Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You can’t do this!”

The bottle shattered against the mirror, shards of tinted glass and silver falling to the floor in a deadly rain.

“Oh really?” The Coachman folded his gloved hands neatly in front of him as John seethed, claws digging into the wood of the table.

“Who’s going to stop me? You? And who do you think the police will believe when they find a poor defenseless old man mauled to death by a savage fox.”

John stopped and peered over the Coachman’s shoulder at the mirror he’d just shattered. His broken reflection staring back at him, brown eyes that were almost human but not quite. The uncanniness of his own face was not lost on him, the face of a fox and yet he still desperately clung to those human features about him. Remnants of his old life.

“You will pay what you owe me, John.” The Coachman’s voice grated on his ears, and suddenly John felt his control slipping. Once he lost control of a situation it was over for him, he’d slip back down into that dark place, that bottomless pit of despair and agony, forever at the mercy of someone else’s whim.

“Plus interest.”

Though, he supposed that was the exact pit he was in right now. A pit he couldn’t dig himself out of no matter how hard he tried.

“...You won’t ever let me go, will you?”

The Coachman sipped his pint with a raised brow.

“So you’re finally catching on.” He chuckled. “Took you long enough.”

No matter what he did. No matter how much he sucked up to that greedy charlatan. The Coachman would keep him here forever, work him until he dropped like he did with every other poor naive soul he sent to that cursed island over the years. That island scared him. Every time they ran low on funds the Coachman decided that he would make another run to Pleasure Island, and John always found every excuse in the book to not be on that ferry when he did. The only other person who knew about his irrational fear was Gideon, and that cat would never tell a soul (quite literally).

That island was where his worst nightmare began, a nightmare that became his reality, and then very quickly his entire life. That island was where the Coachman had swindled him into a debt he could never escape.

“Go home John. It’s late. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.” The Coachman stubbed out his cigar and grabbed the lamp. He lumbered out of the dark tavern and into the night, leaving John alone to navigate his way back home, in the dark, and the rain.

Sure. Tomorrow.

By the time John got home it was well past midnight and his clothes and fur were soaked. Gideon peeked over the edge of the book he was reading. He always waited up if John stayed out later than him.

“Things didn’t quite go according to plan.” John mumbled as he stripped himself of his hat and overcoat. He ran his fingers over the patched holes in the fabric, sewn together with whatever scraps Gideon had from his recent sewing projects.

“He might be gearing up for the island again soon.”

Gideon shivered and looked at John with an absolutely wrecked expression. Gideon knew how much John hated that island, and had seen it with his own eyes what they’d both gone through.

“Don’t worry… I’ll get this debt paid soon. Then we’ll live like kings, hey ol’ boy?” He nudged Gideon’s shoulder, hoping to lighten the mood as he shook out his fur. He headed into the small bedroom they shared, his bed on one side, Gideon's on the other. A dresser with a mirror on one end of the wall, a wash basin on the other.

He slipped out of his coat and suspenders and stood in front of the mirror again. This one was shattered too, like the one in the tavern. But unlike that mirror, this one had been broken long ago, by fists that were much smaller than the ones balled up on the wood now. Gently, he slipped his gloves off and stared down at his hands. Hands that hadn’t been human or animal for years. Not quite hands but also not paws. He had thumbs still, and long bony fingers (he was always a rather scrawny child) but his finger pads were raised, thicker, darker, made for traversing hard ground.

Forcing himself to look at his broken reflection for the second time that night, John shook as a tear slipped down his furry face.

Every day he lost a little more hope, became a little more empty inside. Each boy he lured away from their families to be brought to that dreaded island, with every scream, every desperate panicking bray of a donkey. He could feel it, pieces of his soul slipping away.

Soon he would be just as cruel and heartless as the man who trapped him here.

Why? Why me? He thought as he unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his spats. Why was he different from all the other boys? Why couldn’t he have just been turned into a donkey like the rest of them and sold as a slave? Death would’ve been a more welcome salvation than eternal servitude at the hands of a madman.

He swore the mirror almost cracked again as he stared too hard at his own reflection. He looked, really looked, for the first time in what felt like years. John Worthington Foulfellowe was still in there, buried beneath cigar smoke and red fur. Brown eyes that were always just a little too bloodshot if you were close enough to see, too big for the skull he’d grown. Ears that never moved, not the way a fox’s ears normally would. Teeth that felt a little too human inside of that abnormally elongated snout. Only three fingers on each hand, the two middle ones melded together years ago while he watched in horror. He’d remembered how the fur itched as it grew alarmingly fast all over his face and body. How it had hurt when his bones cracked and reshaped themselves.

He remembered seeing Gideon’s horrified face, now as uncanny as his own, as he screamed for mercy.

The police had done nothing, nobody wanted to help him or Gideon. Everyone shunned them, saw their animal forms as evidence of their misdeeds, punishment for their ill-behavior in their youth. Forever labeled, forever branded as shifty, untrustworthy, monsters. Monsters.

In a way, John guessed, they were right. The Coachman had forced them to do unspeakable things, unforgivable things. Kidnapping boys, luring them away, selling them for profit. No matter how hard they cried, no matter how much they begged for the safety of their parents, their mothers. John would send them away, send them somewhere they’d never be found again.

Sometimes, he even had to kill to keep his secrets. One or two pesky nosybodies got themselves into deep water, and it was John that always had to take care of it. Tie up the loose ends, if you will. A quick knife to the gut in the back alley, a broken bottle to the back of the head in a secluded farming field, or a quick trip out to sea with a rope and a sack of bricks.

He’d seen it all, done it all. Perhaps that’s why he could never go back. He’d earned the exaggerated title he’d been given when he was transformed into this amalgamation. Monster. There was no denying it now, that was what he was. If not literally then at the very least metaphorically.

Forever stained.

“...What was I thinking?” He rested his head on the dresser but jumped when he leaned back and his tail brushed the bed frame. His stupid tail, he hated the thing. Chopping it off seemed like a more viable option with each passing day. But Gideon tended to hide the knives when he was home, opting for mallets and hammers instead. He couldn’t take his tail off with those. Safer.

It disgusted him to know that Gideon had to hide knives when he was around. Those thoughts buried themselves in his mind, convinced his brain that his body was being overtaken by some kind of intruder and the only way to get rid of it was to chop off his limbs, skin himself alive, hope that once he peeled away all the fur and chopped off the excess limbs, the old him would still be lurking just beneath.

But as Gideon came into the room, yawning, and settled into bed under the sliver of pale moonlight from the open window, he just sighed and followed.

He’d deal with everything tomorrow. Tomorrow was another day. He’d do it tomorrow, though he wasn't sure if there would be one for them. No man was ever promised tomorrow.

But, then again, he wasn't exactly all man, was he?

Chapter Text

“Gideon we have to go!”

John burst into the small room, sweat dripping from the tip of his black nose. He startled Gideon, who was flipping to the next page in the book he was reading. Gideon had a whole collection of books stashed under his bed, mostly children's books since he never learned to read past that level, and neither had John for that matter.

Gideon quickly got up and began to follow John without question, seeing the panic in his eyes. If John was panicked that meant something went very very wrong with his latest meeting with the Coachman.

“I can’t do it anymore, Giddy, I just can’t.” John stuffed as much clothes as he could into a single suitcase. “We’re going to find a place to hide out tonight and then take the first train out of Italy in the morning.”

Gideon pulled the box out from under the bed and opened it. He let out a pathetic sigh at the few coins inside that were their life’s savings.

“Just enough for two tickets to anywhere but here.” John grabbed the change and shoved it into the suitcase as well, along with a few of Gideon's favorite books, before he jammed it shut.

Doing a quick once over of the apartment they would soon have to abandon, John pulled open his sock drawer and took out a small ornate golden locket, the one thing he would never pawn for money no matter how desperate or hungry he and Gideon were. He slipped it around his neck and tucked it under his cravat as Gideon waited by the door.

Then they ran, suitcase in hand, searching for any house or business that would be willing to harbor them just for the night.

“FOULFELLOWE!” Came the Coachman’s roar. John felt his fur stand on end, feeling more like a frightened cat than a fox. Gideon clung to his cape in an attempt not to fall behind.

Then John saw it. A light. Someone was still awake at this ungodly hour of the night. Praise be the powers of whoever was that crazy.

John banged on the door, praying that it wasn’t some passed out drunkard that forgot to douse his candle.

The door opened.

“....You?” Soft blue eyes hardened upon seeing the fox and the cat.

“...Pinocchio?” John looked the boy up and down. He looked… different. His nose wasn’t as prominent, his limbs less rectangular, his hands no longer gloved, his joints no longer squeaky.

“Pinocchio! Thank God!” John was thankful to see a familiar face, albeit a bit different from the last time they’d met.

“Who is it, Pinocchio?” Another voice came from inside the house. Pinocchio turned his head to peer inside, then back out at John.

“It’s nobody, Father.” The boy went to close the door, but John’s hands moved faster. One on the door, the other on the frame, prying it back open.

“Pinocchio listen, we need your help-”

“Why would I ever help you? I’m lucky to still be here after what you did.” Pinocchio frowned, his eyes looking more disappointed than angry. Somehow, John thought, it felt even worse.

“I know. I don’t expect forgiveness.” John swallowed his pride, especially now that he could hear the whinnies of a team of horses approaching rapidly. “But please… we need somewhere to stay just for tonight and then we’ll be on the first train out of town and you’ll never see us again! Promise! Honest this time!”

“That’s what you said last time, Honest John.” Pinocchio spit the word honest out like bile and John cringed at the nickname.

“You can watch us all night! We have nothing to hide!” John was getting more desperate as the clattering of hooves got closer. Gideon hid himself under the fox’s cape, staring up at Pinocchio with pleading eyes as John dropped to his knees. Pinocchio stared in disbelief as John clasped his hands together in front of him.

“Pinocchio, I am begging you, please!”

A moment of silence, punctuated by the neigh of a horse.

“...Fine.” Pinocchio moved out of the way and opened the door to let them inside. John grinned as he hefted Gideon and himself through the door and slammed it shut. Holding his breath, he waited for the Coachman to pass them by.

He only let his breath out again once the clatter of hooves and the squeaking of metal wheels faded into the distance.

“Pinocchio… who are they?” John’s eyes snapped open and he realized there was an old man standing a few paces away at a workbench. This was a woodcarvers shop, clocks and music boxes littering the walls, toys scattered across the floor. The fireplace still burned bright, a warm welcome from the chilly night air.

“Father, this is John and Gideon…” Pinocchio joined his father, pressing into his side. “They just needed a place to stay for the night.”

“Yes. We are eternally grateful.” John tried to be polite, taking off his hat and nodding. “We’ll be gone first thing in the morning.”

Something singed his foot and John yelped. He looked down and saw that blasted cricket trying to set him on fire with a hot coal.

“Jiminy!” Pinocchio dove in and scooped the cricket into his hands.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here asking Pinoch for help!” Jiminy’s tiny body radiated rage as he smacked the coal away with the handle of his umbrella.

“Yes, I understand. And my dear boy you deserve an explanation for… all of it.” John sighed and sat on a stool, Gideon sitting on the floor beside him. Pinocchio and his father settled on the sofa, Jiminy pacing on the table between them.

“I knew what Pleasure Island would do to you because… it happened to me.” John explained, “I was a foolish child, just like you. I wanted the easy road to success, and I found it through pickpocketing and tricking people… until one day I crossed the wrong man…”

“Is that who is looking for you right now?” Pinocchio asked. John nodded.

“He has no name, just goes by The Coachman. He runs Pleasure Island. I was in your position about 20 years ago. Except, apparently, I was a special case. I turned into a fox instead of a donkey like the rest of the boys. So the Coachman cut me a deal. Said if I worked for him for long enough he would eventually transform me and Gideon back and we could live as free men.”

“Something tells me the Coachman didn’t make good on his promise.” Jiminy crossed his arms.

“Obviously not.” John gestured to his entirety. Still fox. “Turns out there is no cure… and the Coachman never planned to let us go… so we decided to do it ourselves.”

“Still,” Pinocchio interrupted him, “you still made that choice. You made the choice to swindle and steal and lie and cheat.”

“I did.” For the first time, John’s ears moved. They went down, like a shameful puppy. “And I will spend the rest of my days atoning for what I’ve done. I promise you that, Pinocchio. And I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I inflicted such pain on you… I try to avoid Pleasure Island as much as I can but… saying no to the Coachman is obviously a very delicate matter.”

Pinocchio and the old man, who John learned was named Geppetto, gave John and Gideon some blankets and a few spare pillows to sleep on. But John couldn’t sleep. The clocks on the walls ticked slowly, counting the seconds. But every second the Coachman didn’t storm through the door was just another second that John worried he would in the next.

The glow of the wishing star blinked right outside the window, and John was on his knees.

“I cannot believe I’m doing this…” He mumbled. At least nobody was around to make fun of him. This would be his little secret.

“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight… I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight…”

John didn’t know whether or not he was supposed to say the wish out loud. He’d read somewhere that if you spoke a birthday wish out loud it wouldn’t come true. Whether or not the same applied to stars, he didn’t know.

He was so engrossed in his own overthinking that the glow of the Blue Fairy appearing right in front of him didn’t even register until she cleared her throat.

“Hello John.” The fairy smiled warmly, as if she wasn’t looking into the uncanny eyes of a convicted criminal. John looked up from his spot on the floor, still draped in blankets with a pillow beside him.

“H-Hello ma’am…” He tried his hardest not to stutter. The Blue Fairy. He had heard of her, but he thought it was only a myth, something parents told their children to keep them from misbehaving. But here she stood in front of him now, sparkling dress touching the floor, wings shimmering in the moonlight and her soft features tightened in disappointment.

“I sense you’ve had a change of heart…”

“More like I just had enough.” John mumbled as he stood. Even at his full height he was still shorter than her.

“Either way, it has come to my attention that you wish to change… I want to help you grant that wish.”

“Really?” John raised a brow. He was so used to everything being a scam or someone having ulterior motives, even a fairy descending from the heavens raised his hackles. There had to be some kind of catch.

“Yes, really.” She held her wand in her hand. “But I can only take you part of the way. You must prove yourself brave, truthful and unselfish. And I will be able to reverse what’s been done to you.”

John chanced a glance back at Gideon, sleeping soundly in the pile of blankets nearby.

“And yes, I will change both of you back…” She added, knowing John worried for his feline companion.

“Brave, truthful and unselfish eh? Sounds easy enough…” He rubbed his chin. The hypocrisy of that statement hadn’t quite weighed on him yet.

“It will be more difficult than you think. An adult is more resistant to change than a child, like Pinocchio.” The fairy gestured to Pinocchio sleeping beside his father in their large bed, hand gently resting over Figaro, who slept curled up on the pillow. John’s face softened. Seeing the little boy curled up with his father and his cat, safe at home. Something filled him, jealousy, maybe sadness, longing for the family he never got to enjoy.

“I’m Honest John, I can do anything.” He crossed his arms, still not making eye contact with the fairy.

“If you believe you can do it, then I have every confidence in you.” She smiled as she faded away, shimmering back up into the sky to rejoin the stars she descended from. John questioned whether or not she was an angel as he flopped onto the sofa, suddenly very tired.

Chapter Text

The next morning John woke to the sound of the church bells ringing, signaling another day. Children rushed by outside the window on their way to school. Pinocchio was already awake and dressed, rummaging through the trunk at the end of his bed, finding his books.

“Morning John! Morning Gideon!”

John froze. If the church bells were ringing that meant the sun was already up. Fuck.

He shot up faster than he’d ever had before, and nearly startled Gideon who was already sitting at the breakfast table.

“What time is it?” John asked. It was only a moment later he realized how stupid that question was when he was quite literally surrounded by clocks. One quick glance told him it was about nine in the morning. They should’ve been on the way out of Italy by now. But they were still alive, still here, so the Coachman hadn’t found them yet.

“I know you said you had to go,” Geppetto got John's attention by placing a platter of freshly baked biscuits and a plate of eggs on the table. “...but I figured you two would want some breakfast. It’s a long journey out of Italy.”

John’s mouth watered as Gideon began to fill his plate. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a home cooked meal, using his miniscule funds to either buy himself and Gideon a bowl of something stale at a shady tavern or buying nearly expired food from vendors that were on sale.

“Ok, maybe just a quick meal. Then we have to-” John was shut up as he got a good whiff of biscuit, egg, bacon, and-

“Coffee?” Geppetto asked, holding out a cup. John hadn’t had coffee in years, mostly because it was always too expensive. Alcohol was cheaper.

John took the cup hesitantly, nodding a bit of thanks. As he sipped it, words of protest and the urgency to leave instantly fled his body and brain.

“I haven’t had good coffee in years.” He muttered as Gideon downed his cup and stuffed nearly a whole biscuit into his mouth. Geppetto laughed as he sat down and began to eat himself.

“I can only afford it once and a while but I figured, since we have guests, now would be a good time to make some.” The woodcarver sipped his own cup as he began to dig into the eggs.

Breakfast was slow and warm. Pinocchio had a short breakfast of eggs on a biscuit before he ran out the door. John enjoyed the chirping of birds outside and the milling about of strangers as he sipped his bitter drink, sweetened by sugar and milk. He and Gideon had both eaten nearly 5 plates between the two of them. Geppetto happily served them more, seeing how gaunt and hungry they were. Their layered clothing did wonders to hide their frailty, however Geppetto knew hungry boys when he saw them.

Geppetto was very observant, always had been. That was how he’d managed to excel at woodcarving where others had failed. He had some uncanny sense to know which wood was good to use, and how to carve it so it didn’t split or break. That was how all of his products were so high quality. That was also how he noticed John staring at the bookshelf in the corner, eyes squinted, trying to read the spines.

“Do you have a favorite?” He asked. John snapped out of it.

“Oh uh- No.” He turned back to his nearly empty coffee cup. “Never really one for reading.”

“Were you ever taught?” Geppetto stood and moved to the shelf, picking up a children's book he’d gotten for Pinocchio.

“....Not after…” John gestured to his entirety. Geppetto sat beside him and John’s tail tucked itself under the seat, not used to having someone else so close to him other than Gideon. He wasn’t really a touchy kind of guy.

“I can teach you. I’m ahead of my work so I can take a morning off.” Geppetto didn’t wait for John to answer before opening the book to the first page. John eyed the colorful pictures. He felt embarrassed needing to learn practically from scratch a skill that was becoming more and more widely required. Pinocchio could probably read better than him at this point.

Brave. Truthful. Unselfish. Be good. The words rang through his mind. Be good. He inhaled sharply.

“Thank you…” He muttered as he leaned closer to the book.

They had decided it would be best to wait until evening, so they could catch the last train under the cover of darkness. Pinocchio would guide them to the station and then come straight home.

“Thank you again, for your kindness.” John felt strangely vulnerable as he gave Geppetto a nod. The old man simply nodded back and held the door as they all left. Then they followed Pinocchio down the street.

They walked through the city, John’s anxiety spiking every time the squeaking of a coach’s wheels or the sounds of clopping hooves got too close. The Coachman could still find them at any moment. Could take a pistol to their heads or a whip to their backs. John held Gideon’s hand under his cloak.

As they passed through silent still farmland, the sun was setting over the mountains, deep oranges and yellows and purples lining the sky and the smattering of clouds that still remained. A few donkeys were still working in the fields, pulling plows or carts. John eyed them. Half the donkeys in this part of Italy were supplied by Pleasure Island. It was a 50/50 shot.

Suddenly, Pinocchio stopped.

“Lampwick?”

John looked around, assuming it was one of Pinocchio's school friends. But he couldn’t see anyone else nearby.

His heart sank when Pinocchio jumped a nearby fence and ran straight for a sickly looking donkey pulling a plow.

“Lampwick!” Pinocchio dropped to his knees and held the muzzle of the creature. The donkey was rail thin, showing ribs, and sweating like nobody's business. John could practically hear the creature's heart pounding as it gave a soft bray. Its sad brown eyes lit up a bit, like it recognized an old friend.

“Oh Lampy, what did they do to you?” Pinocchio’s eyes filled with tears as he stroked a hand over the donkey's muzzle. Lampwick let out a bray that turned into a sigh as he collapsed onto the dirt, unable to tug the plow along any longer.

“I’m sorry, Lampy.” Pinocchio cried as he pulled the donkey's head into his lap. The creature panted now, lethargic, fur drenched with sweat, ears drooping. Skin and bones.

John had watched plenty of creatures take their final breath. But somehow this one was the worst of them all. That poor boy. At least he was out of his misery now, off to a better place he hoped.

The rotten cherry on the moldy cake was Pinocchio's tear filled eyes looking at him.

You did this. He seemed to say it without any words at all. You let this happen.

John stayed silent, tail tucked between his legs as they made it to the train station. There were still people milling about, even this late, and John approached the ticket counter. He pulled out the few coins he and Gideon had and slapped them down.

“How far will this get us?” He asked. The man in the booth looked at John, then down at the coins.

“Not going to try and negotiate, John?” He asked. John huffed. His fingers twitched with the urge to do just that, to slip back into his persona, to put on that fake accent and try and swindle the ticket master into a few extra miles of track for his money.

But one look over at Pinocchio, and he knew any attempt would ruin his promise to the fairy. Truthful. He had to be truthful. Easier said than done when your whole personality was crafted on a lie.

“Not this time. Just tell me how far this takes us…” He slid the coins closer to the ticket master, who picked them up and examined them, counted them, then checked his papers.

“It’ll get you to Florence.” The Ticketmaster said. John checked the map, and saw it was about a day out. Not as far as he’d hoped, but far enough.

“We’ll take it.” John snatched up the two tickets and handed one to Gideon. As the last train pulled into the station, he turned to give his thanks to the little boy who’d helped him.

“Pinocchio I- …. Pinocchio?”

But Pinocchio was nowhere to be found. Did he leave already? Sick of seeing John’s face? No. He wasn’t that cruel. He’d at least see that they got on the train safely before he left for home.

“Pinocchio?” John looked around. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong, he could feel it. That gnawing feeling at his gut, like he was starving but couldn’t stomach anything.

Gideon tugged his sleeve and pointed, his expression horrified as they both saw the little boy being carried off by a figure dressed all in black.

“Pinocchio!” John jerked, instinct to follow the boy. But then the train whistle sounded. Last call to board. He could leave, they could leave right now, get on that train to Florence and never come back to this town again.

He looked at the ticket in his hand. His ticket to freedom.

But, Pinocchio had helped him. It wasn’t fair if he got off Scott free while that poor boy was once again taken advantage of.

John’s hands shook as he stuffed the ticket into his pocket and grabbed Gideon's hand, running to catch up the black coach leaving with Pinocchio stuffed in the trunk.

“Come on Giddy!”