."

"You’d feel really guilty about having kept it from him, too. There was no actual a way around him reading it at some point. He felt it arriving, Gerry."

"Yep — not worried about that at all." Gerry rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and rubbed his temples. "Dr. Siddiqui won’t let him go without breakfast, but he’s refusing the porridge, so make sure these sandwiches are stellar."

Sasha bristled. "Who do you think I am?!"

------

After Jon had slowly worked his way through half a sandwich, and his doctor had pressed a ring binder into Gerry’s hands with instructions for all of them to read it carefully (and to drop Jon off at the ward for his first check-up on Monday, 9 a.m. sharp), the three of them made their way out of the hospital and into the car park. Sasha was carrying the crutches and a bag of Jon’s medications and his meager possessions, Gerry pushing his wheelchair. Jon was dressed in the clothes Gerry had dropped off for him the day before — comfortable grey drawstring bottoms with wide legs to fit his cast, and a soft black jumper. He looked a little sallow and bleary, but also — relieved. 

"Are you cold?" Gerry asked, noticing Jon clutching his shaking hands in his lap. Jon looked up at him, one corner of his mouth ticking upwards. "No, just…"

"Nervous?"

"Mm. Maybe."

"Sorry my car’s a bit shit. Well, it’s alright, just small," Gerry said as they stopped at a dusty silver hatchback. He gave it a bit of an apologetic pat on the roof. "It doesn’t get a lot of exercise."

"Looks fine," Jon rasped, and Sasha scoffed and opened the boot to put Jon’s crutches in. "It drives and fits all of us and the wheelchair in the back, I’d say it’s the opposite of shit actually."

While Sasha folded and stowed away the wheelchair, Gerry helped Jon into the backseat, propping his right leg up on two large pillows and fastening his seatbelt.

"I know that’s not the epitome of comfort, but will you be OK like this for 15 minutes?"

Jon wriggled into the corner of the seat and the window, eyes half-lidded. "Of course. Thank you." Once they had driven off, it took him about a minute to fall asleep.

------

Jon woke from someone softly shaking his shoulder. After a short moment of intense confusion he managed to make sense of his surroundings. The car was parked in front of a two-storey Georgian brick building with rosebushes in the front garden and two entrances. Both doors were painted dark blue, the one on the left lettered in gold 105a and the one on the right 105b. He blinked. "This doesn’t look like… Hill Top Road."

"It does in this world!" Gerry said, grinning down at him through the open car door. "Put your arms around my neck."

Jon’s processing powers were apparently limited, because he followed the directions without questioning, which resulted in him letting out a surprised yelp when Gerry unceremoniously lifted him out of the car. "Sorry, I thought you knew I was going to do that. We haven’t got a ramp."

Gerry carried him up the four steps to the door on the right bridal style and Jon just grumbled, cheeks hot. Sasha hurried up in front of them, laden with the wheelchair and bags. She nevertheless managed to unlock the door with a minimum of cursing. Once inside, she set everything down on the tiled floor of the hallway and unfolded the wheelchair, in which Jon was then gently deposited. 

Before they had a chance to close their own, Jon heard someone opening the other front door. Two seconds later a tall woman was hovering at the threshold, knocking at the doorframe. Jon stared at her, momentarily stunned. She was maybe in her early sixties and staggeringly beautiful, her long auburn hair streaked with white.

"Sorry to intrude. I heard you come in and thought I’d say hello."

Gerry smiled and waved at her and Sasha said excitedly: "Oh, it’s no bother! Jon, this is our landlady!"

The gorgeous woman held her hand out to Jon. "Agnes Montague, pleased to meet you."

------

He had not managed to shake her hand. Agnes had been very graceful about it, and agreed to come back for tea on Saturday.

Jon was cradling a glass of orange juice in his badly trembling hands. He hadn’t said anything for almost five minutes, ostensibly shocked into silence. Gerry and Sasha were hovering to his left and right at the kitchen table. Eventually he put down his glass, covered his face with his hands and started chuckling. Gerry looked at Sasha, who returned his look with a shrug.

"Of course your landlady is Agnes Montague," Jon said hoarsely and… giddy?

"I am assuming you— knew her, then?" Gerry asked carefully.

"Heard… about her. She was dead by then, though. She was… well, a bit of a legend, I guess."

"Christ, we’re really sorry Jon!" Sasha sighed. "We may have to start making lists of people we know and compare them. Actually, we should have done that a while ago."

"Yes, maybe… let’s do that." Jon huffed out another dry laugh and rubbed his eyes, which were sporting darker and darker circles by the minute, then took a bracing breath. "Can I look at it now?"

Gerry shifted apprehensively. "Jon, uhm, why don’t you take a nap first? You’re supposed to keep your leg elevated for the better part of the day. It’s not running away."

Jon raised his shoulders defensively, the stubborn little crease between his brows deepening. "It is, though. Martin said it was getting smaller."

Gerry pinched the bridge of his nose. Looking at Jon’s face, he knew that there was no way Jon would rest before he hadn’t laid eyes on the rift.

"Alright. But I’m carrying you down the stairs piggyback, because one, you are not walking down — for the foreseeable future by the way — and two, the stairway is narrow and the ceiling is low. OK?"

------

Jon was balancing on his left foot in the middle of the basement, Gerry’s arm slung securely around his back. The walls of the smallish room were lined with shelves full of flowerpots and jam jars, and in the corner next to the entrance a stack of laundry baskets sat next to a washer and dryer. In the centre of the room lay a large decorative pillow on the floor, above which the portal to another dimension hovered about five feet in the air. The wafting glow looked like dust motes dancing in the late summer evening-sun. 

Jon only had to look at it for a couple of seconds to be dead certain of two things: It was one-way only, and no human could pass through it. This knowledge came with a pounding headache that quickly turned his knees to jelly.

"I need to… sit down," he said with a very wobbly voice. Gerry sucked in a sharp breath, grabbed him under the arms and lifted him up to sit on top of the washing machine. "OK?"

"N—no, not really." Jon bent forward and cradled his head in his hands, not leaving the rift out of his sight.

"Jon, what’s going on?" Gerry quickly laid a steadying arm around Jon’s shoulders when he started listing to the side.

"Just gives me a… headache? I can’t really describe it, something is, it’s like a noise, or, or a vibration—" What was it doing? Was it trying to talk to him? And who was, anyway? All Jon knew was that it was too much. Someone somewhere far away was whimpering in pain. Was that him? He felt himself being lifted and carried off, but he couldn’t see anything because his head was filled with golden light, his eyes were soaked in it, and in the back of his mind, in the dark place where his terrible god had once dwelled, something… the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut and Jon came back to himself with a groan, shaking all over. "Fucking hell!" Gerry cursed and carried him through the next doorway down the hall. Jon vaguely registered the sage coloured walls of the room — his room — and then he was sinking into a very comfortable mattress.

"Jesus, what happened?" Sasha had entered the room, too, and came to stand next to the bed. Jon couldn’t do anything but lie there and tremble and breathe. Gerry was squeezing his hand.

"I don’t know!" Gerry said. His voice sounded strange, broken. That’s not right, Jon thought, and forced his eyes open to look at him. Gerry’s face was drained of all colour, his eyes large and— afraid. "'m OK!" Jon wheezed. "Jus’ need to… sleep for a week, or two." He tried to smile, convincing no-one. Sasha’s face was contorted with concern. "I’m getting you both some water." She hurried off to the kitchen.

"I’m very sorry," Jon whispered, holding on to Gerry’s hand like the weak, selfish creature he was. They didn’t deserve this. Whatever he had brought with him, they should not have to deal with it. It was one thing for him to be haunted forever, wherever he went, never at peace — he had doomed worlds, universes even… but they? They had not asked for this. They did not deserve it. He felt a hot tear roll down his cheek. God, he was so, so tired.

A cool glass was pressed to his lips, and he swallowed some water through a tight throat, and then his head fell back and sleep took him.

------

"I’ve called in sick." Gerry sank down next to Sasha on the living room sofa. She pressed a mug of coffee into his hands, which he held gratefully, savouring the warmth. When had he begun feeling so cold?

"Good," Sasha said, bumping his shoulder. "Now tell me what happened down there."

"Uhh." Gerry took a large swig from his mug. "As soon as he looked at it, I could’ve sworn… that thing got brighter. He had to sit down, it gave him a headache — from what I could understand of what he said, he was… hearing it? And then his eyes—" Gerry had to clear his throat. "Sasha, his eyes— just for a second there, they turned— golden."

"OK, wow." Sasha frowned and smoothed out her skirt. "So… we knew he had some weird connection to the rift. He felt at least two things slip through, and the last note. And now it turns out it’s, what, trying to communicate? Or, or possessing him in some way?"

"I… really don’t know. I don’t know what that was. I just know that I’m— scared. And I wasn’t before. But I’m scared for him." Gerry set his mug down, put his elbows on his thighs and pressed his hands to his mouth. Sasha gently patted his back. "Well, we shouldn’t catastrophize. Maybe it’s… well, not good obviously, if it hurts him, but also — if he has a connection to the portal, maybe it can help Martin through? Do you know what I mean?"

Gerry laughed humourlessly and buried his hands in his hair. "I admire your optimism."

"Or we may have to fight off another apocalypse with him, who knows. Beats fighting about the merits of contemporary French literature! Maybe Agnes can help us, since she apparently was a big deal in Jon’s eldritch horror reality."

Gerry snorted. "You absolute nutter."

------

There was a thing, lodged in his ribcage. Hard and cool and smooth, and then his ribs crunched and he whined, something broke off leaving a jagged edge, tearing at his insides, pulled through by golden thread, and… gone. He sighed, half surfacing, noticing a warm presence beside him.

"Jon. Are you dreaming?"

Somewhere below him there was a thud. He shook his head. "Mh-mh."

"Crikey!" someone called, and then there were quick footsteps, thumping down stairs.

His limbs and his eyelids were so heavy.

"Aw fuck. Did you feel that?"

"Mmyes." He blinked his eyes open. There was a blurry face above him. Gerry, worried.

"S’fine! I’m fine," he croaked. "Tired."

"It’s alright, you can go back to sleep," Gerry said. And so he did.

------

Martin stared in dismay at the broken half of a large porcelain plate, the other part of which had just disappeared into the crack. He had been looking for something that wouldn’t bend when he stuck it in there. He should have known it would just… break off. Frustration boiling over, he smashed it into a cobwebbed corner of the room. It didn’t really help.

He felt his feet grow cold in his canvas shoes, and looked down. Grey fog had started pooling around his ankles. Again. "Argh, Christ, no! Not doing that," he muttered, shook his legs out and hurried back up the stairs. The foyer greeted him with the grating ticking of the grandfather clock. He had thought about breaking it a couple of times, but then reconsidered, too scared of the absolute silence this would have meant. 

He went into the kitchen to brew another pot of tea. He had started rationing the regular English Breakfast as soon as he realised that behind four boxes of it in the kitchen cabinet there was nothing but bloody Oolong.

At first he had been extremely concerned — how the hell did Annabelle know all this? How had she orchestrated it? Not only the specific brand of tea, but also the two dozen tins of peaches; the grating ticking of the clock, the rickety chairs, every single one of them extremely uncomfortable? But he soon had stopped caring about her scheming and theatrics and started wondering about the pettiness of it all. How could he have offended her so much, that she had set out to torture him in such specific, stupid ways? Had they not done what the Web wanted of them? What she wanted? At least her and Martin had landed somewhere else - a different universe, where she was obviously thriving! She had her powers here, so the entities must be here too. It just made no sense.

He sat down at the heavy carved behemoth of a writing desk in the library, sipping at his very light tea, pondering a blank page of yellowing stationary. Something cold tickled his face, and then landed on the paper, leaving a wet blotch. He sniffled angrily. For some reason he was reminded of Jon’s coma years ago; sitting by his bedside, talking to him for weeks, never getting any answer.

Jon, he wrote, slowly, the ink bleeding and blurring into the tear-stain, where did you go?

Chapter Text

Jon woke slowly from a deepening ache in his chest and ankle. Pity, he thought, since he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept as soundly and untroubled. Next to his right shoulder, the mattress was dipping. "Hey little bird," Sasha said.

Jon groaned. "M’serious, don’t call me that." Christ, his voice was wrecked. Nothing new that, but it had been getting better — or so he’d thought.

"You’ve slept for ten hours straight, it’s already dinnertime. You need to take your meds and eat something, otherwise Dr. Siddiqui will murder us on Monday."

Jon shifted, grimaced, blinked up at her. "Dana wouldn’t hurt a fly."

"Ahaha! You think that because she cares about you, but you didn’t see her eyes turn murderous like I did."

"Please stop saying murder."

Sasha grinned down at him impishly, then handed him his glasses. "I made baba ganoush and muhammara, and there’s pita bread and olives and so on. How does that sound?"

Jon pursed his lips. He didn’t have any discernible appetite, but his stomach did feel a bit hollow. Eating didn’t sound bad per se. He would certainly try, for them. "Alright."

"Brilliant." She held up the bag of pill bottles and a glass of water. "Meds first, though."

------

Sasha was studying the notepad they had one after the other been writing on during dinner.

"OK, let’s talk about Tim," she declared. Pulling no punches, then.

Jon let his pita bread fall onto his plate. He glanced at her, frowning. "What about— Tim?"

"He’s very far up on all of our lists of important people."

"Yes." Jon nervously grabbed his butter knife and started fiddling with it. Gerry watched him like a hawk, as he had been doing all evening. It made Jon feel a bit like a fragile statue on a wobbly pedestal. Or a bomb with a timer.

"So… what’s the story?" Sasha was looking at him inquisitively, head tilted. 

Jon put the knife down and inhaled sharply through his nose, then gestured at her. "We were colleagues. The three of us." He paused and scratched his head. "Uhm. Who am kidding. The two of you were my best friends. And when you… died," he shot her a quick nervous look, "and, well, other things happened… I became very paranoid and made some horrible mistakes and… he hated me. It was bad. And then— well. You can guess the end."

Sasha thoughtfully tapped her fingers against her lips. "Alright. I mean— not alright, obviously, but thank you for telling us. There is a specific reason I’m bringing him up. Second Saturday of the month he usually comes around for games night — that’s the day after tomorrow. But we can totally postpone if you’re not ready to see him. And you don’t have to play any games, that’s entirely optional."

"I do! I, uh, I mean I do want to see him. Although it’ll probably be much better for him if he never meets me—"

"Jon, stop." Gerry laid his hand on top of his. "We’ll ask him 'round for a beer to meet our new roommate. And if you feel uncomfortable or, or anything, Sasha’ll just take him to the pub. That’s it, that’s all that’s going to happen, OK?"

"Uhm. OK."

"Good. Now — there’s the issue of you and the rift."

They both looked at him expectantly. He slowly cleared his throat.

"You know that I have to go down there again. I can’t figure out how it works— how to get Martin through— from up here." Jon was pointedly avoiding both their eyes, rubbing his hands on his thighs.

Gerry hummed. "Yes. But we’re not doing a repeat of this morning."

Sasha nodded approvingly. "We definitely need to make a plan. This can’t happen again."

"I… yes. I think the main problem was me… looking at it? So, supposing what I need is proximity — what if I just keep my eyes closed next time, see if I can still use my, my connection to Know something about it?"

"Hm. Yes, maybe. But what if it makes you look at it?"

Sasha did have a point there.

"I could wear a blindfold. And you’ll be there."

She sighed, resigned. "Well, we have to try it, don’t we. Let’s go all three of us tomorrow afternoon. I have a workshop but I will be back at four."

"Alright, I’ll be home all day. I’m officially still sick." And I’m not leaving you out of my sight, Gerry didn’t say, but Jon heard him anyway. 

Sasha clapped her hands. "It’s a plan! Soooo… are you up for a house tour?"

------

On Friday morning, Jon crossed the hallway on his crutches to brush his teeth in the bathroom, and upon returning to his room felt unsurprisingly very achy and jelly kneed from the little trip. So he hoisted himself into the wheelchair, still in his new pyjamas (grey flannel, very soft) and slowly made his way towards the door again. He had heard Gerry making tea in the kitchen just a couple of minutes ago. 

He didn’t get very far.

Great, here we go again, Jon thought when he felt a mounting pressure in his chest. It quickly evolved into screeching agony and he slumped forward, moaning, tears welling up in his eyes. Something dark and unyielding was trying to break his ribcage open, and it pushed and pushed and didn’t stop. "Oh god," he whimpered, clawing his way towards the desk and the wastepaper basket underneath. He fell to his knees before it, bending over and retching miserably, breaking into an icy sweat. There was a knock on the door, then Gerry calling: "Jon, are you OK?" sounding anxious.

Jon coughed and spit, his vision starting to grey out. That thing inside him was still wrenching at his bones, compressing his lungs and all he could answer was "Hng." He was holding on to the rim of the bin with all his strength. Finally, there came a familiar thunk from below, and it was over. He crumpled to the floor in a heap, feebly trying to breathe. "Jon, I’m coming in!" The door was flung open. "Fuck," Gerry hissed, and then Jon was being cradled against a warm chest smelling faintly of cigarettes. "Are you hurt?"

Jon sucked in the smell, breath slowing down, tremors subsiding. His knees were very sore and his injured ankle was protesting the angle it was trapped in under his legs, but other than that… "M-no. Don’t think so."

Gerry sighed deeply, holding Jon closer, burying his nose in his hair. "Jon, when you said you felt things coming through the rift, what you actually meant was… they hurt you, am I right?"

Well. There was no sense in denying that now, was there. "Yes."

"Christ. Fuck. OK. Let’s get you to bed, and then I’ll have a look downstairs, see what it was this time."

"I don’t want to go to bed. I don’t want to…" be alone.

"OK, living room then. You can rest on the sofa, we’ll have tea."

------

Jon was getting comfortable on the large corner sofa under his duvet, right leg propped up on a mountain of throw pillows, when Gerry came back from the basement gingerly holding a largish wooden board between his hands. He offered it to Jon who studied it, intrigued. It had smooth edges and appeared well used; the gouges in it’s centre looked freshly made though. "It’s a cutting board. But I don’t think those deep cuts are from knives."

"Hm, no. I think they are definitely from messing with a spooky crack in reality." Gerry sat down next to Jon and poured them both some tea. Then he hugged his knees to his chest and looked at him, asking quietly: "Why didn’t you tell us?"

Jon awkwardly pushed the cutting board onto the coffee table, then folded his arms. "It… doesn’t make any difference, does it."

"Uhm, Jesus." Gerry looked up at the ceiling, gritting his teeth. "Jon— it does to me! To us! Do I seriously have to spell it out? We care about you! We want you to be OK, not surreptitiously collapsing from pain because some supernatural— bullshit is happening to you!" He sounded choked.

Jon shrank back, his voice turning rough and bitter. "I am… I… I’m enough to deal with as is! I don’t want to, to occupy all your waking hours with the absolute— train wreck that is my— my existence! You don’t deserve this! You deserve some peace!" He sobbed the last word out and then buried his face in his arms, shoulders hitching.

"Well, so do you!" Gerry said, a little too fiercely, then took a calming breath. "Ugh, fuck, come here." He gathered Jon in his arms, who went with it like a bag of brittle sticks.

"Terrifying eldritch harbinger of doom, wow," Gerry murmured next to Jon’s ear.

"I’ve been called worse things," Jon muttered, sniffing back snot.

"Look," Gerry sighed and squeezed Jon’s arms, "I realise it’s not easy to accept help. Especially if you were raised a certain way."

Jon looked up through red-rimmed eyes, quirking an eyebrow. "Pot, kettle."

"Oh wonderful, you’ve met my mother, then. Well, takes one to know one. I mean… am I wrong?"

"My… uh. It wasn’t her fault."

"Maybe not. Still, someone should have been there to instil in you the certainty that you’re fucking worth it. All of it."

Jon just huffed out a wet, humourless "Hah".

"And anyway, yes, everything about this situation is absolutely terrifying on some level, but on the other hand… you’re the most goth thing that’s ever happened to me. That’s high praise just so you know."

Jon almost grinned. Instead he grimaced at the peculiar, grisly feeling of a paper cut on the inside of his ribcage. "Ah— ouch. There’s a note coming through."

Gerry scowled. "Oh, great! I hope it says 'Dear Jon, I’ve decided to forever stop throwing things into the inter-dimensional portal, love, Martin'.“

Jon weakly bumped his fist against Gerry’s shoulder. "Not funny."

"No, it’s really not. I’ll go and get it then, shall I?"

------

Jon,

Where did you go? 

I am seriously considering writing you a poem. A really bad one. Maybe it’ll make you mad enough to finally answer me. 

Just kidding. I know it’s not your fault. I know you’d answer me if you could. I just wish I knew why you can’t. Fuck, I’m scared. What if Annabelle is just toying with me? What if you’re not on the other side of the crack? What if you’re actually in this world, and Annabelle just lets me assume you aren’t? What if I have actually killed y

Sorry. Being alone in this stupid house makes me really morose. Also they are not big on spices here. Everything tastes so unbelievably bland. Stupid universe. Or, I don’t know, maybe just a really stupid version of England? Entirely possible. I might throw one of the books into the rift, so you can see for yourself how awful it is. 

I’m going to go look for something that won’t bend or break easily against it. Wish me luck.

I love you,

Martin

------

Jon was sitting on top of the washing machine again, Gerry hovering to this left and Sasha to his right. There was a soft black scarf covering his eyes, loosely knotted at the back of his head. It wasn’t ideal, considering how incredibly jittery the whole situation made him, but it would have to do. 

Even though he couldn’t see the portal before him, he could definitely sense it.

There was a soft humming in his ears, and heat — not on his skin, but underneath it, vibrating. He took a deep breath and inched slowly, carefully towards the painful abyss in the back of his mind that Beholding had once occupied. 

Fragments of knowledge were dripping into him like liquid gold, beautiful and terrible and searing.

This was the last place he was not human once again

What was dwelling there was not made for human bodies to contain

"Jon. Talk to us." Gerry’s voice was muffled, as if heard underwater. Warmth and pressure. They had both grabbed his hands.

He Knew that which was on the other side of the door, yearning to break through, calling for him like the one he loved

What was on this side though was utterly alien to him

Shot through with a glowing thread that pierced his mind

A wave of nausea hit him like a fist, and he realised that his head was pounding and he had started shaking. "Let’s— go, now—" he managed to stammer through chattering teeth.

He was immediately scooped up and carried off.

Chapter Text

"Are you alright?" Gerry asked for the approximately fifth time. Jon was nursing a cup of tea with ridiculous amounts of honey and milk in it, which tasted absolutely perfect.

"Uhm, yes. Good timing, I think. No harm done." His limbs felt quite heavy and he was getting rather tired — that’s what you got from almost shaking apart from trying to know unknowable things — but other than that… 

"So…" Sasha was trying very hard to wring her hands as inconspiciously as possible. "Any— news?"

"Good and bad, I think. If I am interpreting whatever happended correctly. It is not exactly rational information."

"OK, so what’s the bad news?" Gerry leaned forward, pushing a plate of biscuits towards him. Jon took one and contemplated it distractedly.

"It seems as though the entities that came from my world are looking for a way into this one. Good news is that I think the rift doesn’t… want to let them through? Or… I don’t know how else to describe it. There is a presence that seems to— guard the passage, maybe?" Jon let the biscuit fall back onto the plate and dug his hands into his frizzy hair. "They wouldn’t even try if it wasn’t for me. I can feel them being— called, or pulled… I am still their anchor. They want to follow me," his voice became increasingly distant, monotone, "come through and fill in their place, the space that has been held for them, seep in before the door closes, take root in this world—"

"Jon." Gerry said steady-voiced, took Jon’s fragile wrists and gently pulled at them, and Jon relinquished the punishing grip he’d had on his poor hair. Then he blinked, looking about slightly confused. "I…"

Gerry let go of Jon, who shook himself a little, then looked at him and Sasha by turns, gimlet-eyed. "I won’t let them. They wouldn’t have had a chance if it wasn’t for me. There would be nothing for them to… hold on to. But… " he squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his temples, "…this might make things even more complicated. I— I still have no clue what to do about Martin."

------

Saturday morning in the living room, Jon was intently googling something on his phone, so Gerry sat down next to his feet on the fluffy carpet and, taking advantage of his distraction, started drawing cats on his cast with a thick black marker. He had finished six of them before Jon noticed.

"What are… those." Jon pointed at his elevated leg looking a bit gobsmacked.

"Didn’t you say you liked watching cat videos?" Gerry said innocently, starting on a seventh cat.

"I’m sure I did not…?!" he sputtered, trying to pull his leg away. Gerry held on to it firmly.

"Don’t move it like that, you’ll hurt yourself. I am absolutely certain you did! That was back when you were drugged up to the eyeballs though. Do you want me to stop? Or draw something else?"

Jon gravely considered the six and a half comically small and large-eyed cats adorning his light blue cast.

"No. Go on."

Gerry smiled to himself behind his curtain of long black hair. "Oh, that reminds me, we have to introduce you to O’Hara this afternoon."

"To who?"

"Agnes’ cat. You’re not allergic, are you?"

Jon’s eyes grew wide and he was incapable of containing his excitement when he blurted "No! There’s a cat?"

"Yeah, don’t get your hopes up though, she’s not overly friendly. What are you looking up?"

"Oh, uh…" Jon’s face fell and he fumbled with his phone, then handed it to Gerry, who frowned at it. 

"Jonah Magnus. Never heard of him."

"Yes. That’s kind of the point. See…" Jon took his phone back and stared at the screen with an indecipherable look, "…it turns out the man who manipulated me into causing the apocalypse was just some— some obscure, largely unsuccessful nineteenth century occultist here. 'Jonah Magnus died impoverished and discredited by the academic community at the age of forty-six, presumably of tuberculosis.' He hadn’t even the funds to found the Magnus Institute. And Robert Smirke apparently hated him. Used to go on rants about him periodically. That’s the only reason the world’s even aware of his existence."

"That sounds like… I don’t know, cosmic balance or something? Not that I believe in that, but. It’s neat, isn’t it?" Gerry watched Jon’s weirdly impassive face intently.

"…yes? I guess that’s— uh. Also, the man who’s body he used to possess is the head of the accounting department at a London solicitor’s office. Utterly unremarkable. Seems to be doing fine. This is…" Jon laughed, quietly and dryly, then he abruptly stopped, breath hitching. "You don’t know him, do you? Elias Bouchard?"

"Of course not. He was on your list, Jon. I would have told you."

"Ah, y—yes, obviously." Jon breathed out slowly.

------

After a lunch where Gerry and Sasha had been unsuccessfully trying to make Jon eat something other than plain rice (which his stomach just was not up to today), he took a long nap (as he did several times a day now), and then, feeling a little groggy, let himself be pushed out into the shared back garden in his wheelchair. 

The gentle may-sun greeted the three of them and Jon blinked, briefly overcome with some bright emotion that stung. When was the last time he had sat in a flowering garden in the sunshine?

There were several lawn chairs placed around a small round cast-iron table which Agnes was in the process of setting. They said their hellos and sipped on very nice loose leaf Assam, and Jon felt very tongue-tied.

"How are the renovations going?" Agnes asked out of nowhere, looking at Gerry, who almost spit out the shortbread he was chewing on.

"The… wh…?"

"Oh, I just heard you thumping around yesterday, and the day before? Didn’t bother me, don’t worry."

"It’s going… well? We’ve… finished Jon’s room! Assembling all the furniture and such." Gerry scratched the back of his head and Jon wondered how he managed to not blush. He seemed to blush quite easily. Sasha meanwhile was sporting an impressive pokerface.

"That’s great! How are you settling in, Jon?" Agnes’ bright hazel eyes landed on him and he flinched a little.

"Very— well, thank you."

"That’s good, I’m glad. Oh, here she comes."

Agnes nodded to her back door, where a fluffy tortoiseshell cat was peeking through the cat flap with an extremely unimpressed look on her face. She slipped through, immediately making a beeline for Jon, and rubbed her haughty face on his good leg, purring like an emergency generator.

"Oh wow, she usually doesn’t like strangers," Agnes remarked with raised eyebrows. Gerry and Sasha both grinned widely. O’Hara ignored them, jumping into Jon’s lap. "Oof, hello," he commented, and then delightedly scratched her head, which she brashly pushed into his hands. 

"Christ, she adores you! That’s ridiculous! It took me half a year to be even allowed to pet her!" Sasha exclaimed bewildered. "It’s not fair."

"Don't listen to her, Jon. This cat just has great taste," Gerry smirked. Sasha threw a crumpled napkin at his head. Agnes just laughed, a deep velvety sound that was somehow incredibly soothing to Jon, who broke into a smile. O’Hara continued to push and purr against him demandingly and he sunk his hands into her long soft fur.

When the sting of a note arriving fluttered through his chest, he just briefly rubbed his sternum with a sharp inhale.

Gerry gave him a meaningful look as though he had quite the clear idea about what had happened. 

------

Jon,

It’s been six days, still no trace of Annabelle. It’s getting warmer outside I think — the days are longer, sunnier, but I don’t even know what month it’s supposed to be. 
I ran out of firewood last night. It’s not too bad, with the changing weather — but it’s rather cool and damp in the house all the time.

I don’t want to worry you, but there is fog now, permanently. It sometimes hangs in the corners, thick and white. Sometimes it’s almost invisible, but I can always feel it. It likes to gather around my feet like the worst pet imaginable. It makes the house even more uninviting, but the little fire I managed in the hearth didn’t help much against it anyway. Figures that more of the Fears are getting comfortable here. The Web certainly is.

Sometimes I just can’t believe, after all we’ve been through, that I am stuck in this place.
I wish you could tell me what to do. I wish you could tell me anything at all. All I want is to be where you are.

I hope you are OK. Please be OK.

I love you, I miss you always.

Martin

------

Cold fog was following Martin around wherever he went in his diminished world. 

After he’d cast his latest letter in he was too listless to even look at the rift, much less fruitlessly chuck another kitchen implement into it. So he went back upstairs.

He felt himself losing time — sitting and staring at nothing for hours that felt like the blink of an eye. He couldn’t read the books anymore, couldn’t concentrate for long enough. And anyway, what were they good for? They just made him more miserable. The numbness was more bearable, if he was being honest.

When the chair he sat on became too bloody uncomfortable, he began to wander again. He didn’t much register his surroundings, and sometimes felt as thought the fog was just pulling him along. His day fell apart into little snatches of being present in specific moments — he was in the kitchen, preparing another pot of tea, then he sat in the drawing room, sipping slowly, then he found himself in the library, venturing into a dark corner at the back, which he had dubbed spider’s nest shortly after arriving here.

They liked to congregate there, on one shelf in particular around which they had constructed large, intricate webs that had, so far, kept Martin from looking at any of the books too closely.

He was too dazed and simultaneously fed up with his situation to have any reservations about that today. Only two or three very small spiders scuttled away when he approached. Otherwise it was just a thick, weirdly concentrated mass of cobwebs. He grimaced briefly when he wiped them away with his bare hands.

The bookcase, once revealed underneath the sticky muck, seemed inconspicuous enough.

He read a few spines at eye-level; it all looked to be non-fiction, which was a pleasant surprise. Books about local flora and fauna, exotic animals, geology and mineralogy. Further down though there were large gaps between books — on the lowest shelf about half of them were missing. And by the look of things, it had been emptied recently - while the edge of the shelf was as dusty as all the furniture in this place, Martin could definitely make out the much cleaner spaces where books must have filled it.

Until Annabelle had removed them.

Because who else would have? She must have taken them upstairs, because Martin in his relentless exploration of the rooms accessible to him had certainly never stumbled across some random pile of books. There were at least twenty, maybe even thirty missing. Why on earth would she have carried them up to her lair — and in secret at that? The bag she had been leaving with almost a week ago definitely didn’t have a large amount of books in it. 

He looked closer at the remaining ones on the lowest shelves. Biology, chemistry and geography textbooks he just gave a passing glance. It was mathematics and physics where things were starting to get… interesting.

Since Martin had dropped out of school he hadn’t really payed a lot of attention to the sciences, but he still wondered at why a society that appeared technologically behind his own seemed to be, even to his untrained eyes, producing very advanced texts concerning things like astrophysics, complex mathematics and… he frowned. Quantum mechanics and— time-travel? He grabbed another dusty volume titled Holographic Principle which upon quickly flipping through seemed to be about fifth dimensional space and spacetime fabric. 

Even stranger though were the last two books, discarded next to the shelf in the back-most corner of the spider’s favourite space: A hundred thousand hidden worlds and Theories on the morality of the eldritch and empyreal. They looked a lot like pseudo-science, esoteric even (he could hear Jon scoff in his head), but something about them…

Martin blinked and put the books down on the floor next to him. In the space between the bookcase and the wall something glinted dully. He grabbed for it, pulled it out into the grey light of the library, and quickly cleaned the cobwebs off it. 

It was an old iron poker, tarnished almost black but very robust looking. Oh great, he thought a bit miffed, I could have used that when I still had wood to make a fire. It seemed to have been forged from one piece, the handle twisted and much heftier than the rest of the tool. Martin pensively weighed the poker in his hands, then let his fingers run over the sturdy hook at the end. His thoughts wandered to the portal, and how trying to lever it open had turned out to be a dead end so far.

Well. This should be interesting.

Chapter Text

"Is he still fretting?" Sasha took a dishtowel and started drying the dishes Gerry was in the middle of doing, looking at him with one eyebrow raised.

"I think he’s taking a nap. That letter has disturbed him a lot more than the last few have. He wouldn’t say why though." Gerry sighed and scrubbed at some stubborn coffee residue at the bottom of a mug.

"You didn’t read it when you fetched it?"

"No! I always let Jon read them first. He disappeard into his room with it."

"Ugh, you and your chivalry." Sasha rolled her eyes, but there was not heat behind her words. "Tim’ll be here in about an hour. Problem one: are we going to order pizza as always? Jon’s probably going to only eat the crust if we do."

"Plain pizza sticks. He’s having a 'dry carbs only' day. I think it’s the anxiety."

"Alright, guess we’ll have to go along with it. Only beige food until further notice. Problem two: how much are we going to tell Tim? Jon’s bound to act a little… strange, minimum. Do we make more stuff up? Or slowly introduce him to the truth?"

Gerry put the clean mug down on the drying rack, wiped his hands and then leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Do you think he can… process all that? I mean, what’s your endgoal — trip to the basement?"

"Christ, I don’t know! I think he can take it? He’s one of the most laid-back people I know!"

Someone was softly clearing their throat. They both wheeled around to the doorway where Jon was dithering, leaning heavily on his crutches. He had managed to tie his hair up in a lopsided bun and looked more put together than Gerry had ever seen him, in wide black cotton pants and an emerald green merino wool jumper. 

"What have you actually told him about me?"

------

Tim without festering anger and the scars of age-old trauma was a sight to behold. Jon was reminded of their research days, but even that was an insufficient comparison — Danny was obviously alive, and there was a lightness about this Tim that Jon had never experienced — despite the well-practiced cheerful facade the one in his universe had had cultivated.

Jon should have known that this Tim, too, would upon meeting the friend of a friend for the first time immediately pull them into a hug. As was the case, he wasn’t nearly prepared for it. Tim had obviously been coached to be careful, but still— what an all-encompassing, oddly familiar feeling of warmth— Jon was too overwhelmed to hug him back, just lifted his arms uselessly and let them fall down again to an internal mantra of don’t cry, please don’t cry, and then it was over anyway. "Jon! So good to meet you!" Tim said with his booming voice, smiling radiantly. Jon just nodded, coughing. "Y-yes. Hello."
 
"So this is the mysterious university friend who ran off to Australia and came back to England to immediately get knocked into the middle of next week!" Tim said jovially, grinning at Sasha in particular. She grunted. "Thanks a lot for summing that up, Timothy. Poetic and sensible as always. Who wants a beer?"

"Me! And that came out wrong — I’m really sorry that happened to you, mate." Tim gave Jon a soft, apologetic smile. Jon swallowed around the growing lump in his throat. "Uhm. Thanks. I’m alright." His voice came out rough.

Gerry, Sasha and Tim had their greasy, garlicky pizzas while Jon nibbled on a pizza stick (no garlic thank you very much), dinking beer, or, in Jon and Sasha’s case, tea. She was determined to do some writing the next day.

While Gerry and Sasha were absorbed in a discussion about what kinds of pizza were improved by putting balsamic cream sauce on top, Tim turned to Jon and asked, chewing: "So, what do you do?"

"Oh, uhm." Jon started disassembling his doughy meal into tiny crumbs. "I’m a— researcher. Was a researcher. I’m in between jobs I guess."

"Christ, another bloody academic." Tim’s eyes were twinkling with mirth.

Jon’s mouth twitched. "And you’re in… publishing?"

"Yes! Oxford University Press. Largest academic publisher ever. If you want to, I can put my feelers out for you! There are always openings."

"How’s Danny?" Jon blurted, ignoring Tim’s suggestion, and then flinched. "I mean… your brother, right? What does he do?"

Tim appeared unfazed. "He’s fine!" he said. "Got really into urban exploring recently."

Jon grimaced.

"Yeah, I’m not a big fan either. Sprained his ankle twice in as many months."

------

Throughout their respective conversations, Gerry was keeping half an eye on Jon. It had started to become his default. So he was more or less prepared when Jon lurched forward as if pulled by some horrible string, overturning his half-full mug of tea, and then slammed into the back of the chair, head jerking back, wheezing with wide, terrified eyes.

"Shit," Gerry hissed and leapt up from his chair, at the same time as Sasha and Tim did. He grabbed Jon’s flailing right arm with one hand and cradled his face with the other. "Jon, Jon, breathe." Jon only responded with a broken keening sound.

Tim was hovering, alarmed. "Is he having a seizure?!"

"Kind of!" Sasha responded, taking Jon’s other arm and squeezing it, face contorted with worry.

Tim fumbled for his phone. "You’re supposed to time it! And don’t hold him down. We should lay him on the floor and make sure he doesn’t hit his head."

Jon was being yanked back again and let out an animal cry of pain.

"I—  I don’t know, we don’t usually… it should be over any second now!" Gerry stammered, heart sinking into his boots. When Jon jerked once more, wailing pitifully, it hit him. "Uh, Ok, do what you think is right Tim — except for maybe calling an ambulance? I’ll be back in a second!" Ignoring Tim’s bewildered look he took off towards the foyer, ripped open the door to the stairway and raced down the stairs to the basement.

The rift was aflame.

The golden glare almost made it painful to look at, and a screeching static filled Gerry’s ears. He stepped closer anyway, eyes zooming in on the lowest point of the crack where something made sparks fly out of it like some kind of welding apparatus.

It was a rather small, dark thing — some kind of hook, slowly tearing downwards. Gerry cursed, then took a deep breath, grabbed it without getting too close to the rift itself, and pulled. The metal felt hot to the touch. It slipped through, screeching, bit by tiny bit, until it became apparent that it was an old fire poker he was pulling out. He groaned, fingers cramping. Suddenly it stopped, stuck. He grit his teeth, but it was not budging in the slightest. That must be where the hilt began, then. He heard Jon scream upstairs, followed by an abrupt hollow silence. Gerry’s breath hitched. "Fuck."

Well, then there was only one other thing he could do. He closed his right hand around the too hot poker’s hook and pushed.

A horrible feeling of wrongness swept through him and made him almost falter, eyes watering and knees trembling, but he kept pushing. "Come on, you know this has to go back," he muttered, panting. If somehow the portal did have something like a consciousness it would understand, right?

Millimetre by millimetre the iron tool went back in, while Gerry grunted with exertion and pain. It felt like an eternity, and he thought of Jon with mounting horror, of what this must be doing to him. It was only halfway in and Gerry felt the skin of his palm start to blister. This was going way too bloody slow. "Come on, help me!" he shouted and shoved with all his strength. 

And that did it — well, it did something. With a violent jerk, the tool was yanked through the crack which spat golden fire, a miniature volcanic eruption of energy — Gerry was too stunned to do anything but follow the motion. He let go the instant the hook was about to disappear into the rift, but was not fast enough to avoid slamming his hand against the glowing gap. He cried out in shock as his skin split and blood immediately started pouring down his arm.

There goes another sweatshirt, Gerry thought as he took the garment off and wrapped his hand in it, wincing. He stared at the rift for a second. It appeared to have calmed down, returning to its regular soft wafting glow, but… was it longer than before? Gerry shook himself, then turned and  quickly took the stairs up to the hall.

When he entered the kitchen he stopped dead because it seemed to be deserted, until he realised that Tim and Sasha were crouching on the floor behind the large table. Jon was lying between them, body limp and head in Sasha’s lap, while Tim was patting his cheek. Sasha looked up at Gerry’s approach. "He’s out cold!"

Gerry got down to his knees next to them, pressing his throbbing hand against his stomach. The fabric of his improvised bandage felt distinctly heavy and wet already.

"How long has he been unconscious?" he asked, taking Jon’s wrist with his left hand and feeling for his pulse. There it was, fast and weak. Sasha had her lips pressed together, cradling Jon’s head.

Tim sucked in a sharp breath. "Under a minute. Gerry, what the fuck is going on? Where did you— Jesus, what happened to your hand?"

------

Jon came to with a noisy exhalation, intensely confused. There were blurry faces staring down at him, and he couldn’t help his ragged breathing, even though it hurt.

There were several sighs coming from the people around him, sounding… relieved?

"Jon," a familiar voice said. "How’re you doing?" Ah, Gerry.

"O…kay?" he rasped, not entirely certain of that fact. He suddenly realised that someone was holding his hand. He blinked up at another indistinct shape that slowly clarified.

"Oh— god," he stammered, "Tim…?" He stared at his dead friend in disbelief.

"Yup, that’s my name," Tim said with a worried smile.

"I, uhm…" Jon covered his eyes against the tears rapidly filling them and uttered a broken "Fuck."

Tim squeezed his hand. "I mean— I do sometimes provoke extreme reactions in people, but this is new? I guess I’m… flattered?"

Oh yes. His muddled brain was slowly untangling itself and he realised that this was not his Tim. It didn’t exactly help with the tears though, because this was also the moment he remembered that Martin was still in another bloody universe.

He wiped his face on his sleeve, lifted himself up to a sitting position with Sasha’s help and winced, moaning softly. Why was he doomed to be so unbelievably sore all the time?

Gerry sat down heavily next to him and put his left hand between his shoulder blades, propping him up. Sasha crouched in front of him and Gerry, scrutinising them. "That’s it, we’re taking you to A&E, both of you. Christ."

"But I’ll be going to the hospital on Monday anyway … !" Jon croaked, then looked around puzzled, wondering why she’d said both.

"Jon, you passed out from pain," Sasha said, exasperated.

"Yes, but I’m f-fine now. And, and anyway, the problem is entirely pa— psychological. What’s a regular doctor going to do about it?"

"Do not argue with me. You look like a ghost and Gerry’s apparently messed up his hand."

Jon looked to his right. It was hard to tell, because all Gerry ever wore was obviously black, but the fabric that was wrapped around his right hand looked a little soggy.

"I’m fine!" Gerry huffed. His answer was punctuated by a shudder. Jon opened his mouth to protest, but was pre-empted by Sasha hissing: "OK? Then show me your hand! Because this thing is fucking soaked in blood!"

Tim, who had been watching the three of them with a very lost air about him, finally sprung into action. "You guys have a first aid kit, right?"

Sasha, locked in a weird staring contest with Gerry, growled: "Under the sink."

Tim held his hand out to Gerry to help him up. "OK, come here." He led him over to the sink and started to unwrap the hand, then grabbed the first aid kit from the cupboard while Gerry held his injury underneath the running tap. Tim resurfaced and had a closer look. "This looks… bad. I think you need stitches. How on earth did you do this?"

"I can’t believe you two," Sasha groaned, while Tim packed gauze on top of Gerry’s palm and then wrapped a bandage around the hand haphazardly. Gerry remained silent, peering at Jon, who was still sitting on the floor, head fuzzy.

Sasha suddenly gasped, then leaped up. "Oh fantastic. Jon, you’re bleeding. Alright let’s go now. I’ll drive." Jon looked down at himself, stunned. A little to the left of his sternum there was a dark spot growing on his green jumper.

"No, I’ll drive!" Tim was still holding Gerry’s hand up between them.

Sasha rolled her eyes, digging for her keys in her handbag. "Tim, you’ve had two beers, you’re not driving."

Jon looked at his jumper with dismay. "Oh. I really liked that one," he muttered. Tim let go of Gerry and knelt down next to him, handing him a wad of gauze. "Alright, alright. Wow, you guys are… I don’t even know. Hold that there?" Jon stuffed the gauze underneath his jumper on top of his bloody dressing and pressed down, grimacing.

"Sasha, I can do it— you hate driving." Gerry said with forced calm.

"Yes, well, you’ll thank me when you don’t have to bleed all over your steering wheel!" Sasha furiously upended her bag and then grabbed the keys. "Let’s go before I change my mind and call an ambulance."

Gerry sighed, defeated, then walked over to Jon. "Do you think you can get up?"

Jon looked a little desperately at his shaking knees. "I don’t think so. Sorry."

"OK, that’s fine, I know what…" Gerry bent down and made to hook his arms underneath Jon’s armpits, but Tim dragged him back by his T-shirt. "Gerry don’t. Keep your hand above your shoulders. I’ll carry him."

"Well, this is getting embarrassing," Jon muttered, when Tim picked him up effortlessly. "You’re very portable," Tim said, flashing a disarming smile at him before turning serious again. "Does it hurt?" Jon shrugged. It was rather hard to tell what he was feeling apart from a bit disconnected, still.

They filed into Gerry’s car, Sasha in the driver’s seat and the rest of them in the backseat. Gerry and Tim made Jon lie across them, head and shoulders in Gerry’s lap and legs in Tim’s. Jon looked up at Gerry, swallowing down a rush of anxiety. "Are you… You look a bit— well, even whiter than usual."

Gerry let out a weak laugh. "Not funny, Jon."

Tim snorted. "It is, a little bit."

And then all of Jon’s further questions died in his throat because he was too busy holding on for dear life. Sasha really was a terrible driver.

Chapter Text

When Sasha successfully parked the car next to the entrance of John Radcliffe A&E there was a collective groan of relief emerging from the backseat. 

Tim lifted Jon carefully out of the car, while Jon was very occupied breathing through the stinging pain in his chest. The shock was dissipating and it started to make itself known with a vengeance. 

Gerry stepped groggily onto the pavement and started rummaging in his jeans pockets with his left hand. 

"Can you guys go ahead with Jon? I just… really need a cigarette."

His muttered request was met with three appalled faces. 

"This is really not the time! You look like you’re about to fall over!" Sasha exclaimed, while Tim said, in a more appeasing tone: "You are bleeding through an inch of gauze, mate."

Gerry looked at his right hand, the thick bandage already stained red. A stubborn frown appeared on his face. "I’ll only be two minutes, I swear. Just… give me that, please."

Jon realised that his friend was trembling badly.

"Gerry…" he said, from his awkward slump in Tim’s arms. "I— I need you to go in there with me. Please."

Gerry looked at his crumpled pack of cigarettes; then he looked at Jon and exhaled, long and shaky. "Alright."

Sasha was offering her arm to him, and Gerry let himself be led by her towards the entrance behind Tim and Jon. "God, you look awful," she murmured and squeezed him gently. "Please don’t faint. As much as I would love to carry you like a blushing bride…" Gerry and Tim snorted. Jon grumbled. "…I don’t want to ruin my back."

------

It being a Saturday night, it took a while for them to be put up on two adjacent examination tables in the busy department. 

"Uhm, can you leave the curtains open? We came in together, we’re friends," Jon said to the young, unfamiliar doctor donning gloves next to him.

Gerry smiled crookedly at him from his perch on the table, where another slightly overwrought looking doctor unwrapped the bandage from his awfully throbbing hand. 

She examined the two parallel lacerations, both starting at the base of his thumb; one went up between his ring and middle finger, the other right up to the top of his ring finger. They looked ugly and deep, still bleeding sluggishly, and they cut right through the blistering burn in the middle of his palm. Gerry swallowed down a wave of dizziness and looked away.

"This will hurt some," Dr. Soon (as per her name-tag) said. "I have to inject a local anaesthetic, but that’ll be the worst of it." She set to work and Gerry grit his teeth and fought very hard to not make some pathetic noise. 

He tried to concentrate on Jon to distract himself, who had lifted his jumper and T-shirt, baring his chest to the frowning doctor who picked bloodied gauze from his soaked dressing, asking: "So how did this happen, anyway?"

Jon rubbed his face tiredly. "I’ve only been released from here, uh, two days ago actually. I’ve been stabbed. Almost three weeks ago." He looked over at Gerry, who had just opened his mouth to speak, glaring at him meaningfully. Gerry just lifted an eyebrow. Jon obviously didn’t want him to say anything, but Gerry was absolutely certain he didn’t have a plausible story ready.

Dr. Soon was done with her awful injections and a blissful numbness spread through his hand.

"He passed out," Gerry said, with an almost steady voice, and Jon huffed, annoyed. "I heard him go down and slipped on the tiles when I ran to him, had a mug in my hand and it broke." He considered with pride and worry how it had taken him a very short amount of time to perfect the art of lying to health professionals. He didn’t even blush anymore.

Jon’s doctor carefully peeled away his bandage and grimaced. "The top half is healing nicely, but then further down—" he started cleaning the wound, and from the look on Jon's face that obviously stung— "this looks… How on earth did you do this?" He looked at Jon and Gerry by turns, aghast. Jon sighed. "I don’t even know, I think I fell on something when I, uh, lost consciousness. Corner of my desk, maybe."

The doctor blinked at him. "Well, we’ll need to X-ray that immediately. Mr. Sims, this looks like you fell on another knife."

------

Jon found himself in a hospital room, again, very similar to the one he’d spent the better part of the past three weeks in. Of course they had contacted Dr. Siddiqui after patching him up, even though the laceration was quite banal (in Jon’s opinion at least), and now he had to stay overnight. She would come in in the morning to look at him (and probably murder him, as Sasha had repeatedly predicted). She would definitely have something to say about him fainting randomly.

He had saved the polaroid from the pocket of his trousers before they put yet another hospital gown on him and was twiddling with it sleepily.

There was a soft knock on the door and then Gerry came shuffling in, still looking excessively pale. He collapsed into the chair next to Jon’s bed, gingerly laying his bandaged hand on his thigh. 

"Tim has dragged Sasha to the cafeteria to feed her some cake. I think she’s finally had it with you," he said, sounding both deadpan and very tired.

"I’m fine, they’re just overcautious. And they love to administer IV-fluids for some reason. Must be something in my aura." Jon held up his right hand with the all-too-familiar needle stuck in the back of it.

Gerry scowled at him. "Well, you’re apparently not fine if they want to keep you overnight."

"I am though! It’s just a flesh wound." He flashed Gerry a tentative grin. 

"You’re horrible," Gerry said hoarsely, then winced.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. "How many stitches did you get?"

"I don’t know, a couple?"

"Gerry, how many."

"Eleven, OK? I think it was eleven."

"Good lord." Jon crossed his arms and demonstratively stared at the ceiling with a pinched face, taking a deep breath. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Gerry laughed, incredulous. "Are you mad at me? For stopping your boyfriend accidentally murdering you?!"

Jon sputtered. "He wasn’t…!"

"I am so, so sick of seeing you hurt, alright?" Gerry interjected, red splotches appearing on his cheeks. "I‘m on the verge of, oh I don’t know, pulling a wardrobe in front of the goddamn thing! Or maybe we could glue it shut, wouldn’t that be something!" His voice had grown loud at the end of the sentence, and Jon saw a nurse stop in front of the window to the hall through the blinds. He grabbed Gerry’s left hand, hissing frantically: "Don’t shout! I’m sorry!"

"I’m also very sick of you saying sorry!" Gerry hissed back and then slumped forward, pressing his face into the mattress next to Jon’s ribcage, whispering: "The way you… screamed when that thing went through, I… ugh, fuck. That will haunt my dreams."

"Christ, I’m sor…" Jon choked himself off. He hesitantly dragged his fingers through Gerry’s hair. Gerry twitched, then hummed wetly.

"Are you crying?" Jon murmured, confounded.

"No?" Gerry mumbled into the mattress, voice thick.

"Listen," Jon said quietly, stroking through the soft black strands, "you won’t want to hear this, but… I‘d rather be hurt by him every day for the rest of my life than never hear from him again."

Gerry sniffed. "I know." He looked up at Jon with red-rimmed eyes. "It’s no excuse, but I’m really exhausted, and this," he lifted his right hand, "fucking hurts, and I haven’t even had a cigarette yet."

"I appreciate you coming to see me after being stitched up without even taking a smoke-break. I’d be chain-smoking if my lungs weren’t so gammy," Jon said gravely.

Gerry grinned at him, then rubbed his eyes. "Why do you think this happened though, why now?" He pointed at Jon’s newly dressed stab-wound underneath his hospital gown. "Why not before? I mean it obviously hurt you, but never physically harmed you."

Jon shrugged. "If only I knew—"

The nurse poked her face through the crack in the door. "Mr. Delano, it’s time for you to go home. You should both rest," she said mildly.

Jon glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after midnight.

"We’ll pick you up in the morning, then?" Gerry said, getting up from the visitor’s chair.

"Please. And you can tell Tim— well, everything. He deserves to know, especially after all of that."
 
Gerry scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sure. That’s going to be fun."

------

Martin slipped the hook in at the bottom of the gap and then pulled down. He was wearing old stained work gloves he’d found in the pantry, which gave him quite a decent grip on the twisted iron handle of the poker. He nevertheless immediately felt the thing growing warm, proportionally to the rift itself growing brighter. A subtle sound started filling the room — a rushing, or a humming. It might just have been the exertion though, the sound of Martin’s own blood rushing in his ears. 

He gave it another forceful jerk, and the portal made a horrible creaking sound, and then sparks started flying from it. Martin gasped and, driven by desperation and excitement, tore down even harder. Was it actually…? He squinted through the glaring light and then yelled "Yes!" It was cutting down, he was actually, finally, making that thing bigger!

His exhilaration didn’t last long. The sucking pull the rift had on all objects coming into it’s vicinity did suddenly step up a notch, and Martin had to hold on to the handle with all his strength, but it didn’t help — the poker was slipping through accompanied by a deafening screech, until the handle jammed, too hefty to pass. Martin scowled and took a deep breath. He couldn’t let his most successful endeavour to escape this universe end like that.

Weirdly enough, before he even started pulling on the poker in earnest, it started moving back in his direction on its own. He frowned, and tugged experimentally on the handle, and an outlandish, nauseating feeling swept through him — he suddenly had a vivid image of a cat being stroked the wrong way. He would have laughed if it didn’t make him feel so shaky and awful. 

When the poker was halfway out, the rift flared up blindingly and Martin had to squeeze his burning eyes shut against it; and then the tool was forcefully shoved through and out and Martin yelped and landed on his arse. Something spattered across his face and down the front of his shirt.

Martin just sat there for an indefinite amount of time, trembling and panting. The air was thick with a metallic tang and something that reminded him awfully of burning flesh. He could feel a massive bruise forming on his tailbone and groaned. Finally, he managed to prise open his cramping fingers, and the poker clattered to the floor. He clumsily took off the gloves, and dragged his hands down his sweaty face, then looked at them, blinking. That was… definitely blood. What the hell…? He frantically touched his face, then examined his arms and hands but… nothing. The old cuts on his fingers were long healed. He was covered in droplets of someone else’s blood. 

He swallowed thickly and let his gaze wander to the poker lying on the floor between his legs. It looked strangely warped, the end half melted into a frayed and twisted stump — rendered completely useless. He felt like crying.

From the top of the basement-stairs came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

"Martin," Annabelle said, and it sounded almost soft, pitying. He twisted around and stared up at her, utterly numb. Her head was tilted and her eyes dark and glinting. "Why are you still here?"

------

"Let’s have some tea," Annabelle said, smiling enigmatically. "You can make it yourself, too."

Martin wanted to shake her so badly until her teeth rattled. Instead he mechanically filled up the kettle and turned on the stove, then pulled the teapot, teabags, two porcelain cups and saucers from the cupboard, glaring at her impassive face intermediately.

"You’re more of a butcher than a philosopher, huh," she said, taking a seat at the kitchen table and kicking out her legs.

He bristled. "I beg your pardon…?"

"This is a great universe Martin, very diaphanous. But it’s not for you and your thick head."

"For fuck’s sake, stop insulting me and just tell me what’s going on!" He slammed the teapot on the counter and then pulled on his hair, feeling the childish urge to throw something at her. She would never let him, of course. "You, you come back here after weeks and pretend to be surprised I’ve not been, what, eaten by the bloody fog? I’m not stupid, Annabelle! Why are you trying to feed me to the Lonely?" His voice was high and reedy and chills were running down his arms and back.

"Who says that you are being fed to anything?"

"This is useless. Why am I even talking to you? You enjoy being infuriating!" He forcefully deposited the sugar-bowl and a tin of condensed milk next to her on the table. 

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Alright, Martin dear. I’m to check on the house until the passage closes. Happy now?"

"Bloody hell, did you just give me one piece of genuine information?" he squeaked furiously.

"I even have some advice for you, if you want it — since you seem to be a little slow on the uptake," she said darkly. Her perpetual smile was frozen on her face. "Stop meddling with forces you don’t understand. You don’t know what kind of harm you could be doing."

Martin flinched at the atypical severity of her voice, almost burning his hand at the whistling kettle. "What… what do you mean by that?" He stared wide-eyed into her mask-like face.

"If I were you I would refrain from poking the portal with anything that’s bigger or… sharper than let’s say… a piece of paper." Annabelle gazed at him evenly. "You do want to return to Jon, don’t you?"

He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a fish out of water. "What… I… I don’t understand! I mean, yes, of course, but… how am I supposed to squeeze through a gap that is less than half an inch wide and cuts you when you touch it? And do not tell me to just turn into fucking mist, because it does not work like that!" He ripped the lid from the teapot, threw two teabags in and then started shakily pouring in the steaming water from the kettle.

She shook her head. "You weren’t even supposed to come here with me, you know. You can thank Jon for that, by the way. And your own stubbornness, probably."

"Well, I did! Come with you. And your solution can’t be keeping me trapped in this house forever!" He slumped down on a chair next to her, burying his face in his hands. His skin was still tacky with  drying blood.

"That is not what I’m doing, Martin. I’ve shown you the door. You must walk through yourself."

"Is this all I’m going to get from you?" he mumbled into his hands. He felt a horrific headache stirring behind his temples.

"Perhaps not. Pour the tea, dear."

So he did. And he added milk and sugar with precise movements despite the shivers wracking his body. Annabelle took a sip and hummed, contented. "You are good at that, at least." Then she put her cup down and grabbed her leather messenger bag from underneath her chair. She pulled out a dark green folder. "I was going to 'post' this so to speak, but since you’re still here… don’t open it in this world." She handed it to him and he took it, nonplussed. It was light and rather thin, made from a nice marbled cardboard. He wasn’t able to look inside, obviously.

"What’s that?"

"Oh, just some harmless forgery I partook in. It’s a gift." She emptied her teacup with three large gulps, then got up and made for the foyer. Martin followed her, helplessly clutching the folder.

"You’re leaving again?"

She didn’t deign that with an answer. When they reached the front door, she turned and looked up at him thoughtfully. "Try to figure it out soon. I get the feeling someone is going to do something very stupid if you don’t."

"Annabelle, you can’t just leave again! Just, please, tell me what to do!" He realised that he was begging. His voice was thick with unshed tears.

She gave him a long scrutinising look, then smiled ruefully. "I will almost certainly be punished for doing that, so don’t make me regret it. I just… would hate for you to go to waste, to be honest. And who knows what our dear Archivist will get up to without you. So… you know what, Martin?" She pressed her hands against his cheeks and stared at him with her fathomless eyes. "Don’t go outside."

Chapter Text

It was one o’clock in the morning, and Gerry, Sasha and Tim were standing in the foyer in front of the door to the basement.

"You don’t need to go down with us, Gerry. I wish you’d just go to bed," Sasha said and bumped him softly on the shoulder.

"I need to see if it’s… changed." Gerry knew he sounded petulant, fraught as he was with exhaustion and worry.

Tim looked at them both, arms crossed, exasperated. "Guys. What the hell is going on? Like, how will going down to your basement in the middle of the night help me understand what’s happening here?"

"Tim…" Sasha was wringing her hands now. "So remember when I said that we might not have given you all the pertinent information… about Jon, and how he came to live with us?"

"Yeah, no shit!"

"Uhm… it will be easier if you just— just take a look at something."

Tim huffed and scratched his head. "Alright. But you better not be taking the piss out of me," he muttered, then followed Sasha and Gerry down the stairs. 

When they filed into the room one after the other, Tim stumbled and almost crashed hips first into the washing machine. "What the…?"

"Yeah," Sasha and Gerry sighed in unison.

------

Gerry was sprawled on the sofa, head on Tim’s shoulder, while Sasha was pacing up and down the living room like a slightly overexcited schoolteacher, gesticulating wildly and giving a dazed-looking Tim a summary of the events of the past three weeks, with occasional tired interjections by Gerry. Her account was a little fragmented, but then they were all three of them quite overtired and jittery. 

When she was done, she slumped down onto the sofa next to them and took a large swig from the juice carton on the coffee table. 

 Tim let his head thunk against the wall behind him. "Well, friends, this is it — the undeniably weirdest shit you’ve ever gotten yourselves into. We should drink to that."

"We can’t get pissed, you know that, right? We have to pick Jon up in the morning," Gerry mumbled, scowling up at him with half-lidded eyes.

Sasha shook the carton in his general direction. "Gerry, this is juice. Because also I have to finish writing a fucking article until Tuesday. Good god." She dragged her hand down her face.

"I can pick him up! You can write your thing, and everybody will be happy that you’re not driving the car," Tim said, twisting towards her and immediately having to dodge an angry sweep of Cawston Press Cloudy Apple.

"Firstly: fuck off. And secondly, uh, you don’t even know Jon, you don’t have to…"

"That’s completely irrelevant. And also… is it weird that I think he’s kind of cute?"

Gerry blinked at Tim, befuddled. Sasha snorted, put the carton down, and grabbed him by the ears.

"Tim. Timothy. My friend. My love. Promise me not to start flirting with Jon. He is not built for that."

Tim grinned in a way that almost convinced Gerry that he was messing with them. "No! Of course not. I’ll wait until he’s all recovered, don’t worry."

Sasha rolled her eyes and collapsed dramatically into the sofa cushions. "You horrible fiend!"

"He is also spoken for. In a cosmically significant way," Gerry said, and made a convoluted gesture with his left hand.

"What the hell does that mean…?" Tim groaned, and Sasha answered, deadpan: "Yeah Gerry, don’t be cryptic. It just means Jon has a boyfriend in that parallel universe."

"Ooookay. Now I’m definitely having a beer. Maybe something stronger even." Tim gently shoved a very sleepy Gerry off his arm and made for the kitchen.

Sasha huffed. "Just as long as you’re sober at nine a.m. I guess."

------

Tim had crashed on the sofa and was very sober at nine in the morning, and awfully chipper. Gerry felt incredibly hungover without having had a single drop of alcohol since the half pint he’d had with his pizza last night, which he’d had to abandon halfway through to save his roommate from being skewered by a fire poker from another universe.

He grimaced, trying to tie his boots with his thickly bandaged hand. Tim of course immediately knelt down on the tiled hallway floor to do it for him. 

"Tim, you don’t have to…"

"Shush. Sasha? Can we take your car keys? Gerry’s are upstairs."

Sasha exited the kitchen with her obligatory large mug of very strong coffee, looking frazzled. "Sure, it’s in my bag. Gerry, have you heard anything from Jon?"

"No?"

"Jesus, do you think Dr. Siddiqui is eating him alive right now? Or, god, do you think she’ll eat us alive because we haven’t looked after him well enough?"

------

The doctor was watching with a pinched expression as Tim helped Jon into his wheelchair.

"Alright," she said, unhappily, "I’ll see you tomorrow, Jonathan. Try to not obtain another grievous injury until then." She moved her sharp eyes up towards Gerry. "You too, Mr. Delano." Gerry cleared his throat and tucked his right hand behind his back, nodding.

Jon looked as though he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, but he was clearly happy about his pick-up committee, giving them little tired half-smiles as they escorted him out of the hospital.

"Alright boys, looks like I’ll be driving you home and then tucking you both into bed!" Tim teased after he had helped them both climb into the car.

"Yes, mummy," Gerry groused mildly, well aware that the dark shadows circling his eyes were competing with Jon’s.

"Sure, uhm, but —" Jon was taking a bracing breath, side-eyeing Gerry; preemptively gearing up for an argument, "— I need to go down to the basement first. I mean — Tim, I need you to carry me down there. If that’s alright."

"I know you do," Gerry groaned, resigned.

Tim eyed them through the rear mirror. "I mean… I haven’t got anything else on today, so yeah, why not? Is it going to be spooky?"

------

As soon as Tim had opened the door and gone down three steps, Jon felt the pull of the rift in his chest tearing. He inadvertently gasped and felt his hands cramp around Tim’s arms. Tim stopped abruptly and turned his head. "What’s wrong?"

"Mh, it’s— a lot. But go on," Jon ground out, trying desperately to not sound as rattled as he felt by the red-hot pain lancing through him.

"Is it your wound?" Gerry said behind him, alarmed.

"Well, yes. I can feel the connection more… intensely now." He squirmed impatiently. Tim didn’t move. He was obviously waiting for Gerry to give him the green light.

"Jon, promise to immediately tell us if it gets too much."

"I promise."

"Alright." Gerry sounded grim, but they continued their descent.

Tim deposited Jon gently on top of the washing machine, then moved to his left side. He could feel Gerry to his right, gripping his hand. "Okay?"

Jon nodded and tried to breathe through the pain, glad the black fabric of the blindfold was hiding his eyes tearing up. He could feel the damage that the fire poker had done, not only to his body but to the passage itself, and it filled him with a deep sense of unease.

"Gerry…" Tim whispered, awed, "is it getting… brighter?"

Gerry sucked in a sharp breath. "Yeah. Uh. We'd better leave. Jon?"

Jon realised he had started shaking, his head numb with syrupy light choking all his thoughts, but still managed to rip off the scarf around his head and stammer: "W-wait!"

And then he saw.

The crack was definitely longer than it had been before, and the golden glow was solidifying into shapes, nonsensical at first, but then there it was — gleaming threads, connecting him to the rift, and expanding into a figure, larger than any of them, many limbed and many winged and… Jon blinked, and it was gone. There was just a forceful tug and he curled in on himself, hissing, and Tim scooped him up and made for the stairs.

The painful pull in his chest turned into a familiar sting. "Gerry, letter," he wheezed, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Got it," he heard Gerry say, and then his footsteps followed them up into the hallway and on to the living room, where Tim sat Jon down on the sofa.

"Jesus!" Tim laughed awkwardly. "That was spooky! You alright?"

"Yes," Jon sighed, rubbing his face. Gerry sat down next to him and handed him the note, scowling. "Next time you decide to rip the blindfold off please tell me beforehand. These trips are already scary enough as is!"

Jon flinched. "Sorry. I’m- sorry."

"It’s alright. Read your letter," Gerry grumbled. 

Jon did, skimming the piece of paper, then holding it out to his friend, a wild mixture of emotions churning in his stomach. Worry, fear, relief. 

"Gerry. He knows."

------

Jon,

I’m not going to try and open that thing by force anymore. Annabelle (who came back for a bit and was being extra frustrating) was acting very ominous about it. 

If I have damaged something or, Christ, Jon, have I done something to you? If I have hurt you, even more than I already h I could never forgive myself.

I might have some other ideas now. Not good ideas per se, but, well. I am NOT giving up. This place is apparently more interesting than I thought. OR — it’s also possible that I’m going a bit insane.

Just joking. I’ll keep you updated.

God, I need you to be alright. Please be OK.

I love you

Martin

------

At one o’clock in the morning in a different universe, Martin stood at the foot of the staircase leading to the upper floor of the house on Hill Top Road.

He took a deep breath and lifted his right foot and — nothing. He moved onto the first step effortlessly, another one of Annabelle’s compulsions finally lifted from him. Slowly, heart racing and breath trembling, he ascended the dark wooden staircase, his hand dragging along the polished bannister.

He arrived in the upstairs hallway; even after he’d found the switch in the wood panelling the light remained dim up here. The air was very stuffy. He counted five doors, all of them standing open; four of them turned out to be bedrooms, three full of covered furniture, oozing dusty neglect.
 
He walked past a large white-tiled (suspiciously clean) bathroom complete with a clawfoot tub, and couldn’t help an incredulous "Ha!" escaping him. "You absolute bastard," he grumbled. "Could have just said 'don’t go to my room', but no — left me to wash myself like a medieval peasant for three weeks!"

Annabelle’s room — the only one without dust sheets, dominated by an obviously slept in bed — was actually rather nice and tidy. Except for a hulking piece of furniture that Martin reluctantly identified as a dressing table, which was absolutely cocooned in web. He shuddered, then rolled his eyes. "Of course! Now that’s pleasant."

A few rather sizeable spiders slowly crawled out of their hiding places in the sticky mass. They eyed him curiously. Expectantly? Stop anthropomorphising, Martin scolded himself.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely nothing else in the sparse room she could have wanted him to suddenly have access to. The wardrobe stood ajar and empty, as did a small dresser and bedside table. The bed had a simple wooden frame and was covered in rumpled sheets. His eyes traveled back to the ominous dressing table and he groaned. He was not going to touch this mess with his bare hands.

He ran back down the stairs to the foyer and from there to the basement, picking up his discarded work gloves and the misshapen poker. While he was down there, he threw a withering glare at the rift. It was still almost two inches longer than it had been before his questionable adventure a couple of hours ago.

Back in the gloomy bedroom, gloves donned and poker brandished, he stepped up to the table and carefully started clearing off the worst of the cobwebs with his tool, muttering: "Fair warning — if there’s anything resembling an… egg-sack, I’m absolutely going to scream."

More spiders appeared, of different sizes and species, but none of them seemed in a particular hurry to escape his ministrations; they rather stepped to the side or moved up to the web-covered mirror in a manner that seemed as absurdly polite as it was cautious.

It became quickly obvious what these overzealous spiders had so enthusiastically enveloped: books. Approximately as many books as had been missing from the bookshelf in the library downstairs which the spiders had also been extremely fond of.

Martin gingerly pulled them from the web and wiped them clean to look at the covers. There were a few folded maps of the area, train-tables, six volumes of a not terribly outdated encyclopaedia, a doorstopper of a history textbook, and a couple other non-fiction books that would definitely help someone navigate a world they were new to (and which had not, to all appearances, invented the internet). He also dug out a gorgeous deck of tarot cards of all things.

And then, of course, there was the subject of the strange 'science' again.

Underneath layers of sticky web appeared four books that resembled those he had found discarded in the library — nice linen covers with embossed lettering, all crammed full with various ripped pieces of paper Annabelle had obviously used as bookmarks.

Martin cautiously eyed the spiders as he gathered the books in his arms to carry them downstairs. The spiders made no attempt to stop him. They just sat there, eerily still, and watched him leave.

He took the books to the drawing room and flopped down on the sofa, studying the covers.

Guardians of the gates, the first one read, and, on the back: The initiate’s guide to metaphysical communication and travel.

Then there was A meditation on unknowable deities beyond observable reality followed by Ancient Voyagers. Theories on extraterrestrial forces and their trans-dimensional migration patterns.

"Uhm, what…?" Martin murmured.

The last one looked to be almost falling apart, broken-spined and dog-eared, the pages warped from water damage.

Transcendental Companions the title proclaimed in sober black lettering. Talents, gifts and burdens of Favourites. 

When Martin flipped it open he flinched at a tiny spider crawling rapidly to the edge of the page and abseiling itself to quickly disappear beneath the sofa. "Christ," he grumbled, and continued thumbing through the book, revealing numerous scribbles and even small drawings left in the margins.

Martin shrugged, slumped into his lumpy pillows and, eyes burning with fatigue, began to read.

Chapter Text

Jon woke up on Monday morning from yet another hazy, disorienting nightmare that felt both familiar and utterly incomprehensible. He only remembered fragments — a few distorted noises and dark, blurry shapes that could have been faces, or something completely alien. It felt like echoes of memories that tried to reach out to him across a vast gulf of… space? Time? It was impossible to hold on to any of it. "Martin?" he gasped into the grey twilight and threw his arm to the side. Nothing. The right side of the bed was cold and empty. Confusion washed through him, followed by a deep stab of disappointment. How did he keep forgetting?

He groaned and dug himself out of his tangled sheets, sweaty and slightly nauseous. The little alarm clock on his bedside table read 5:23 and there was a high plaintive sound coming from outside one of his windows. He put his glasses on and blinked at the large fluffy shape of O’Hara rubbing herself against the windowpane, unmistakably calling to be let in.

"Alright," he murmured, crept out of bed, and then slowly made his way across the room on his crutches. It took him a while to push the window open (curse his weak arms), but as soon as there was a big enough gap, the cat slipped in and greeted him with a head-butt and a noisy purr. Then she jumped down from the sill onto the carpet, looked at him meaningfully and made her way towards his bed. She climbed up elegantly and then flopped down on a spot on the mattress that was definitely still warm with his body heat, watching him with her expressive amber eyes. 

Jon hobbled back to the bed and flopped down next to her. "What’s brought this on?" he asked softly, frowning, scratching her between the ears. She just kept purring and closed her eyes. So he crawled onto the mattress next to her and curled around her warm form, pulled his duvet up, and fell asleep again like a stone falling into water.

------

Nine o’clock brought another trip to the hospital with Sasha driving him, who wasn’t actually that bad of a driver when she wasn’t in a hurry to save two of her friends from bleeding out — she was mainly just cursing a lot and had the unfortunate habit of braking unnecessarily sharply. On the drive back, Jon had almost gotten used to it. He just had to occasionally clutch the upholstery with gritted teeth.

Back in the kitchen with her, Jon tossed a stack of stapled sheets of paper on the table. It was a rather comprehensive diet plan, complete with spreadsheets he was supposed to fill out every day. "This is just… bullying," he groused. Dr. Siddiqui had brought in a different nutritionist who had not been cowed in the slightest by his murderous stare.

Sasha leaved through the print-outs, frowning, then looked at Jon with a scoff and a grin. "Stop making that face. This is easy! We’ve basically been doing this! We just have to start keeping record now. So… second breakfast? I got us some brioche."

------

In the early afternoon, when Sasha had banned them from the living room to write her article, Gerry and Jon had made themselves comfortable on top of Jon’s duvet, browsing Netflix for something to watch.

"How long will you be on sick leave?" Jon asked, eying the documentary section sceptically. 

Gerry, after a good night's sleep, did at least not resemble his own ghost so much anymore.

"A while. I’m not supposed to work with this hand for at least two weeks."

"What does Gertrude say to that?"

"Oh, she’s fine with it. Snarky, as usual, but she cares, in her own way."

"Huh." Jon found it difficult to imagine this much less ruthless version of Gertrude, who was apparently content selling books to students while throwing out the occasional scathing remark. Who was decent to her employees, even.

"Nothing to your liking? Not a fan of this universe’s light entertainment media?" Gerry snorted, after Jon had circled through the menu for the approximately thirteenth time.

"It’s not that— sod it." Jon closed the computer with a huff. He twisted towards his bedside table with a wince to grab Martin’s latest note and waved it in front of Gerry’s face. "I just— can’t stop wondering what he means by 'other ideas'. And am worried about 'not good ideas' obviously. And, uh, also, does it look like he wrote this in more of a hurry than usual? It’s kind of messy. He normally has a rather nice cursive. I don’t know what to think about this… !"

Gerry hummed. "He said he’d keep you updated though. So we may just have to wait a little? He did consistently write about one letter a day."

"I guess." Jon carefully rubbed his sternum. "I, uh. And… I know he also said he wouldn’t try to make the rift larger by force anymore, but… it… it did work. A bit."

"Jon. Stop."

Jon opened his mouth to retort something, bristling, but Gerry just held his good hand up between them.

"No. Listen. I may have known you only for about three weeks, but your face is a bit of an open book, and right now it reads 'I am having bad ideas because I’m a self-sacrificial idiot',“ he said, voice weary and soft.

Jon deflated, slumping against the headboard. "You… you can’t just expect me to sit and wait until Martin magically slips through the half inch crack between universes. He is very smart, but how is anyone supposed to figure this out? It sliced up your hand when you touched it! Apparently not even Annabelle can or will help him, and she is one of the most powerful avatars I’ve ever encountered. Anyway, she’s probably just toying with him… " Jon’s voice had started cracking again, turning into a rough whisper. 

Gerry sighed and squeezed his limp right hand with his left. "I’m not saying we sit and wait forever. Just… take a break now. Gather our wits. See what Martin comes up with. Rest. Alright? And definitely not mess with the newly fixed up stab-wound in your chest that connects to the inter-dimensional portal."

------

Martin did not send a note that day. Jon had to force himself to at least half-finish his supper, queasy with anxiety. He excused himself around eight p.m. to go to bed, re-reading all of Martin’s letters and staring at the wrinkled polaroid until his vision blurred. Then he turned off his reading lamp and stared at the dark ceiling instead, trying to breathe through his tight chest until his jittery exhaustion gave way to shallow sleep.

He woke from a soft tugging, as if there was a little hook buried between his ribs. When he opened his eyes, it was not to complete darkness. Right where the knife had pierced his chest a golden thread grew out of his pyjama shirt, stretching across the whole room and disappearing through the closed door. Jon got out of bed and followed it, bare feet treading softly on the carpeted floor.

The pull of the glowing thread led him through the hallway and the door to the basement and onto the staircase; for a moment he was overcome by an intense feeling of unreality because he was walking down the stairs by himself. But he quickly dismissed it as not important. He had somewhere to be.

The room was overly warm, filled with a strange aroma that reminded Jon of heated wood and beeswax or honey. It was also profusely bright, as if someone had installed a dozen stage-lights in the small space. The rift was a little supernova spilling out a kaleidoscope of golden patterns, oddly geometric and organic at the same time, until a vague figure had formed around it, a shifting mass of limbs and floating threads and wafting matter that could have been fabric or gauzy wings.

Jon watched it wide-eyed.

"…Archivist," it said, it’s voice discordant and haunting inside his head like a hundred church-choirs.

He flinched. "Why are you calling me that?"

"Oh, we see." The figure shifted forward. Jon inched back until his lower back hit the washing machine. "You resent that title. Would you like to be issued a new one?"

"N-no. How about you call me Jon."

That made it pause. Then it let out a hollow, metallic sound. Was it laughing? 

"Very well, Jon. We are very pleased to finally meet with you. You are difficult to talk to, because your dreams are not your own. Our siblings which you call Fears still own a piece of you."

Jon frowned. "I don’t remember them. My dreams. It’s like I’m not in this universe when I’m dreaming. I guess… I’m still not completely human, am I."

It — they were making that sound again, like a dozen large bells. No, they were definitely laughing.

"Oh no, you are as human as they come. You always have been. Eldritch forces making a plaything of you does not fundamentally change that." They punctuated 'eldritch forces' by unfolding several pairs of what looked suspiciously like large moth wings complete with abstract eyes glowing on them. The image dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. 

"O…kay? Is this the point where you tell me to 'Be Not Afraid'? Jon said, lifting an eyebrow and realising that he did, in fact, not feel afraid.

"Would you like us to?"

"Uhm. I mean… I’d rather choose how to feel about all this myself, I guess?"

"That might be wisest. We thought we would answer some questions for you — since you don’t have access to the Hungry Eye anymore. Which we plan on keeping that way. So, ask ahead!" They had too many not very human limbs to convey the gesture, but it did look like they tried mimicking putting their chin(s) on too many folded hands.

Jon huffed, then pushed himself up to sit on top of the washing machine. This felt weirdly familiar.

"Alright, well… who are you?"

"You can call us a guardian. Although that is a fragmented description of what our being encompasses. But it serves this purpose."

"You did try to talk to me before, didn’t you? Only it… hurt me, or— I couldn’t endure it, somehow.“ Jon remembered the abyssal headaches and nausea with a shudder. How curious then, that he felt completely fine now. 

The guardian hummed like a swarm of otherworldly bees. "We had to pull you out of your flimsy physical form in order to be able to talk to you. Which does not mean that it won’t affect you as a whole. As it happens, you cannot truly be separated from it. But the reason we can communicate in the first place is that you have been made a Favourite."

"You mean… an avatar?"

"You are being called Chosen, Instruments, Avatars, Playthings, and many other names. We would adhere to Favourites, since it is a very human — humane — way of looking at it. It is repeatedly used on more illuminated worlds."

"So…" Jon furrowed his brows at the shifting being, "are you telling me that this concept is not restricted to my world of origin? Eldritch entities have… Favourites in multiple… worlds— universes?"

"Oh yes. Where we inhabit domains, we create Favourites. It has been thus for aeons." The guardian moved in a whirling, sparkling pattern as if in excitement, then settled into slower, gentler movements.

"So this world is… your domain?"

They hummed again, deep and thoughtful, shaking their approximate head(s). "It is not 'our' anything. We do not delude ourselves like that. We are just passing through — we cannot stay in one universe longer than a few millennia. But we are protective of it."

Jon scoffed. "I thought there were no entities of love or hope. Gerry told me that."

The guardian scoffed back, imitating him, but they sounded more like a steam train than a human. "There aren’t. At least none that we know of. But then those concepts mean nothing to us…"

"But the concept of fear does?" Jon interjected rather sharply.

Their layered, echoing voice turned oddly soft. "We have looked at you and the place you came from, studied our siblings born from it, and we think we understand. As much as we can. As a food source, we find it impractical."

He blinked. "Oh? So what do you— eat?"

"Death."

Jon swallowed. He shifted his thighs, rubbing them awkwardly. "And that’s… practical?"

"Indeed. As long as there is life in the multiverse, it will have to expire and expel tremendous amounts of energy whilst doing so. We will not go hungry until the last star is extinguished. And then we will feed the birth of what comes after."

"I see. That is… uhm."

"You don’t need to understand. You’re not supposed to. Just know this: we have eaten the deaths of all who dwell here, including yours, and we will do so again. And again. This is our nature."

Jon took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts. He let his head sink into his hands. When he spoke, his voice came out rather rough. "So the universes are just chock-full of eldritch entities, travelling from world to world, gorging themselves on different aspects of humanity… and the Fears are… nothing special."

The guardian still sounded rather soft, almost pitying. "They are, hm, uncomfortable predators for sure. But rather trivial in the cosmic ecosystem. They are so very young, and not even conscious of themselves. Well— except for the one calling themselves Mother of Puppets."

Jon twitched. "Of course."

"They would have had to move on eventually, Jon. You opened a passage and sped up that process, nothing more."

"Is this supposed to… to comfort me?" His breath hitched and he dug his fingers into his palms.

"It is valuable information. Which does often comfort you. So yes."

"Information. Yes. Alright." Jon shook himself. He suddenly found it hard to concentrate. He felt his head growing rather heavy and fuzzy. "So what about Martin?"

The guardian made a noise akin to a sigh, and Jon felt it on his face like a gust of desert wind.

"He sought passage here with you, but you weren’t the only one opening doors. He had to succumb to another. We would gladly let him pass through your portal; but leaving it open for too long will be detrimental to you. Your fragile bodies are not made to sustain a trans-dimensional gateway for an extended period."

Jon’s hands were sweaty, his skin prickling. "But how is he supposed to pass through? I had to die to come here! Can you… eat Martin’s death, will that help him…?"

"That is an interesting way to look at it, if a bit backwards. Once he comes here, we will eat it so he can stay. He too is a Favourite though, Jon. He will find his way."

"That is… not an answer." Jon felt very familiar tremors run through his body, and a headache slowly starting to spread from the back of his skull.

"Not an answer you like, no. You need to leave now. We don’t want you to sustain any permanent damage." The guardian reached out with one of their many arm-like limbs, gripping the thread still sprouting from Jon’s chest, and twirled it between too many too long fingers.

Jon shook his head in desperation. "I can’t! I mean… will I see you again? I have so many questions!"

"We think not, not in this way, at least. You will see why. Your little human body needs to heal, and pulling you onto a plane where we can communicate is not facilitating that. But do not fret. There are other ways to receive answers to your questions. You could ask your Martin."

Jon groaned, dragging his shaking hands through his mussed hair. "So you’re saying I should just… wait it out, do nothing? Is there no way for me to help Martin, to, I don’t know— pull him through?"

They started tugging on the thread. Jon slipped from his seat atop the washing machine, stumbling towards them on wobbly legs. The shifting approximation of their face(s) was all at once very close to Jon’s own.

"We acknowledge that this might be difficult for you. You have fought long and hard to stay alive, retain your selfhood, protect the one you love. And now there is nothing you can do, or should do. You are already were you belong, Jon. You have arrived."

They yanked on the thread and it was ripped out of Jon’s chest and he gasped in surprise, stretching out his arms reflexively towards the guardian but they were just — gone. His hands met empty air and he struggled to find his balance in the suddenly almost pitch-black space. The rift was nothing but a thin sliver, glowing weakly. Sucking in quick, trembling breaths, Jon fumbled for the wall and made his way along it to the staircase. Light trickled down from the slightly ajar door to the foyer as he walked up the stairs swiftly, only to stop as if struck by lightning once he arrived on the ground floor. He stared at his feet. 

There was no cast on his right leg. He pulled up his pyjamas around his knee; there were also no pitted worm-scars, neither there nor on his arms, and his right hand was not stiff with the large burn-scar. Curious, he lifted his shirt to look at his torso. No dressing, no stab wound. His skin was smooth and unblemished, his belly soft. He had to suck it in to see his ribs.

"I… see," he murmured. When he opened the door to his room, O’Hara was waiting inside sitting next to it, watching him warily. He had left the window open before going to bed, hoping she would keep him company again. When he bent down to pet her, she recoiled from his hand with an affronted look, then slowly stalked towards his bed, glancing back at him repeatedly.

Jon followed her, stopping at the foot of the bed to have a long hard look at himself in the blueish light of dawn. 

His body looked more unconscious than asleep, his thin face slack and his bony arms lying limp on top of the duvet. He looked worn and grey, his hair a frizzy mess (because he hated the texture of the conditioner and refused to use it), and frown lines were carved deeply into his forehead. The cat jumped up and started purring, searching for a comfortable position atop sleeping Jon’s legs.

Awake Jon sighed softly and looked down his dream-form one more time. Then he crawled atop the bed and slipped back into his body with its aches and pains and its heavy, jittery heart, and let himself be enveloped by its deep dark sleep, O’Hara a grounding weight across his thighs.

Chapter Text

"Breakfast time! It’s beautiful and sunny out, Jon. Don’t you want to get up?"

------

"Hey Jon, it’s noon. Come on, you. Time to wake up now."

------

"Jon. Jon, hello. Jon, wake up. Jon. Please."

------

"Jonathan Sims, if you don’t wake up right now I’m driving you back to the hospital!" Sasha exclaimed, voice shaky.

"Hn?"

A quiet, croaky sound, while Jon’s slack features transformed into a frown. Gerry let out the heavy breath he’d been holding for what felt like hours. "Jon…?" he asked carefully, squeezing the cool, dry hands lying motionless on the cover. Jon’s frown deepened.

Sasha sat down on the mattress rather heavily, hands fluttering. "Ha! It worked! I knew I should have just threatened you… ouch!"

"Sash…?" Gerry looked up from Jon’s face to Sasha, holding her hand to her chest, lips twisted with indignation. O’Hara, curled up underneath Jon’s left arm, glared at her with her tail swishing back and forth.

"She bit me! The bloody cat just… bit me!"

Gerry sighed, feeling mushy and rather overwrought. "We know you love him O’Hara dear, but please just… chill, cat."

Jon finally blinked half an unfocused eye open and slurred "Wha’s…?"

Sasha leaned towards him, not letting the cat out of her sight. The cat in turn did watch her closely, ears pressed flat to her head. "It’s almost six p.m., Jon. You’ve been practically comatose for hours, we couldn’t wake you up."

Jon hummed, then yawned widely and mumbled: "S’ry. Had a… thing. Talk. Meeting?"

"You had a… meeting," Gerry said, voice tight.

"Mh." The eye fluttered shut again. Jon’s head lolled aside on the pillow, breath deepening.

"Don’t you dare." Sasha shook him rather ungently by the shoulder. O’Hara hissed out a warning.

"Stop menacing me, cat! Jon, stay with us; you need to eat and drink and take your medication. That’s non-negotiable."

Jon grumbled, but he blinked and tried to shift himself to a more upright position, only to immediately squeeze his eyes shut again and list to the side. Gerry grabbed him by one arm and O’Hara let out an annoyed growl. "Room’s… spinning?" Jon said, bewildered. Gerry and Sasha shared a look.

"Jon, what happened?" Gerry asked quietly. Jon just hummed and shuddered, chin dropping to his chest. "Jus’ let me… sleep. Need to…" He squinted at Gerry who just stared back at him, stiff with incredulity and worry. "Bit more sleeping please. T…trust me?" Jon just sounded so plaintive and exhausted. He licked his cracked lips, obviously trying very hard to keep holding Gerry’s gaze. His dark eyes were glazed with a strange far-away look.

"This first," Sasha interjected, voice shaky but stern, holding out a handful of pills and a mug in front of Jon’s face, "then you can sleep again."

Jon moaned, small and dejected, but let Sasha feed him his medication, washing it down with a few laborious gulps of lukewarm broth, while Sasha held both the mug and his chin to keep him from spilling it.

When Sasha took the mug away, Jon’s eyes had closed, his features smoothed out in sleep. Sasha took a deep, exasperated breath, but Gerry shook his head wordlessly. They eased Jon down into his pillows, and they waited.

------

Sleep dragged him along; a heavy, inescapable current. It was deep and dark and went on for a long time, and when he finally managed to dig himself out of its leaden embrace he almost didn’t notice — it was still so dark and quiet. There were small noises now though; and pressure, warmth, faint yellow light. Someone’s deep breaths right next to him, and a comfortable weight on his thighs. He blinked into the blurry twilight, breath stuttering and heavy limbs twitching.

"Jon. Are you awake?" a voice to his left whispered. Cool fingers were pushing his tangled hair from his forehead. "M-hm," Jon sighed. "Sasha?"

"Yes, it’s me. How are you feeling?"

Jon squinted at her dark and blurry face above him and tried to take stock of himself. His body felt a bit odd, cramped and uncomfortable, like ill-fitting clothing.

"Mm. Thirsty."

"Oh, I bet!" She took a mug from the bedside table and pressed it into his hands, then helped him raise it to his lips. He gratefully drank tepid herbal tea from it until there was nothing left.

There was a sleepy snuffle sounding from his right, where Gerry lay curled up, clutching a corner of the duvet with his left hand, bandaged right hand carefully resting against Jon’s ribcage. Across Jon’s legs O’Hara stretched luxuriously, doubling down on her rumbling purr.

"Time’s it?" Jon croaked, clumsily bending towards the cat and petting her fluffy flank.

"Time for breakfast," Sasha whispered, smiling crookedly. "Almost four thirty in the morning. That’s reasonable, right?"

------

Sasha wheeled Jon into the kitchen (pursued by a very grumpy cat) and to the table, then started to assemble her very elaborate version of savory porridge, complete with soft-boiled eggs and fried spring onions, while talking to him over her shoulder in a low voice.

"Best not wake Gerry yet, he only fell asleep like an hour ago. He didn’t leave your side for more than twenty hours. Do you remember anything? Or, rather— what is the last thing you remember?"

"Had an extremely vivid dream," Jon said, voice rough with… dehydration, probably, „— no, actually, I really don’t think that was a dream."

Sasha hummed, stirring butter into the oats on the hob. "Do you remember waking up yesterday evening? You weren’t all there I think. But you said some things."

"I— don’t. Uh. What did I— what did I say?" Jon was holding on to the edge of the table, feeling rather dizzy. His stomach was tied in a knot, hunger and nausea fighting for dominance. O’Hara mewed at him dolefully from the kitchen floor.

"You said you had a meeting. Anything rift-related maybe…?"

"Hah. You could say that." He dragged one shaky hand through his mussed hair, then held it down for the cat, who immediately started licking his fingers adoringly.

"And you are sure this wasn’t a dream, and you aren’t actually exhibiting alarming symptoms you promptly should go see a doctor for?"

"I’m… almost one hundred percent certain. I’m very sorry for obviously worrying both of you, though. I know it probably looked… looks— bad."

Sasha sat down next to him and eyed him wearily. "You still look a bit peaky. Breakfast first, then we’d better wait for Gerry to wake up so you have to tell it only once. It’ll be another…" she glanced at the timer on her phone, "six minutes. I promise you you’ll feel better with a full stomach. You can’t really afford to skip a meal you know, let alone three."

------

A couple of hours later, while Jon and Sasha were dozing in the living room, Gerry came crawling onto the sofa to curl up next to them, handing out mugs of sweet, strong tea.

Jon recounted his nightly visitation, surprised at the clarity with which he remembered the conversation with the guardian.

"So… being pulled out of one’s body to talk to a supernatural entity is apparently very… tiring. To say the least," Jon finished his account. He was still exhausted and slightly dizzy and happy not to move at all, but also oddly… calm. The constant flutter of anxiety, which had accompanied his every breath for so long, had abated for once.

Sasha and Gerry had listened to him without interjecting, wide-eyed but accepting as they always were of all the weird things relating to him. He felt suddenly suffused with a deep sense of gratitude. He grabbed Sasha’s right and Gerry’s left hand and squeezed them.

Sasha grinned tiredly. Gerry raised an eyebrow, then bumped Jon’s shoulder with his own. "You seem… different. Like your strings have been cut, but in a good way. That sounds weird, sorry."

"No, that’s… fair? I do feel different." Jon smiled, small and soft, then furrowed his brow, sighing self-deprecatingly. "I… think I know what to do, now, and I’m a bit ashamed of how difficult it seems to me."

"And what’s that?"

"Trust Martin."

------

Martin was having a strange dream. 

He knew it was a dream because Jon was there. Jon was talking to… an angel? That’s what they must have been. They were very tall and bright and had wings and too many limbs, floating in a cramped dark space that Martin was desperately trying to reach, but he ran and ran and didn’t make any distance — the image stayed the same. When he called out, the angel lifted one of their arms as if waving at him. Jon didn’t react. Martin stopped, frustrated, and something flared in the corner of his eye. He looked down at himself. 

There was a faint golden thread wrapped around his right hand. It connected him to the static image before him, disappearing in Jon’s back and then growing out of his chest, spreading into many thin threads that tangled with the shifting form of the… being. Down the centre of their torso ran a bright golden tear, spilling light like multiple volcanic eruptions. It looked oddly familiar.

Oh, Martin realised, puzzled, it’s the rift.

Jon stumbled closer to the being, pulled by the thread. Martin felt the tug on his wrist, but he still couldn’t move forward. Makes sense, he thought. I’m in another universe. That’s rather a long way away. 

He couldn’t hear them, either. Just a rushing static that seemed to ebb and flow with the movements of the golden figure. Suddenly they forcefully plucked the string, ripped it out of Jon’s chest, and disappeared. Jon floundered, casting about wide-eyed and he was looking at Martin, Martin could have sworn that he was seeing him and then he was… gone. Martin stared at the black abyss before him while the string around his hand slowly dissolved into nothing, whimpering no no no JON —

He woke with a jolt to the strange sensation of something heavy slowly slipping down his face. Whatever it was landed on the floor next to the sofa with a thunk. 

What the…? Oh. He had been reading, hadn’t he. Must have fallen asleep while working his way through Guardians of the Gates. He fumbled for the book lying on the carpet, limbs heavy and feeling rather dizzy. The book was lying face up, pages open to an elaborately inked depiction of an eyeless figure with a plethora of symmetrically arranged limbs, surrounded by an aura of complex geometric shapes. 

That sort of explains the dream, then.

As is well known, the page opposite stated, between the veils of reality shrouding the worlds a host of extra-dimensional beings dwell; in shape, consistency and activity so far removed from humanity as to be almost utterly unknowable to us. Our constraints of time and space do not apply to them; they freely and unbothered defy the laws of physics — and morality — which bind us. 

"Right," he murmured, head and arms hanging awkwardly from the edge of the sofa, and rubbed his gritty eyes. His mouth felt awfully furry, and his stomach growled loudly.

Any dealings with them, be they intentional or not, present both acute danger and golden opportunity to the initiate.

"Yeah, no kidding!" Martin groaned. Why on earth was he feeling like he’d been running a marathon and was having the worst hangover simultaneously?

He eyed the books scattered on the floor and sofa, gingerly picked up Transcendental Companions and then snapped Guardians shut and shuffled towards the kitchen with both of them. He was overdue a letter to Jon, and also tea would make everything about all of this more bearable, even if it was bloody Oolong.

------

"Uh, hello. So I gathered there is a high probability that you possess some kind of— consciousness."

Martin dithered in front of the softly glowing crack in the musty little cellar-room, crammed full with broken bottles and other detritus, and cobwebs. The rift looked… shorter than he had expected it to be. Was it shrinking more rapidly now? Or was that just due to the fact that he had maybe slept through a whole day without noticing? 

"Uhm. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I… well. I could really use your help."

He opened Transcendental Companions to one of its bookmarked pages, frowning at a certain passage he had reread again and again. 

"I think I know what I need to do, I just don’t exactly know how. I — I’m scared. I don’t want to lose myself. But I am willing to, to give myself to this— gift, to use it to… uh. You… I’m sure you know exactly what I mean. It doesn’t really matter, my rambling, does it. Sorry about that. Ok."

Martin swallowed hard, then rolled his eyes. Why was it so hard to not almost die of embarrassment, standing alone on the dirty floor in his frumpy, threadbare pyjamas, trying to pull off some sort of… incantation?

"Here goes nothing.

It is not me, I am not it. It is a weapon I wield, a tool. I call upon those who uphold the principles of… spiritual integrity. Gift me your protection, Guardians of Humanity,…

Ugh. Sorry. I— I’m an atheist, and this is so weird. Uhm.

Guardians of the Gates, grant me your blessing…?"

Martin took a deep breath, deposited the books on the floor, and stared into the pulsating light of the gate expectantly.

Nothing happened. 

He began to shiver in the cool, damp air of the basement.

He sniffed, and bent down to pick up the books. Had he gotten it wrong? Was he supposed to say something else? Or was there simply… nothing there? Were the people inhabiting this world just… incredibly delusional, and was Annabelle just an unbelievably conniving, gloating monster— even more than he had always believed her to be?

He stretched out his right hand for the books, and faltered. A strange image of something glinting in his hand crawled through his field of vision, and then—

He was stabbing Jon. He felt the knife slip in between his ribs, almost no resistance, just a soft little sob and behind the eerie glow of Jon’s irises there was nothing but love, just an endless sea of adoration and Jon was dying and as his eyelids fluttered shut the universe split with a deafening crack around them and that was them, they had opened the gates, together, two doors in one. Martin saw the golden string sprout from Jon’s bloodied chest and wrap around his own bloodied hand and they fell and in falling were torn apart but the string did not break…

The vision stopped abruptly and Martin was back in the small room, choking and gasping and fighting to stay upright on his jellied knees, hugging himself as tears streamed down his numb face. Fog was rising around him like violent ocean spray, soaking him to the bones in seconds. 

He knew it was very cold. He did not feel cold.

He wiped away his tears and straightened himself — unhunched his shoulders, lifted his chin. It felt weird, unnatural — he was so used to hide and stoop — until it didn’t. There was something large and calm and certain rising in him, and he looked at the rift, nodded, softly let his hands slide through the thick white fog.

"Thank you. I’m ready."

Chapter Text

Jon,

Sorry for not writing yesterday, and maybe even the day before? I’m not exactly sure. I have the weird sense that I’ve slept through a whole day without noticing? If so, I hope you didn’t worry.

I have good news, I think. Fair warning, this is going to be long and rambling. I’m using this letter to collect my thoughts as much as trying to explain to you what’s happening.

I’ve found some books (well, Annabelle let me find them), and have been reading a lot. That probably sounds weird. But it was important, is important. There’s something very strange going on in this universe. Has been going on for a while I guess; they’ve been working on scientific theories on entities (and the multiverse, and travelling between worlds) for who knows how long. Obviously, I can’t be sure if there is anything corroborating them. I’ve never paid much attention to developments in quantum physics to be honest.

I do not understand how they go about finding natural scientific explanations for these phenomena, these beings, but I guess it isn’t that relevant? If they are right then this is, well, interesting would be a ridiculous understatement. Revolutionary? If this isn’t some kind of collective delusion. Which I don’t think it is.

The point is that people in this universe have apparently found ways to deal with entities. On a personal level at least. And if they’ve found out, others might as well have. And—not all entities act like the Fears do. On the contrary; most seem to be indifferent to the goings on of humans, and they don’t interfere much. Except when they need gates to other universes, or when entities they don’t get along with want to travel to ‘their’ universe; they get territorial and you don’t want to be a human in the crossfire of that. And they still feed on humans, but mainly in very abstract ways they don’t even realise? Most of the time. 
I’ll try to bring some of the books with me. They consist mainly of lots of very complex metaphysical classification systems written in very convoluted language, though. And, if what I think I have to do works, the books really won’t matter anymore. But they’re kind of neat.

Annabelle called this universe ‚diaphanous’, and from what I’ve read it seems to mean that entities pass through very quickly here. So even though the Fears came here with us, I am hopeful that they won’t be able to stay long and won’t cause too much damage. 

The people here are surprisingly irreligious, considering the metaphysical forces that are extremly present even in their daily lives. They are very pragmatic about it all, recommending meditations and even incantations to ward off malevolent beings or gain blessings from benevolent ones, without actively worshipping them in any way. One of the books (it’s called Tanscendental Companions) seriously reads like '100 Tips And Tricks On How To Escape The Influence Of Your Morally Grey Eldritch Overlords (And Still Harness Their Powers)'. I’ve studied that one very thoroughly. Don’t you dare laugh. 
It is about Avatars, which in this world are called Favourites. Their most important role seems to be 'opening gates', which entities apparently can’t. They need a physical bridge for that. What that means diverges wildly, and the consequences for Favourites can be very uncomfortable, to say the least. I’m quite worried about that, obviously.
Funnily enough the entities, and subsequently the passages between worlds, kind of run on fairytale rules? Apparently they are sensitive to iron. I wonder if this is why I could damage the rift with the poker. I found a few mentions of famous Favourites who cut gates into other universes with honest to god swords successfully. Figures that a knife would have worked as well.

I will not bore you with more details (well, I will, but I’ll be holding you in my arms when I do so), just… Okay. I have a plan. You will not like it. I will have to go into the Lonely to squeeze through the gate. Annabelle tried to get me there—she didn’t much care if I succumbed the old fashioned way, but if this works, well, I much prefer this. She must have realised; that’s why she gave me access to the books.
I’d much rather turn into a tiny spider and crawl through the crack, or ceaseless-watcher it in an explosion of eyes, haha. But, unfortunately, the Lonely has always been my greatest 'strength'. So giving in to that one willingly it is. I should be able to retain my memories and my sanity and just, well, me like that. I’ve found a little ritual for it and everything. Let’s hope I’m Favourite enough to pull it off. Keep your fingers crossed. 

I don’t know, if this works, how fast the change will be, or how dramatic. From what I’ve read it should be fairly quick. Quick enough to do it before the rift disappears.

I do feel strangely calm about it now. I had a dream about you and one of those entities, a 'good' one I think, and since then—well, let’s say I’m in good spirits?

Anyway. If you read this—I won’t be long. I’ll try to keep you updated on my progress.

I can’t wait to be with you again.

I love you,

Martin

------

Something about the letter felt… different. Jon had not woken up from one of his interminable naps for it—even though what Gerry was gingerly carrying up the stairs from the basement were three thick pages of dense writing. It should have made itself known in a significant fashion. Gerry was glad it hadn’t.

He carefully sank down onto the sofa next to Jon, who was curled up underneath his duvet and his self-proclaimed guardian cat, breathing slowly and deeply. Gerry felt bad about waking him, but then again—Jon would insist on it. He shook his shoulder, gently. O’Hara blinked at him, ears twitching. 

Jon was slow to wake, as he had been since his nightly visitation. When he finally opened his eyes they were glassy and confused, and it took him a while to come back to himself. Gerry held his hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb while Jon struggled with consciousness. When he had won the battle and his eyes finally cleared, he asked with a cracking voice: "Everything okay? Thought I felt some— something in—" and tapped his chest.

Gerry nodded. "Got a letter. Also Sasha went to her lecture and Tim’ll be over in a bit. He’s bringing Thai. Mango sticky rice."

Jon dug himself out of his cocoon rather quickly and wordlessly held out his hand for the letter, then stared at the veritable manifest knitting his brows.

"I’ll go make us some tea?" Gerry suggested, and Jon nodded absently, grabbed his glasses from the coffee table, and began to read.

Gerry returned to the living room with two too full mugs clutched precariously in his left hand. Jon was staring into the middle distance with a strange expression, one hand on the folded stack of papers, the other in O’Hara’s fluffy fur. As soon as the mugs were securely deposited, Gerry softly touched Jon’s arm.

"Alright?"

Jon startled out of his reverie with a huff. He grabbed the letter and thrust it at Gerry, eyes wide and fingers trembling.

"Read this, it’s…" he let out a short high laugh that sounded more than a little overwrought, "it’s—uh—quite something."

------

"Soooo… what are we doing?"

It was Wednesday evening and Jon was, once again, sitting on top of the washing machine. Gerry’s left arm was securely bracing his lower back, and Tim hovered on the other side, looking back and forth between them in jovial confusion.

Gerry smirked. "We’re waiting for Jon’s boyfriend to turn into sentient fog and slip through the gap in the universe."

"Ha! Okay. Cool."

Tim shrugged. Jon side-eyed him, then fixed his gaze on the rift again. He’d been staring at it for about five minutes now, and didn’t feel… well, that wasn’t true. He did not feel nothing. But it was nothing compared to before. The guardian was not actively trying to communicate anymore—they had said their piece, apparently. Jon was bathing in the soft, warm vibration beneath his skin. The tugging at the back of his skull was almost imperceptible and his thoughts were quiet. He was waiting.

"What do you think?" Gerry addressed him quietly. "Pretty much exactly one foot long?"

Jon made an affirmative noise. "If our calculations are correct, it’ll be gone in about eight days time." His voice came out low and dreamy. He distractedly rubbed his sternum.

Tim’s eyebrows lifted until they disappeared beneath his fringe. Then he said, light and a little teasing: "You do know that a watched pot never boils though, right?"

------

They fell into some kind of rhythm. Sasha would carry Jon down to the basement in the morning (with minimal cursing), and Tim in the evening, with Gerry always hovering at his side. They would stay for about 15 minutes, watching the warm, syrupy glow of the ever shrinking rift. So far, other than the crack getting smaller and dimming incrementally, there was no change.

Jon kept on feeling drowsy, subdued; at a loss for words. Gerry and Sasha had moved on to try out different soup and smoothie recipes rather than insist on him ingesting solid food, which he appreciated immensely. Most of the time he found chewing to be too much effort, but he could absent-mindedly suck on a straw just fine while staring into space. Waiting for Martin.

He was torn from his uneasy trance Friday afternoon, when something blunt and cold and damp tried to squeeze itself through his chest.

Sitting in the back-garden in his wheelchair, watching Agnes weed her vegetable patch, he suddenly almost folded in half, groaning and gripping the armrests. O’Hara pressed herself against his legs and stared up at him, pupils turned to pinpricks.

Agnes jogged over, discarding her gardening gloves in the grass, face contorted with worry. She knelt down in front of him, softly touching his knees. 

"Jon? What’s wrong?"

It was definitely worse than a letter, but not as bad as many of the other things that had been forced through the rift—and, concurrently, his ribcage. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and then it was over, and he was able to unfold himself. His voice only trembled a little.

"I’m… fine. Still hurts, sometimes," he rasped, and watched her long, freckled hands cover his own, still holding on white-knuckled. From inside the house came the sound of a slamming door, and his head whipped towards the noise.

"What do you need?" Agnes asked, voice quiet and sincere. Jon just shook his head, straining his ears, wondering if Gerry or Sasha were on their way down.

O’Hara, having been ignored for too long apparently, squeezed herself between them, then climbed into his lap. Agnes huffed at her, mock-scandalised.

"You know I was thinking about getting a kitten? Now that she’s abandoned me…"

"Oh. I’m so sorry, I…"

"Jon, I’m kidding! I’m glad she brings you comfort. I just miss sharing my bed with a cat, to be honest."

"I really, I am… I can stop leaving my window open at night."

"Oh, please don’t! She’s unbearable when she doesn’t get what she wants. I’d rather share her affections than suffer her wrath."

He chuckled shakily. The backdoor creaked open and Sasha stepped into the garden. "Hullo Agnes," she greeted her landlady with suspicious cheer. "Jon, do you want to come in?"

"Hello love." Agnes straightened her legs with a wince and wiped a little dirt off her knees. "Good call. It’s getting chilly, what with the wind. And don’t worry about O’Hara, Jon—she’s all yours!"

------

There was a dark green folder sitting on the kitchen table, marbled cardboard fraying at the edges, curling with water damage. It must have just fit through the remaining length of the rift.

Jon, wedged between Gerry and Sasha, one exuding quiet worry and the other jittery excitement, carefully lifted the cover.

A small, uneven stack of documents was nestled inside, wavy with damp. The topmost piece of paper looked to be a bit yellowed with age, the upper quarter of the page dominated by a large red crest. Certificate of Birth, it read. Name and Surname: Martin Blackwood. 

Jon made a small sound between a laugh and a whimper.

He pushed the page aside. Underneath was a university degree (Master of Arts with Honours First Class in Library Sciences) issued to Martin, and at the bottom a passport and two cards: a driver’s licence and another debit card, twin to the one Jon had been gifted.

He cradled the driver’s licence in the palm of his hand. The little photograph was devastating. Martin’s face blurred into soft pastels, wild curls and pink cheeks and the hint of a bashful smile on his lips. Jon’s heart made a valiant effort to escape his chest.

"This is good, right?" Sasha said, with extremely forced calm. "This is a good sign?"

"I guess," Gerry grumbled, and squeezed Jon’s arm. He seemed quite wary of the whole thing. Jon couldn’t fault him for that. But he also couldn’t fight the fizzy feeling of hope expanding in him.

"The university degree is definitely forgery," he said softly, smiling down on it.

Tim chose that moment to appear in the kitchen entrance, lugging two large grocery bags, utterly oblivious to the mood in the room, calling: "Guys, where is your vacuum?"

The three of them looked up at him like deer in headlights. "What? Why?" Sasha asked, recovering first.

"Your dust bunnies are developing sentience. And this whole situation—" Tim gestured at the three of them, Sasha of course being the only one not currently incapacitated by injuries, "— is just plain misogyny."

Jon snorted, eyes burning inconveniently; Gerry cleared his throat. Sasha’s eye-roll was formidable as she said, deadpan: "Thank you for single-handedly saving us from the patriarchy, Tim. Cleaning supplies are in the hallway closet."

"Righto!" Tim gave them a cheeky thumbs-up and disappeared, leaving the bags of food blocking the entrance. They all looked at each other with varying degrees of exasperation, accompanied by the sounds of noisy clatter from the foyer.

"He will never let me live that down, won’t he," Gerry sighed, long-suffering. Jon knew that, since Sasha did all of the cooking, he usually did all of the cleaning.

"No, he won’t. But we don’t  look a gift horse in the mouth," Sasha said, and went to fetch the bags.

Jon was kneading his hands, shame burning through him hot and familiar. "God, I’m very sor…!"

"Don’t," Gerry interrupted him, quiet but sharp.

"Yes, Jon," Sasha exclaimed cheerfully as she brushed past him, "do shut up."

------

It was Sunday morning and the rift was now half a foot long. They had had to turn on the light down in the basement for the first time since it’s appearance, because the golden glow was growing too weak to see by. After their trip down, Jon had struggled through breakfast more or less successfully, and was now sitting in his room, brooding over artefacts from another universe. He was obviously not drawing any new conclusions from them, but he felt the urge to look at them several times a day anyway. Sometimes they made him hopeful. Today, they made him very anxious.

Jon’s desk was slowly turning into some kind of shrine. The surface was covered in letters, documents and photographs, neatly laid out and weighed down by two bent knives, a warped silver tea-tray, a broken plate and a scratched up cutting board. It looked like a display in a small, obscure archeological museum.

He grabbed the driver’s license, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "Come on, Martin," he muttered, willing his racing heart to calm down. It was enveloped by something cold and wet instead.

Jon hiccuped as a soggy piece of paper fluttered through his chest. He swallowed and got up laboriously, then slowly made his way to the living room on his crutches.

Gerry was lazing on the sofa with a book. He looked up at Jon’s approach and then got up very quickly, frowning. Jon could only guess what his face must look like. Rather grey-tinged, probably.

------

Gerry had retrieved the letter from the basement, carrying it gingerly in the palm of his left hand. It did look short of falling apart, wet edges tearing.

Jon was trembling too badly, so Gerry did the best he could with his one working hand, managing to unstick the thing and unfold it carefully. The writing was a blurry mess, barely legible.

"Give… give me a minute." Jon hunched over the letter, frizzy wisps of hair obscuring his eyes.

Giving Jon space to read was a torturous affair, but over quickly.

"This is… not good," he whispered, and clamped his hand over his mouth. His other hand was hovering above the waterlogged, discoloured piece of paper. Gerry swallowed thickly as tears started spilling over Jon’s cheeks and cramping fingers. He gently took Jon’s icy, shaking hand.

"Jon. Can I see?"

Chapter Text

TRANSCRIPT (illegible letters are replaced by a —):

Jon my love,

In case this d————— work, and I ———— —ake it through, you know what yo— —av— to do, ————t? Please, Jon, I know it’s hard, b—— find a way —— ——ve, maybe even happily? ——— pain ———— fade, believ— —e. ——— will find friends, and you ———— find love, ———you wi—— heal. Promise me that. 

Be——— Lonely is easier now—I a— stil— ——self. I have not forgotten anythin—. ——— —— g—ts to me. And ——— fear of not making it thro—gh, of never s——ing you ———in, is overwhelming. 

They are here, Jon. All of them. I can see them now, and they can see me.

T——y want to come with me, and I don’t k—ow how to ke—p them from doing so. 

I —— far from giv——g up, but if I can’t ——— —id of them I ———ht have to stay here. I ———’t —ant to bring them to you. I could never do that to you, and to w——t———— world the rift leads to.

I’— —o sorr—, ——it. I —on’t want to leave y—— a———e somewhere else. Please don’t be alone.

I ——ve had a lot of time to think and I’m sorry about so ———— t————— I’m ——rry ——out not —————ing you, for ——ing be———d ———— ba——. Christ, I sh———— ———— just talked to y—u. I love you! — love you more tha— an——hing in the whole stup—d m————verse! I should not have dismissed you so, what you were going through. I ——pe you can one day forgive me.

You’ve probably r—alised how hard it is to ———te this. At the rate this is going I reckon this is my last letter. Well, the long and sho—— of it is this: I love you more than anything, and I need you to —— happy.

Hope to see you on the othe— side.

Yours a———ys,

Martin

Chapter Text

The change was indeed coming on fast. 

By the evening of the same day, the whole house had filled with fog. Martin went to sleep on the sofa, wondering about how comfortable it suddenly appeared to him, only to realise after a couple of hours that he definitely didn’t need to sleep, and that he was slowly turning translucent.
 
During the course of the next day he started having trouble lifting things— first the kettle and the teapot, then the plates and cups. It did not bother him much. He was neither hungry nor thirsty anyway. In the late afternoon, he pressed his hands against a window and was able to watch the trees in the garden sway through them. It made him feel absurdely giddy.

Soon everything he touched started instantly wilting with humidity. That was a bit of a problem with paper, obviously. He hovered at the kitchen table, pondering the green marbled folder Annabelle had given him. Whatever this is, I’m going to accidentally destroy it before I manage to pass through the gate with it. He gingerly carried the folder down to the basement and quickly pushed it through the shrinking rift—it was a last minute thing, too. It just fit through the crack.

When he was about to waft up the stairs again (because what he did with his legs couldn’t really be called walking anymore), he felt a sharp tug at the base of his skull. He whipped around and stared at the rift. No change. "Is it—" he frowned, "Is it time already?" He did feel rather a bit too substantial still. But then again… He lifted what was still visible of his arm and moved his hand cautiously towards the crack.

Unsurprisingly, touching it hurt. Apparently he wasn’t physical enough anymore to bleed, but the razor edges dug into him anyway. "Hey!" he hissed and glared at it. The tugging didn’t stop. "What do you want?"

There was, of course, no answer, but he had a sudden idea where to look for one. He went up to the living room, and carefully started leafing through the miserably waterlogged copy of Transcendental Companions. And there it was—three sentences, thickly underlined with red crayon.

Power manifesting may seek an anchor in the Favourite’s anatomy. They are advised to pay close attention to unusual physical sensations during any kind of meditation, ritual or transformation.
Through silent contemplation of the anchor, access to unfolding gifts may be provided swiftly.

"'Silent contemplation'. Cool,“ Martin muttered, and tried concentrating on the odd feeling at the base of his skull.

And then reality started to unravel before his eyes.

At first he did not know what he was seeing, as his surroundings shrunk and expanded and bled into colours he didn’t even know existed. He grew instantly dizzy with how vast everything was, how limitless, teeming with light and noise and smell, with vibration and radiation and time and many other things he should not have been able to perceive. To escape the onslaught he tried looking at his own hands, but that did not help at all; he saw into his cells into his molecules into his atoms, saw that he was not dissolving but changing at his most fundamental level into something more—

It was, to put it lightly, a little bit too much. When he squeezed his eyes shut, the swirling cosmos kept on dancing beneath his lids. "Bloody hell," he groaned, and slumped to the floor. It felt like sinking into warm water.

He tried breathing, slow and deep, through the nauseating maelstrom of creation. And it did feel like it was calming down after a while. Eventually, he dared to carefully squint into what had once been a very cluttered, dusty, old-fashioned living room. It was still that—and it also wasn’t at all. Martin started picking through the reams of information around him with growing clarity.

The first thing he noticed was the web Annabelle had wrapped the house in. It was gossamer thin, thinner than fog. Incomprehensible, that it had kept him from leaving for so long. He stretched out long tendrils of white mist and tore through it with ease.

Liberated from it’s silken cage, his mind spread out to the landscape around the house, into the warm, muggy air and the damp black soil and farther still, and he knew he could just leave, and grow, and cover everything in gentle fog, find those who were lost and take them in, give them a home and feast on th… He flinched, hard, and retracted his gauzy limbs. Then he tried to contract his shape into an approximation of it’s former size, and did the equivalent of huddling into a corner, muttering: "Oh no you don’t."

He could feel unimaginable powers thrum through him still. It was absolutely horrifying and fucking glorious. 

He chuckled wetly, wondering if this was how it had been for someone like Peter Lukas. And then he laughed harder, because Peter would have begged to have even a fraction of the power that Martin knew he had now. And he realised with a cold, sinking feeling that this was probably closer to how Jon had felt in the apocalypse. Terrified and sickened by his gifts, and yet drunk on them, blissful—

I really don’t think I recognised the agony he was in. I did not want it to be true. In my mind, I gave him more agency than he had, because the alternative was too horrifying to entertain.

"Aw fuck," Martin choked, and buried his foggy face in his foggy hands. For the first time in days, he felt hungry.

And then they came. 

It was something of a faint taste at first, a subtle vibration of the earth and air. Martin had read, recorded and listened to enough statements though. He had walked their domains at the end of the world. He knew them.

Those tearing, burning, whining, singing, drowning, beautiful flavours of dread.

They swept through the walls of the house on Hill Top Road and rattled it’s foundation and gathered at his feet; they had no voices but they whispered anyway, no limbs but he felt them tear into him nonetheless, digging their claws into his new, boundless state of being, like foul, invisible leeches, hungry hungry hungry. He could not count them, for they were one.

But he could see them now, and they could see him.

And a revelation came upon him like an icy fist in the general area where his stomach used to be—that Annabelle’s web had as much kept him in as it had kept something else out.

------

This is going to be absolutely catastrophic, Gerry thought on their way to the hospital for Jon’s check-up on Monday morning. 

Neither of them had slept the night before. Neither of them was speaking.

Sasha drove slowly, hands clutching the wheel in a death-grip. Jon was huddled into a corner of the back-seat, a jagged tangle of distress. Gerry was listening to the cadence of his breath. Waiting for the next panic attack.

Not that he’d be able to do much. This was the worst development of the last 24 hours—Jon wouldn’t let them touch him. There was no way to comfort him. Every time he started hyperventilating he’d choke "Please don’t—!" at their attempts, and then pressed his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes closed, shutting them out.

When they arrived and Sasha helped him into the wheelchair, he went stiff as a board, face screwed up as if in pain. Sasha didn’t even bat an eyelid. She was too exhausted for that.

Gerry slumped with relief when it was Manuel who picked Jon up from the waiting area. The nurse took a lengthy look at the three of them, their drawn faces and puffy eyes.

His voice was gentle and carefully bright when he said: "Alright, Jon? I’m going to draw some blood, and then we’re off to the X-ray department. Why don’t you guys go get some coffee in the meantime?"

------

After a brief, uncomfortable stint on the scales, Dr. Siddiqui helped Jon up on the examination table, which he collapsed into like a house of cards.

"Well. You haven’t lost any weight, but you’re also not gaining any." She went for his chest with her stethoscope, hands steady and warm. "Deep breath."

Jon cringed a little, closing his eyes. That’s honestly the least of my problems, he didn’t say. "Sorry," he said instead. His breath was excessively noisy in his ears.

"That is not what I was going for, Jonathan. You are obviously trying very hard." She finished listening to his chest and shuffled through his nutrition plan, which Sasha and Gerry had filled in meticulously. Then she briefly stared at his X-rays, and softly shook her head.

"The only reason I‘m not keeping you here is that your blood work is mysteriously okay. But, Jonathan, I am very concerned about your recovery. I really urge you to see a mental health professional."

"Can we not do this today," he said, and flinched at his own voice, reedy and trembling. He did sound exactly like someone who should probably be hospitalised, didn’t he.

The doctor sighed deeply, and it held none of the stern disapproval she liked to broadcast. It was a sound someone would make at a child that had hurt itself by accident. His grandmother had sometimes made that sound.

"I will prescribe you some sleeping pills, and a stronger anxiolytic. Also we can try something different for your appetite. Are you taking the Domperidone for the nausea?"

"The, hm? Oh. Y—yes."

It was getting increasingly hard for him to just sit there, half reclined, and not draw his knees to his chest and curl up like the miserable wounded animal he felt like. Dr. Siddiqui pondered him with her shrewd gaze, then softly patted the mattress next to his knee.

"How about I’ll give you a light sedative right now, and you rest a bit? Just for an hour or so."

Jon blinked, then frowned. "What about…"

"Mr. Delano is having his check-up with Dr. Soon, and I would ask Ms. James to sit with you. Alright?"

He exhaled a shivery hum, then knuckled his burning eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. A brief escape from his panic-stricken brain sounded like an absolutely brilliant idea right about now.

"Okay."

------

When Gerry went back to the waiting area with his newly wrapped hand (less elaborately now, which gave him a little more mobility), he found Sasha gone and Dr. Siddiqui waiting for him instead.

He sprawled into the chair next to hers and gave her a grave nod. She returned it with a rare, worried warmth in her eyes. "Did something happen, Gerard?"

Gerry gripped his knee with his left hand and glared at the ceiling. "He had some— potentially bad news, just yesterday. Concerning his boyfriend."

"How potentially bad?"

Even though Jon had not been able to really elaborate on the letter, Gerry and Sasha had certainly gotten the gist of it. "Very."

"I see." She twisted towards him and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Do not run yourself into the ground trying to take care of him, both of you. We’re here for that, alright? If you think that he is in any… danger—call. Come here. We’ll figure something out."

Gerry tried not to scoff. It’s not that easy though, is it. He gave her a smile instead; a rather wobbly, lopsided thing. "Thank you. I’ll… keep that in mind."

------

With his mind wrapped in proverbial cotton wool, Jon spent the rest of the day on the sofa, fading in and out of awareness. He took his medication and ate his chicken soup mechanically, mute and hazy-eyed. Gerry didn’t like this condition at all; but at least, he reckoned, Jon would get some rest and untroubled sleep out of it. 

Towards the evening Jon became more lucid. He was having tea with Gerry and Sasha on the sofa (while Tim was making a racket in the kitchen), propped up on a mountain of pillows between them. They had all gotten plenty of naps during the day, but were still rather wrung out from the whole ordeal. 

Jon stiffly deposited his mug on the coffee table and then eyed them both, one after the other, clearing his throat. "Can we… can we go downstairs after dinner?"

Sasha groaned loudly, then comically slapped her hand over her mouth. She obviously hadn’t regained any resources for being tactful, yet.

Gerry looked him over tiredly. Jon’s voice was still wrecked and his complexion washed out, but his eyes had lost their medicated dullness, and his hands had taken up their usual restless little movements. He looked understandably agitated, but far from the devastation of the day and night before. 

"Yes, alright," Gerry said carefully, "though I think we should discuss the— the situation first."

Jon’s whole body went rigid and he sucked in a sharp breath.

Gerry winced, but soldiered on. "We should talk about what happens if…"

"No." Jon folded his arms, mouth set in a grim line.

Sasha heaved herself up from her slump and dragged a hand through her dishevelled hair. "I agree, Jon. We need to talk about this before…"

"No. I’m not having this conversation." Jon dug himself out of his blankets with shaking hands, then bent abruptly forward to retrieve his crutches, almost knocking his head into the coffee table. He got up arduously, shooting Gerry a dirty look when he tried to offer him his arm.

It was painful, watching him leave on his crutches, slow and trembling, when it was so obvious that what he really wanted to do was to storm off in a huff.

They let him go anyway. After an agonising minute of low thumping, Jon managed to slam the door to his room in a way that hopefully felt at least a little bit satisfying.

------

Gerry gave Jon half an hour before he knocked on said door, carrying a large mug of Tim’s rather excellent pumpkin and ginger soup. He let himself in upon hearing a faint and muffled "Yes?" from within Jon’s room. 

It was dark and stuffy inside. All the windows were closed, the curtains drawn. He won’t even let the cat comfort him, Gerry thought with a wince.

Jon was curled up on top of his duvet, his back to the door, the lines of his body tense and his silence grim.

Gerry padded over to the bed and put the mug on the bedside table, then hesitantly bent over to look at him. His pinched face was pressed hard into the pillow, eyes and mouth squeezed into tight lines.

"Jon?" he whispered.

"Mm?" Jon answered, in a higher register than Gerry was used from him. He didn’t move or open his eyes.

"Can I sit down?"

Jon gave a tiny nod. His hands were folded into a knot, cramping against his chest. It looked painful, and Gerry bit his own lip too hard in sympathy. He sunk down onto the mattress, laying a hand on a bony shoulder and watching a shiver wrack Jon’s small frame. "Jon, can I… Christ, Jon, please can I hold you?"

For a while, there was no answer. Then: "Y—you don’t understand," Jon croaked, "I—I can’t—" He inhaled with a gasp and curled up even tighter.

Gerry dragged his hand down his face. "Jon, we don’t— we don’t have to talk about it, just— listen, there’s still time, okay? And whatever happens, we will always be there, alright? You're not alone. You won’t ever be alone. I promise."

A thin, scarred hand reached for Gerry, fumbled until it found his right arm, and slowly pulled him down until he lay pressed against Jon’s back. 

Holding Jon was indeed like holding a very scrawny, very stressed bird.

After a little while his stiff limbs went limp, just twitching occasionally. Falling asleep. Gerry only realised that something else had been going on when Jon started snoring lightly through an obviously stuffed nose.

He sighed and gathered Jon closer, burying his nose in his frizzy, bergamot-scented plait, very much aware of the fact that Jon hardly ever made a sound when he was crying.

------

He was not going to get rid of them, was he.

Martin could yell variations of "Oi! Sod off!" at them as much as he wanted. They still followed him everywhere like ravenous shadows. He felt their tremoring excitement sharpening when he moved the stairs down to the basement. 

"Can’t you just… let me through, and not them?" he whispered at the small rip of trembling gold, and desperately pressed against it with his whole unsubstantial self, but it just hurt. The Fears had spread like roots into him, clawing, tangled. It was no use, trying to leave this reality. He would not take them somewhere else. 

He would not take them to Jon.

He went to the library, to the cumbersome writing desk. They followed, chattering and scratching at him with displeasure. 

It took all of Martin’s considerable eldritch strength to pick up the ink pen and put words down on the warping stationary. Wherever he touched it, wet oil-slick colours bloomed across the paper. Ink stains blurred in front of his eyes; but this would have to do, was the best he could do.
 
He squeezed the soggy letter through the rift carefully, and then he went wandering with his awful retinue. 

Somewhere on a lonely, grassy hill not far from the house he sat down, watching the mist roll off of him and through the sparsely populated valley below, and he wept. Soft rain began to fall.

He stayed there for a long time.

It might just have been a couple of days, but time was— different now. Maybe the sun had set and risen three times, maybe three hundred.

They still circled him like hungry wolves. The gate must still be open, then.

He looked up, heavy-hearted. The whole world was covered in fog as far as the eye could see. Was he doing that? Thunder rolled in the distance. Then again, closer.

No, not thunder, he realised soon enough. The noise was too rhythmic for that. Something was walking slowly towards him, something colossal.

Soon enough, it broke through the mist; a giant, looming, eight-legged void, towering over him; horribly familiar. Figures, he thought, the old rage rising in him again like some elemental force.

"Annabelle." The name echoed through the valley, cold and dull.

"Martin, leave," she said in her monstrously distorted voice. 

"Is this what you wanted? What you were planning all along?" he yelled at her, and his words rose like a horrid rainstorm, icy and wet and ravaging.

"No!" she thundered, rearing up and slamming back down, her void-legs tearing into sodden earth. He flinched back violently. He had never witnessed her lose her countenance like that. She stalked closer; brought what remained of her face too close to what remained of his.

"If I wanted them to go there, I would have pulled them through myself a long time ago."

That was… not what he’d expected. If he still could, he would have been gaping stupidly. "Then what… what do you want?"

"They won’t let you pass with an entourage, don’t you understand?" she hissed at him.

"Of course I—!" He faltered. "Are you— are you helping me?"

She just laughed. It shook her whole ineffable shape, but also sounded almost… soft.

And then she began to weave.

She picked the Fears' claws and hooks and tendrils out of his unworldly body like strands of wool gone astray, and started to lace them into her web, a tapestry so vast and strange he certainly would have lost his mind to look at it, had he still been reduced to his physical shape.

It was quite hypnotic.

"Martin," her voice cut through his trance, "the door!"

"Oh, yes," he mumbled, "how…?"

And he looked down and there it was—a golden thread, wrapped around his hand (he still had hands!), tugging him away and through the opaque mass of fog to the gate, as if towards the centre of a dying star.

------

On Tuesday morning, Jon woke up with his face pressed into soft, warm fabric bearing the faint, comforting smell of cigarettes, and a sleep-heavy arm slung across his shoulders. He slowly exhaled a shuddering breath into Gerry’s chest and thought I‘m going to betray you. You have been unfailingly generous and kind beyond any reason, and I’m going to ruin everything.

A little later, sitting at the dining table, Jon surreptitiously rubbed his knuckles across his ribs. As the stitches slowly dissolved, the wound had started itching rather intensely.

He watched Gerry and Sasha bustle in the kitchen, preparing breakfast around him, sleepily exchanging silly jokes, and the notion of what he intended to do had him fight down a rush of dizzy nausea. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t try. And what was more guilt piled on top of all his horrible mistakes?

There was just one last thing he could do now, and he would do it, all consequences be damned. 

He would give Martin more time.

In the late afternoon, Jon tried to distract himself by watching Agnes tend to the garden. It had started to become one of his most enjoyable past-times; they talked a little about the plants she was growing, the bugs and birds (which O’Hara was thankfully too lazy to chase) they discovered; she brought him her first strawberries to eat, or herbs to smell; and the cat was always around, oscillating between her two favourite humans.

At some point, Agnes went inside to get them some tea, and he realised that she’d left her Japanese gardening knife in the weeds close to his wheelchair. He bent down to pick it up and turned it in his hand. The label on the blade read Black Iron. It looked wickedly sharp.

It came with a leather sheath, so it was no trouble for him to tuck it beneath his shirt. This, he decided, was a lot more inconspicuous than taking one of Sasha’s cherished kitchen knives. Agnes was misplacing her gardening tools all the time. 

She did not notice the knife’s disappearance.

In the evening, Jon, Gerry, Sasha and Tim went down to the basement. 

They were keeping the light turned on at all times now down there, and the door open. Just in case. Every single one of them quiet and solemn, they spent about 20 minutes huddled around the washing machine, holding Jon’s hands and patting his back and staring into small, weak flares of gold. Jon’s eyes remained blessedly dry.

The rift was a little under two inches long.

He insisted on sleeping by himself.

Wednesday morning—a quarter to five, at the first light of dawn—Jon dug Agnes’ knife out from beneath his mattress and slipped it into the pocket of his pyjamas. He climbed into his wheelchair (because it made much less noise than his crutches), and made his way to the basement door. He got up in front of the open doorway, gripped the handrail with both hands and started moving down the stairs one step at a time, keeping his right leg lifted.

On the eighth step his left leg started cramping so badly he had to sit down. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get up again. He went down the remaining steps on his bottom, praying that his arms wouldn’t give out. When he reached the landing he was shaking like a leaf, gasping through breaths that did not manage to fill his lungs sufficiently; hoping desperately that the noise wouldn’t wake anyone.

All of a sudden the dreaded physiotherapy sounded like a very reasonable concept. Well. Maybe Dr. Siddiqui would still have a chance to subject him to it.

When his hammering heart had calmed down a bit, he looked up and immediately felt it plummet to his pelvis or thereabouts because he couldn’t find the rift anywhere. But it took just a bit of blinking and adjusting his eyes to the light of the bare bulb next to it, and there it was, a little inch-long scar in the fabric of reality. 

Jon strained for the light-switch on the wall next to the staircase and plunged the room into near-darkness. Then he got down to his hands and knees and, panting with the effort, crawled over to kneel on the pillow in the centre of the room. Directly underneath the crack the weak glow was just bright enough to see by.

He undid the buttons of his pyjama shirt and carefully peeled the dressing off his stab-wound. Then he unsheathed the knife and, gripping the handle with both hands, lightly pressed the blade into the puffy-red scar tissue.

Should really have cleaned it beforehand, he thought deliriously, and pushed it in.

The smooth blade felt just a little cool at first. Then the pain registered and burned through him, searing and cacophonous, and he choked down a scream. The rift started spitting golden sparks that danced and blurred before his eyes. Jon took a few fast, shallow breaths. He knew it wasn’t enough; he needed to cut down. He stared at the blade, the tip buried between his ribs— how was that just the fucking tip?—and willed his trembling hands to work. 

A thick drop of blood was making it’s way slowly down over the crest of his ribcage. Then it stopped abruptly, crystallising in fast motion, while Jon’s panting breaths turned to icy fog before his eyes. Suddenly, a wall of cold so severe swept through his chest with an earthquake-tremor it made him rip the knife out in shock, and it slipped from his insensate fingers and clattered to the floor.

He was so cold he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, his vision was whiting out, oh god his heart was going to stop—

Paralysed and wracked with violent shivers, he felt himself tip forward, falling like a young tree. He sent a grateful thought to Sasha as his petrified body crashed into her pillow, and then the world went away and he had no more thoughts.

Chapter Text

Jon woke with a bloody nose in a room filled with fog. His face was smushed painfully into the dusty concrete floor, tacky and throbbing. With great effort, he managed to lift his head and shoulders. It was still unbearably cold. He immediately took up shivering miserably.

Blinking upwards, he briefly pondered his strange half-blurry double-vision, before realising that the frame of his glasses was broken and the left lens had fallen out.

Above him through wafts of white mist, the remaining sliver of the rift glared like a tiny supernova. Thin ribbons of golden light extended from it in intricate, mirroring patterns, threading through the damp-heavy air. Threading through Jon’s chest and head and hands; tiny points of piercing electricity. 

He struggled to his knees, limbs icy and stiff. The threads were tugging at him; concentrating at the back of his skull, a strange, searing pull. He groaned at the weird pleasure-pain, and then he realised— something was being unmade, torn out of him like tape from a cassette; the connection, the anchor. And he knew— once the gate had closed, they would not be able to find him. 

He would never serve as their anchor ever again. He would be free.

It was a sweet, terrible hurt and he felt himself convulsing with it. "F-fuck," Jon gasped through his chattering teeth, listing to the side and landing hard on his elbows.

Then he took a long, shaky breath. "Martin…?" he mouthed, half-blind, into the soup of icy white fog surrounding him.

It shivered and swirled and thickened before his eyes, shot through with vibrating strands of light.

"Martin it’s, it’s alright, you c—can let go. Give it to them."

Give them your death.

A smallish, rectangular object manifested in front of his eyes and fell out of the concentrated mass of fog, landing right next to his hands with a thump. Jon flinched and then gaped at it in disbelief. It was a book.

And then, soft and soundless like a snow-drift forming, the swirling mist turned into the hunched figure of a man. 

Icy hands gripped Jon’s arms and pulled him up, and Jon was looking into Martin’s face, pale and shocked, eyes huge and glassy, and his beloved voice whispered: "Jon…? Jon, can you— can you see me?"

"Oh god," Jon choked, high-pitched, "oh god, Martin, y—yes, I see you!" His hands twitched clumsily, too paralysed with cold for any kind of coordinated movement.

"Jon! What—" Martin was touching Jon’s cheeks, then took them between his trembling hands so gently, wiping the blood from his upper lip with a thumb. His gaze was hazy and confused, fixed on Jon’s nose.

"It’s fine, Martin," Jon rasped, smiling stupidly, "just— fell on my face." His wet chuckle turned into a noisy sob. Then he was being squashed against a soft body in a crushing embrace. "Jesus— fucking Christ, Jon! Jon…" Martin whimpered, breath hitching. "I thought— I thought I’d n—never—" A violent shiver cut his words off. Jon could hear his teeth chatter. He was himself in this moment rendered utterly speechless, crying freezing tears into Martin’s chest. 

He’d never been happier in his life.

Roaring static was rising in his ears and Jon blinked up at the ceiling, smiling widely. Above them, the dying star that was the gate between two worlds was breathing it’s last fiery breath. Searing bright light exploded around them, dispelling the dire cold, replacing it with a sudden dry, fragrant heat.

They groaned in unison as their chilled bodies thawed too quickly, leaving them with painful pins and needles, and then both flinched, blinded and overwhelmed, as a vast and many-layered voice filled the little basement room.

"We have decided to speak with you once more. Because we want to give you a choice."

Jon was holding on to Martin, hands bunching the flannel shirt at his back, eyes squeezed shut against the glare. He grinned and croaked: "What choice?", while Martin, face buried in the junction between Jon’s neck and shoulder, squeaked: "What the fuck?" and gripped Jon even tighter.

"To retain your status as Favourites," the guardian said, "even after this gate is closed for good. You would keep your talents. Relearn them, strengthen them. Acquire new ones. Open other doors, travel between worlds, see places beyond your imagination. Communicate with us even, from time to time. What say you?"

Jon felt Martin’s head lift, his breath stuttering, arms cramping around Jon’s shoulders. He reached up, eyes still closed, and softly cradled Martin’s cheek in his scarred hand. "You know, don’t you?" he muttered, voice cracking. "You know what it means."

Martin shuddered, and nodded.

"So…?" Jon prompted gently.

"D-do you want to stay here?" Martin asked, small and hushed.

"Yes," Jon answered forcefully.

"Then yeah, no," Martin warbled, and Jon could feel his hot tears spill over his fingers. He felt his own breath leave him in a rush of relief, his whole body sagging in Martin’s arms.

"Oh good," he sighed, and then said, voice shaking but sufficiently composed: "Thank you for your generous offer, but no. We don’t want that. We’re rather looking forward to having all of that taken away from us."

Martin nodded emphatically into Jon’s hand. The guardian hummed, deep and thoughtful.

"Alright," they said, sounding faintly disappointed, "we shall respect your decision, even though we will miss playing with you. But this is not goodbye. We will see you at the end; which will be soon for us, and far off in a distant future for you. We will make sure of that."

The heat intensified, thick air saturated with the aroma of warm wood and honey. "Open your eyes," the guardian said. And they did.

They watched in awe as the guardian, resplendent with their aura of ever shifting limbs and wings and patterns of light, with their many hands pulled the golden threads out of their bodies. It stung sweetly. "You are released," they said, when they tenderly plucked the last glowing strand from Jon’s chest.

And as the golden light died and the flame of both gate and guardian was extinguished, Jon felt the new small wound between his ribs close, the flesh knitting together, a sharp pain followed by an almost unbearable lightness. It felt like he’d be floating away, utterly unmoored in the impenetrable darkness around him, if it weren’t for Martin’s arms still holding him, steadfast and warm.

Martin’s voice was rather brittle though when he mumbled: "Jon, I think I’m… I’m going to…" and then cut off with a huge yawn. He slowly slumped down into the pillow, dragging Jon with him. 

And Jon wanted to say so many things, but all he managed was "Uh huh," as deep exhaustion swept his words away. 

They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

------

Gerry was walking through the bookshop, but it was— wrong. It was much larger than he remembered; a crammed, stuffy maze of narrow hallway after hallway. Books were littering every surface, piled haphazardly on the floor, and the shelves disappeared in the darkness of the high domed ceiling above. When he rounded another impossible corner there was Jon, sitting on the floor. He was frantically leafing through book after book, almost buried beneath a mountain of them, muttering: "Can’t find you, where are you, where’d you go?"

His fingers were bleeding, leaving rusty stains on the pages. Gerry bent down to take the book away from Jon, take his hands to save them from more damage, when a panicked voice cried his name and he turned towards it and jolted awake, tangled in his sheets.

"Gerry!" Sasha yelled again from downstairs. He stumbled out of bed and was racing down the stairs in his boxer shorts and threadbare T-shirt before his brain could catch up with his body.

The foyer was empty, but in front of the open door to the basement Jon’s wheelchair stood abandoned. Gerry’s knees almost gave out. "Fuck!" he gasped, and at the same time Sasha shouted "Down here!"

He flew down the staircase and almost knocked her over at the bottom, where she stood frozen, staring at something on the floor illuminated by the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.

He choked on his inhale at the sight. Sasha gripped his arm.

"What the fuck is this, Romeo and Juliet?" she shout-whispered, waving her hand at the two figures lying entwined, half on the dusty pillow, half on the dustier concrete.

Gerry, glued to the spot, sputtered: "Don’t joke about that! Did you check if they both have a pulse?!"

Sasha scowled at him, exasperated. "Gerry, stop panicking, I can see them breathing!"

"Yeah? Well, I can see a fucking bloody knife on the floor! Again!" Gerry hissed, took two large steps into the room and then fell to his knees next to Jon. He fumbled for his wrist while noting with growing concern the blood on his face and shirt front. His nose, half-buried in Martin’s (Martin’s…!) chest, looked swollen and bruised, but Gerry could not find any other injuries on him; his pulse was strong and steady, and so was Martin’s. 

Sasha dropped down to the floor next to him, then warily picked up what turned out to be Agnes’ gardening knife. "I mean, there is some blood on it?" she muttered. Gerry grimaced. Then he started checking Jon for injuries again, more thoroughly, while Sasha did the same with Martin. It wasn’t easy, because even soundly asleep as they both were (not bothered by Gerry’s and Sasha’s ministrations in the slightest), they would not let go of each other.

At last, Gerry and Sasha concurred that there was nothing obviously wrong with them, except for Jon’s slightly battered nose, which had stopped bleeding and didn’t seem to be broken.

Gerry hummed, relieved, and swept a blood-tacky strand of hair from Jon’s face. Then he glanced up at the empty spot next to the lightbulb where the gate to another universe was no more. 

"Well. Whatever they did to manage this, I bet it was plenty… spooky, and they need a while to sleep it off. We know how it works now, don’t we."

Sasha snorted. "You’re right! We just have to wait now, I guess. You get pillows and blankets, I get water and snacks?"

"Sure." Gerry gave her a thumbs-up, then lifted Jon’s damaged glasses from the floor and looked them over cursorily. "Also, do you remember where we put the superglue?"

------

Martin opened his eyes to the worried face of a very handsome goth staring down at him.

"Uhm—!" he croaked, and pulled Jon closer, then immediately felt his eyes filling with tears because this wasn’t a dream, Jon was in his arms and nothing had felt this real to him in years. He let out a messy half laugh-half sob, burying his face in Jon’s hair.

"Christ, are you okay?" the stranger asked, patting Martin’s shoulder awkwardly.

"Yeah," Martin blubbered, cradling Jon’s warm, limp body, breathing him in. Smells a bit different, he thought, and then laughed again at his own antics. He realised that Jon and he were propped up by a mountain of pillows, their legs wrapped in a large, soft blanket.

Jon stirred, making a little snuffling noise. Then he blinked up at Martin with wide, luminous eyes.

"Goodness, Martin, your hair’s completely white!" he rasped, sounding horribly congested. A wide grin split his face, only to turn into a grimace. He gingerly touched his nose. "Oh, ouch."

"Is it?" Martin mumbled faintly, dragging a hand through his shaggy curls. Then he heaved himself up into a sitting position, groaning at his achy joints. He looked down at Jon, who slightly lifted his head and then let it fall back onto his stack of pillows, giggling: "Good lord. I’ve never been this sore in my life." He sounded almost— drunk. He waggled his fingers at Martin, obviously unable to sit up without help. Martin pulled him up, bemused, only for Jon to slump against Martin’s chest. He was still laughing quietly, then whining as he stretched his legs out from under the blanket, then laughing again. Martin only now noticed— "Oh no, Jon, what happened to your foot?"

"Broke it," Jon mumbled happily into Martin’s shirt.

"Yeah, I can see that…" Martin gave the light blue cast a closer look. "Nice cats."

"Thank you," Jon and the heavily tattooed goth said simultaneously.

"Uhm, who are you?" Martin asked, turning towards the stranger sitting cross-legged on the floor next to them, trying not to sound impolite. He failed spectacularly, but they didn’t seem to mind. They offered heir hand. 

"Gerard Delano. Nice to meet you, Martin."

Martin took the hand reflexively, but couldn’t help sputtering: "Gerard Keay…?!"

"Oh. Yes. Did we know each other as well? Jon didn’t say…"

"No, I’ve never met you. Uh. You were…"

"Dead, I know." Gerard sounded very nonchalant about that. "Fair warning—this is going to happen a lot."

Martin blinked at him, confused, then looked down to where Jon had started to not-very-surreptitiously fumble with the button band of his pyjamas. It was a little stiff with dried blood, and between his very visible ribs right next to his sternum there was— the scar. It looked to be healing well. Martin started crying again.

Jon immediately hid his chest in the shirt, grabbed Martin’s face and thumbed his tears away, smiling softly at him, muttering: "Martin, it’s fine, I’m fine!"

"No you're not!" Martin sobbed, crushing Jon against his torso, "You, you, oh god, I stabbed you, and, and you’re just skin and bones, and—!"

"Sorry," Jon wheezed.

"Oh dear," Gerard muttered. Then he cleared his throat and said with forced cheer: "Uh, let’s go upstairs, alright? Sasha’s making dinner!"

------

Martin reacted as composed as could be expected to the news that Sasha James was cooking upstairs. It served as a useful distraction, at least. He laughed through his tears, high-pitched and nervous, and then got up on shaking legs, lifting Jon almost effortlessly into a bridal carry. Jon strained his neck to kiss him on the cheek, the giddy sensation in his chest fizzing and bubbling, and Martin immediately hiccuped, blushing violently.

Gerry hovered, a little awkward. "Uhm, there’s—" he bent down to where Martin had been resting and pulled a battered looking book from between the pillows, holding it up for them both to see.

"Oh!" Martin said, "I’ve been wondering where that one went."

Jon squinted through his patched-up, slightly wonky glasses at the title, then gasped in excitement. "You brought Transcendental Companions with you?"

"Apparently!“ Martin chuckled, then started climbing the stairs. Jon just kept cradling his cheeks, staring up at him in awe. Martin had to stop in the middle of the staircase, wobbling, saying: "Jon, we’re going to fall down the stairs if you keep looking at me like that." Gerry snorted behind them. Jon took his hands away from Martin’s face, but decided he would keep looking at him like that anyway. Forever, if possible.

Sasha was waiting for them in the foyer next to Jon’s wheelchair, gaping a little when they reached the top of the stairs. Then she grinned widely. "I was going to look if you— anyway, hello Martin!" She waved at him enthusiastically, while Martin’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly a couple of times before he managed a timid: "Sa— hi!"

Jon felt the arms around him tighten. He cleared his throat and gently touched Martin’s cheek again. "Martin you can, uh… you can let me down now."

"I— what?" Martin stammered, looking around him distractedly, finally registering the wheelchair. "Oh. Oh— right, sorry, sorry!" He sat Jon down as if he were made of spun sugar, then kept holding his hands, obviously hesitant to let go of him. Jon squeezed his fingers, smiling up at him. His jaw was starting to hurt almost as bad as his bruised nose, and he didn’t care one bit. 

He reluctantly tore his eyes away from Martin’s face when Sasha made a small gagging noise. She and Gerry where standing next to each other, arms crossed, eyebrows raised and shoulders bumping, watching them like a pair of exasperated aunts.

Sasha rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh god, they are going to be insufferable, aren’t they."

And Gerry nodded, smiling his most beaming, eye-crinkling smile. "Oh yes. Definitely."

------

"What’s the date?" Martin asked between spoonfuls of what was, in his humble opinion, the best chickpea curry he had ever tasted. It was a bit awkward, using his left hand to eat, but his right hand was thoroughly occupied with holding on to Jon’s fingers.

"It’s May 22. Uh, 2019," Jon said, slowly chewing his rice. "I’ve been here for almost exactly a month."

"It’s been a month? Christ. It felt like at least half a year!" Martin shook his head in disbelief.

"I know what you mean," Jon smiled ruefully. "At least I had you sending messages. You were completely… stranded there."

Martin perked up. "Oh, so that worked? Sending stuff through the rift?"

"I got all your letters." Jon paused and bit his lips. "And the, uh. The other things."

"Oh yeah, thank god that’s over now!" Sasha blurted. Gerry shot her a look. She just shrugged at him remorselessly and continued, "and while we’re at it—" she turned and picked something from the counter, then placed it straight in the middle of the table. It was a small, dagger-like knife with a keen, dark-stained blade that read Black Iron. "—what’s up with that?"

Martin looked from the knife to Jon, to Sasha, and back at the knife again with growing alarm. "The— uh. What?"

Jon winced, eyes cast down, rubbing his knuckles into his sternum.

"Oh. Uhm— yes. A—about that."

Chapter Text

Martin was sitting on Jon’s bed, nursing a miserable headache from having quietly but continuously cried for about three quarters of an hour. Since the raised voices from the kitchen had petered out a while ago, Jon had been knocking on his own bedroom door at regular intervals, timidly asking to be let in. Martin had croaked "Give me a minute!" three times now.

When the knocking came for the fourth time, the rhythm was different, and the voice calling "Martin?" wasn’t Jon’s.

Martin cringed and rubbed his hot, puffy face. "Yes…?" he answered, voice high and brittle, whereupon Gerard Keay—or rather Delano—opened the door and poked his head in.

"Can I come in?" he asked. Martin noticed that he was a little red-eyed himself.

"Okay," Martin said, folding his hands in his lap and staring at the bedside table and the impressive array of prescription drugs with Jon’s name on them. Gerard stalked over to the bed and dropped down next to him. Martin hid his face in his hands.

"I can’t imagine what you must think of me," he mumbled.

Gerard sniffed, then said, low and grim: "No, you probably can’t. So I’m telling you now. I think you are a man who has lived through unspeakable horrors, and had to make impossible decisions no human being should be forced to make. And I think that you love Jon, have loved him through all of this, and he loves you, and you both should cut yourself some fucking slack and take comfort in each other."

"But—"

"No buts. I know there’s a lot you guys need to work through. But you just got here, he just got you back, and he needs you. Now."

Martin stared down at Gerard’s right arm; a black-scaled snake wound it’s way from his wrist to his elbow on a background of delicate foxglove and belladonna. The fingers of his bandaged hand were tapping a nervous beat on his knee.

"Did you touch it?" Martin asked.

"I did," Gerard said, unfazed, following Martin’s gaze. "Tried to push the fire poker back in. That one was the worst."

"I— I’m very sorry." Martin’s voice was small. He really would have liked to scream a bit, though. And also crawl underneath the bed and hide. He dug his fingernails into his palms instead.

"I know." Gerard sounded a lot more gentle. "Will you let Jon come in now?"

Martin whimpered. "Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I’m…" A fresh surge of tears smothered his words.

"Okay." Gerard got up, briefly touched his shoulder. Then he went to the door and opened it. Jon was sitting in his wheelchair in the hallway, wide-eyed and breathing shakily. Martin felt torn between the urge to immediately run to him, and to dissolve into a wisp of fog. That last one wasn’t an option though, not anymore. And not feeling everything wasn’t an option either. So he made himself look at Jon through streaming eyes as Gerard pushed him across the room.

Having arrived at the bedside, Gerard helped Jon onto the bed to sit next to Martin. He was trembling badly, digging his hands into the duvet as if needing it to hold on to.

Martin hovered, feeling incredibly awkward all of a sudden.

"I need to lie down," Jon rasped, sounding very congested and utterly exhausted. Martin’s breath hitched. Gerard made a little shooing motion at him, and he scrambled to the other side of the bed and squeezed himself against the headboard. 

"Back or side?" Gerard asked, and Jon groaned: "Side."

Gerard got Jon situated, fluffing his pillows and propping his right leg up and tucking the duvet around him, skilfully avoiding to overuse his injured hand. Both their movements looked well-established, comfortable. Martin watched, biting at his thumbnail.

"Alright?" Gerard asked, and Jon sighed with relief. 

"Sasha and I are not done with you, by the way." Gerard brushed a wayward strand of hair out of Jon’s face. He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Okay. Call if you need anything."

Jon nodded again. Gerard shot Martin another look, jerking his head to the side. So Martin scooted carefully down to lie on his side, facing Jon. 

When the door had closed behind Gerard, Jon took a deep breath and whispered: "Martin…?", haltingly stretching out his hands towards the middle of the bed. Martin swallowed down several large rocks lodged in his throat and carefully took Jon’s freezing fingers to squeeze them between his large, warm palms.

"Your hands are cold."

"Hmm." Jon let out a long, shaky exhale. Martin shuffled closer and kissed his knuckles, and a wobbly smile appeared on Jon’s thin, bleary face.

"Jon, I’m so, so sorry," Martin blurted, voice breaking. Jon just softly shook his head, took Martin’s left hand and pressed it over his heart with his own. Martin felt the beat underneath his fingers, fast and strong. "I d-did quite a number on you, didn’t I," he choked. 

"That wasn’t just you, you know," Jon said quietly, "and also it wasn’t your fault." Jon’s eyes opened, gazing up at him with such boundless tenderness that Martin couldn’t suppress the overwhelmed sobs shaking out of him. Jon immediately started thumbing his tears away, eyebrows scrunching. "Hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re okay," he muttered.

"’S not fair," Martin keened, "you shouldn’t have to comfort me! I’ve been torturing you for a month! After— after I stuck a knife into your chest! I, I, oh god— and, and then you tried to stab yourself— Jesus fuck…!"

Jon winced, but kept petting Martin’s face and hair. "Yeah, none of that was… ideal," he muttered, "but we’re here now, aren’t we? And anyway—" Jon’s breath shuddered out of him. "I made you stab me. After I… You— you must be so angry with me—"

Martin interrupted him with a slightly hysterical: "Ha! I wasn’t even able to process how mad I was at you, I was too focused on just getting you back. And now I… there’s— I f—feel very different about it, I guess?"

"Fair. S—still. I am very s’rry. I…" Jon’s words were starting to slur, his eyelids drooping. Martin scooted closer, so Jon’s knees were resting against his lower belly and he could press a tear-damp kiss to Jon’s forehead, whispering: "Christ, h—how can I m—make this right?" against his skin.

"M’tin, there’s nothing to… Love you." Jon’s eyes fluttered shut.

Martin squeezed Jon’s fingers while Jon’s pillowcase was soaking up his tears. "I love you too."

He kept the reading lamp on all night, watching Jon’s chest rise and fall with sleep-even breaths, and cradled his small, limp hands, which were slowly growing warm with Martin’s body heat.

------

Martin woke with his face smushed into Jon’s thigh, to the sound of pages turning and Jon’s voice, soft and low.

"…the grand scheme of things, it might have been them who had the right idea. About saving our own world, I mean. What’s going on out there… is much more weird and complicated than we could have imagined."

"Apparently!" Gerard said, hushed. "God, I really want to tell my dad about the death-eating eldritch entity that guards our reality? He’d be well into that."

Jon chuckled. "Be my guest. I don’t think they’re worried about being found out."

Martin forced his gummed-up eyes open and yawned: "M’ning…?"

"Good morning," Jon said, smiling down at him and carding his fingers through Martin’s hair. "It’s 12:30."

"Is it?" Martin shifted onto his elbow. Jon was leaning against the headboard with what was undoubtedly Transcendental Companions lying open in his lap. Gerard sat next to him on the edge of the mattress and flashed Martin a warm grin, asking: "Coffee or tea?"

On a small stool next to the bed sat a tray with half-eaten breakfast; buttered toast, scrambled eggs, strawberries and orange juice.

"Oh," Martin croaked, "I’d literally kill for some Earl Grey, if you have it?"

"I’ll bring a pot," Gerard said, getting up and squeezing Jon’s shoulder before leaving the room.

Martin blinked after him.

"You… you’ve made friends very quickly," he said to Jon, realising how flat his voice sounded a little too late.

"Martin. Are you…" Jon cleared his throat.

"Jon. I mean, you know… I am pretty petty, but I’m not that petty." Martin sighed deeply. "I’m… glad that you weren’t alone." He strained his neck to press a kiss to Jon’s jaw, bracketing his ribcage with his hands, seeking forgiveness. Jon melted into him.

"And I’m so, so sorry you were."

"Well. It’s— at least I wasn’t grievously injured? And also I did need to turn into Lonely fog. Would not have been possible otherwise, I guess."

Jon laughed humourlessly. "I can’t believe the two of us accidentally opened magic doors into other dimensions simultaneously with magic powers we didn’t know we had and messed it up completely. I mean, how…?"

"Not two. Three of us actually. Annabelle kind of figured it out. Page 86."

Jon, eyebrows raised, leaved through the book until he found the right page. There was a small pencil drawing in the margin; spheres and little labelled doors and arrows and the letters A, J and M. Next to it, the text stated:

For a more durable gate, the combined efforts of two or three Favourites lead to optimal results. Careful coordination is essential to avoid dimensional displacement or death. Severe complications may also occur if opening more than one gate at the same time is attempted.

Jon hummed. "Makes… sense, I guess."

"Yeah, as much as it can…" Martin muttered. "I am still very wary of her intentions. And I will always be. But—we probably wouldn’t have made it without her? She held them back, you know? The Fears. I wouldn’t have found my way here without her. And that was her plan in the first place, apparently—for us to end up in this universe, together." He traced the arrows connecting the J and M to a little door labelled d2.

"It is… probably one of the kindest places she could have chosen." Jon’s wistful tone transformed into something a little impish. "Did you know? They manage to tax billionaires in a way they can’t evade."

"Blimey," Martin grinned, "it’s basically nirvana."

"It is!" Jon said, eyes sparkling, leaning over to grab something off the tray. "Try these strawberries!"

------

On Friday, Sasha went to get Jon’s glasses reframed, and do some clothes shopping for Martin (who obviously possessed nothing but his frumpy gothic pyjamas and was making due with one of Gerry’s old stretched out T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms) with Martin’s mystery debit card. 

(There were, before her shopping spree, exactly 444.444 Pounds in his bank account she reported, highly pleased—the same amount that had also been on Jon’s card originally.)

On Saturday, the four of them went around on a little tour of the nearest park and had an unreasonably elaborate picnic by a duck-pond.

All the while Tim, who had of course been informed of Martin’s successful dimension hopping, was bombarding their group chat with messages. Jon, Gerry and Sasha had decided to allow him to visit Sunday evening, to give Martin a couple of days to acclimate himself. It had been bizarre enough for him to be introduced to Agnes, who’d been delighted by 'Jon’s boyfriend from Australia' and told him to his blushing, stuttering face that of course he could stay as long as he liked, while O’Hara growled at him grumpily and was only appeased by Jon scratching her head for ten full minutes.

On Sunday morning, Sasha helped Gerry dye his roots and managed to persuade Martin to let her give him an undercut and try out a peachy-pink colour rinse on his stark white curls.

"Apparently in this other universe I was breaking handsome guys’ hearts left and right. I’m really missing out on something here," Tim said to him good-naturedly—if a little overwhelmed—a couple of hours later, after Martin had started sobbing when Tim had given him a big salutatory hug.

On Monday morning, Martin was still very obviously shaken by last night’s encounter. He nevertheless insisted on accompanying Jon to his check-up at the hospital. 

Jon worked very hard to suppress his urge to repeatedly wince when the third nurse in succession openly stared at them while they were sitting in the waiting room. They had all of them witnessed The Polaroid, and Jon’s rather dramatic relationship with it. Gerry just smiled at them aggressively.

When Dr. Siddiqui opened the door to the examination room and stepped out to wordlessly scrutinise Martin like an insect under a microscope for an uncomfortable amount of time, Jon just hobbled past her through the open doorway on his crutches, so she had no choice but to turn and close the door behind them, albeit slowly. Jon heard Martin whisper: "What is going on?" slightly panicky, but Gerry’s huffed response was cut off by the click of the latch.

"So. Martin Blackwood," Dr. Siddiqui stated, voice level, when he had sat down opposite her, his latest X-rays spread out on the table between them. Her glare was formidable. Good lord, at least the bruising on his nose was basically invisible by now. The woman looked ready to murder someone.

"Yes. We— we worked it out. He’s staying. With— with us."

"Since when?"

"Last Wednesday?"

"And how is that going?"

"Really well, thank you." Jon managed to sound surprisingly firm. They stared each other down for a bit. The doctor blinked first.

"Hm," she grumbled, moving her gaze to the X-rays.

"So. As I was suspecting—delayed union." She tapped on a lateral view of Jon’s ankle. "Your bones are not growing back together as they should. This can mean a few things. You may need to go in for another surgery. Also, it’s possible that some of your mobility issues will become more or less permanent, especially combined with your old knee injury."

"Okay. I…" Jon swallowed, rubbing his hand against the offending leg, "I am… aware of that."

Dr. Siddiqui nodded. "You have options though. And you’re young. Things can change, improve. What I’d like to try is remove your cast, get you fitted with a functional brace, and get you moving. Start with physio, thrice weekly. Which won’t be a lot of fun, I’m afraid."

"Well. Neither is lying around all day and wasting away," Jon muttered.

"No. Didn’t think so. So— you’re ready to try this?"

"Yes."

"Good. I will set you up with someone I work with regularly. They’re not fussy, and you won’t be able to scare them off, I can promise you that."

Jon gave her a lopsided grin. Then he dug into his trouser pocket and fished out a worn piece of paper. He unfolded it and held it out to her.

"Also— uhm. I’ve been doing research, looking into them and… I want that one." Jon pointed at a name on the rather creased list (it obviously hadn’t looked like that when the doctor had given it to him a couple of weeks ago), which he had circled with one of Sasha’s purple glitter pens.

Nadine Stafford, trauma therapist.

A rare, beaming smile split the doctor’s face as she looked down at the piece of paper, then back up at him and said warmly: "That’s brilliant, Jonathan."

------

On a Saturday morning in early July Jon, Martin, Gerry, Sasha and Tim squeezed into Gerry’s car and braved the one-and-a-half-hour drive down to Bournemouth. 

Martin drove, because they’d figured out that he was the only one of them who actually enjoyed driving. 

They took the Sandbanks Ferry over to Shell Bay, because Jon had assured them that this was the best beach (according to his fuzzy childhood memories). And it was a pretty good beach—different universe notwithstanding.

Jon was getting very adept at moving around on his crutches. His arms were, to his shock and joy, developing a layer of lean muscle. He had also gained about seven pounds since he’d started physio, since it worked to make him feel actual hunger from time to time.

He was, of course, not in the slightest equipped to traverse sand.

Martin was enjoying carrying him piggyback to the shore a bit too much, in his opinion. Especially since Jon had borrowed one of Sasha’s flowy, knee-length skirts for the occasion (lavender coloured, with a pattern of black bats) and Martin kept staring at the fabric, unreasonably pleased.

Gerry, Sasha and Tim immediately stripped down to their respective swimming trunks and bikini and left Martin to set out their large picnic blanket.

They sat there for a while, leaning against each other, watching the other three toss a ball in the shallow water and yell like schoolchildren.

When Jon looked up at Martin’s face, framed by tousled pink curls and sporting a billion freckles the sun had drawn out of his skin, his eyes started burning inconveniently. He took Martin’s hand and squeezed it a bit too hard. Martin looked down and bumped Jon’s shoulder with his own.

"You good?"

Jon gave him a wobbly smile. "Never better."

Martin smiled back, bent down and kissed him on the nose. Then he nodded at their friends splashing about in the no doubt freezing water. "That does look like a lot of fun."

Jon grinned. "Well, go play!"

"Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you alone."

"You can tell Gerry I said he ought to rest his hand a bit. It’s not even an excuse."

So Martin went down to the water and got immediately tackled by Tim while Sasha tried splashing water into his face until they were all laughing hysterically. Gerry strolled up to the edge of the grassy dunes—rolling his eyes dramatically—to were Jon sat, left foot buried in the sand. He flopped down on the blanket.

"Good call. Tim and Sasha are a health hazard. And I was getting a bit reckless I guess." Gerry flexed his hand and winced at the stretch; his ring finger refused to uncurl, as it so often did.

"Welcome to the messed-up-right-hand club." Jon’s voice was dry, but he couldn’t suppress a concerned undertone.

Gerry shrugged, gazing down at the two scars splitting his palm. "I think it’s rather cool, really. An unmistakable reminder of that one time I accidentally slammed my hand into an inter-dimensional portal. Extremely goth of me, don’t you think?"

"Yes." Jon smiled. "And, uh. Thank you. For that." He cleared his throat. "For wanting to save me."

"I did save you."

"Mm—jury’s out on that."

Gerry snorted and then threw his balled up T-shirt at Jon’s head.

Jon threw it back at him. "Put this on, you’re shivering."

"Yes sir."

Gerry slipped into his T-shirt, then dug for his cigarettes in the pocket of his discarded jeans and lit one.

Jon scooted closer to him, groaning wretchedly. "I would kill for a cigarette."

"Seeing as how Dr. Siddiqui will kill me if I let you smoke, you would get your wish. Have some wine instead. Sasha’s packed a dry Italian red."

"I’m not supposed to drink either."

"You can have one glass of wine per day, I asked."

"It’s not even noon yet."

Gerry sighed and dug into their lunch bag. "I got you that atrocious dark chocolate with raisins you love, you heathen."

"That’s nice, but…" Jon unceremoniously slumped against Gerry’s side and buried his nose in his T-shirt, blissfully inhaling second-hand smoke. Gerry’s chest twitched beneath his face.

"Don’t let your boyfriend see that."

Jon blinked one eye up at him. "Oh, he knows."

"Knows what?" Gerry’s voice was taking on a flustered edge.

"How much you mean to me," Jon said calmly.

"Oh. Okay." Gerry blushed a fetching shade of crimson, then he buried his hand in Jon’s hair to softly scratch at his scalp. "Good."

They stumbled back into the house in the early evening, all of them—except for Martin—in various stages of wine-drunk. Jon was clinging to Martin’s back once more, too exhausted for his crutches from a day of sun and sea and too much ice cream.

Martin stopped dead in the foyer, then stooped down a little.

"What’s…?"

His voice came out high and thin. Jon squinted over his shoulder. There was an odd looking postcard lying on the floor beneath the letter box.

Jon felt very sober all of a sudden.

Gerry picked the card up and narrowed his eyes at it. "Living room," he said, and marched away with it. The others scrambled after him, then huddled on the sofa, Jon squeezed between Martin and Gerry, and Tim and Sasha on either side of them. Gerry gingerly handed Jon the card.

The front was an old-fashioned watercolour illustration of a dark-skinned woman with short bleached hair and a wide, beaming smile, dressed in elaborate victorian clothing. She was sitting atop a stylised shooting star like a witch on a broom, waving. Behind her, on a field of dark purplish blue, blinked hundreds of tiny stars.

There was no address on the back. Just a spidery scrawl in black ink that simply read 

You're welcome!