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And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 58: Arise, depart, for this is not your rest

Gerry was right, as he usually was. Tim had been prepared to rush off half cocked with no plan and chase vans until he found Jon. It was obvious that Breekon and Hope had been the ones to snatch him, but…honestly, what would he have done if he’d caught the van? Ripped the back doors off the hinges and dragged Jon out? Well, actually, in the mood he’d been in, probably. But more than likely he’d have been arrested for being a nuisance or destruction of property or something, which would definitely not have helped. Jonah—Elias—would have left him to rot in jail, and while he didn’t doubt Gerry would have bailed him out, that was an argument he’d rather not have, and it would have seriously curtailed his movements. Better to take the time to think, to plan, and to be sure of where they were going and what they would do when they got there.

He went into the Institute the next day with the full intention of telling Martin everything. Nobody would notice otherwise; Jon’s attendance had been spotty at best since coming back, and while Martin always looked miserable about it when he thought nobody was looking, neither Melanie nor Basira seemed to care. His ring tightened around his finger in warning, though, and he definitely didn’t want Jonah aware of what he knew. Just before lunch, Melanie asked if Jon had checked in, and the few brittle words she and Martin exchanged revealed that they both believed Jon no longer had his phone, which was when Tim realized he’d dialed a completely unfamiliar number rather than hitting the preset key combo in his own to call him. The Ceaseless Watcher had given him—had given the Guardian—the ability to contact Jon—the Archivist without knowing how he’d done it. While that could easily have been covered by the whole “occupational hazard” thing, there was a very good chance Martin wouldn’t believe him and would be hurt that Jon had given Tim his number but not him. He still hadn’t reached a final decision when they hit the end of the workday and Martin left without saying anything while he was still locking up. Evidently he beat Tim to the station by just enough that he was able to catch an earlier train.

Tim sort of gave up on trying to tell him anything just yet after that.

The dreams were a comfort, in a way, since at least they meant that Jon wasn’t dead yet—and also meant that he was actually sleeping, if only in fits and starts and not consistently. The first night, Tim noticed that Jon seemed almost dazed, his attention unusually rapt on the dreams, completely impassive to their suffering…at least until he shifted and winced and something in his eyes changed. Tim realized then that he had a knot on the side of his head and nearly choked on his rage as he reached for it, but Jon apparently woke up right before he made contact, throwing Tim to consciousness as well. The second night was—strange. Tim appeared in the usual spot, but Jon was nowhere to be seen. Tim had scoured several of the dreams before he finally encountered Jon stumbling out of the warehouse, which wasn’t exactly the usual warehouse. He’d been panting and almost frantic, flexing his hands and crouching slightly. Tim hadn’t called out to him, hadn’t wanted to frighten him, and so instead had simply followed him to see if he was okay as he made his way to the nearest dream. He’d only watched one before jerking awake, but Tim had remained in the dream…and to his mild surprise, Jon had reappeared some time later.

That quickly became the pattern. At least Tim slept through the whole night, even if he now spent at least half of it waiting for Jon—he’d learned fairly quickly that he didn’t need to look, just wait. Even if Jon didn’t appear, Tim knew, in the way he often did in these dreams, that he was still out there, just not asleep right then. It was, at least, confirmation the Archivist was still alive and well…or, well, at least alive. By the fifth night, Tim was beginning to get significantly more worried about him.

“He’s starving, Ger,” he murmured into his partner’s neck.

Gerry rolled over in his arms and blinked at him. “Who?” he asked, voice laden with sleep.

“Jon. The Archivist. It’s not…he’s getting nutrition, of a sort, or at least water. But he’s not getting enough…” Tim made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “It’s the statements. The Archivist side of him is starting to starve, which is really not good. Partly because I don’t know what that’s going to do to the rest of him, but partly because he really shouldn’t be that bad yet. The dreams don’t really do anything for him and he isn’t staying under long enough to get anything out of them anyway. I’m afraid if he doesn’t get one soon, his body is going to start eating itself or something.”

At that, Gerry pushed himself upright and leaned over Tim, one hand on either side of his shoulders. Staring into his eyes and suddenly much more awake, he asked seriously, “Am I going to have to tie you down to keep you from getting out of this bed right now and going looking for him?”

“No,” Tim protested, then actually allowed himself to think about it. “Maybe. Look, we’ve got to find him, sooner rather than later, and—”

“And I don’t disagree with you, but we don’t know where he is,” Gerry pointed out. “And if we pick the wrong place, what’s to stop the Stranger from killing him outright? I mean, apart from you. I know you can probably…sniff him out or whatever, but not if the Stranger sees us coming. Add in that you can’t be away from the Institute that long—I know you won’t start getting sick because it’s Institute business, kind of, but Jonah will figure out what you’re doing and he will kill you—and we just…need another day or two. I promise, Tim, I’ll help you, but we have to do this right.”

“I know. I hate that you’re right, but I know you are.” Tim sighed heavily. “Can I at least go look over those names you got again and see if they’re going to pay out?”

“No.” Gerry flopped down on his chest. “It’s two in the goddamn morning and you still have work today. Get some more sleep and I’ll see what I can come up with while you try to mitigate the damage with Martin.”

There was something to that, even if Tim didn’t want to admit it. Still, it was a bit longer than he wanted before he actually managed to drift back off to sleep.

He didn’t end up able to really do anything that day, either about Jon or about Martin. Something was definitely going on, and Tim didn’t know if it was just that the Unknowing was getting close and making the other Fears restless and more persistent or if someone was deliberately sending people to the Institute to keep the Archives crew distracted and off balance, but there was a sudden surge in people who needed to bypass Research and come to them directly for some reason. Just before lunchtime, a shifty character who was definitely not prepared to give his real name slouched in with a statement. Tim neatly pared off Martin—who’d taken a live statement himself just the other day and had to lie down with a serious migraine—and herded the man into the Archivist’s office to get his statement. He’d eventually lost his temper and forced the truth out of the man, who left upset and terrified, but now it was Tim’s turn to be slightly wiped out and not in the mood to do much more.

He would have done it anyway, but Gerry had taken one look at him and made him go to bed early.

When he woke up the next morning, though—anxious because Jon hadn’t turned up at all, but at least energized and ready for the day—Gerry was waiting for him in the kitchen with breakfast, bags under his eyes, and a sheet of paper heavily marked up in red. Tim, naturally, went to the paper first. “What’s this?”

“I went through all the information I got from the library last night,” Gerry explained. “Cross referenced all the experts and their addresses with the different closed museums—you know, to see which ones were less likely to be getting used. I’ve come up with five that seem to be well and truly abandoned, and…that’s kind of where I’m at right now. I suppose we, or I, could stake them out, but…”

“No,” Tim said immediately. “No, let me see what I can do with the Institute’s resources first. Like you said the other day, if we go to the wrong place or go in without a plan, it puts Jon at risk. I want to see if I can figure it out without assistance.”

“Fine. I’m going to bed.” Gerry failed to stifle a yawn. “Call me if you need me. Or we’ll talk when you get home.”

Tim caught Gerry around the waist and kissed his cheek on the way through. “Thanks, Ger.”

“Hey, that’s what partners are for.”

Tim spent the first part of the morning shuffling through the statements on the shelves until he found what he was looking for: a statement involving waxworks. Granted, it was an older one, dated to 1914, but it did involve a waxwork coming to life—in particular, a wax figure that had seemingly been added to a display without anyone’s knowledge, even the museum curator’s—and, more importantly for Tim’s purposes, the statement didn’t specify which museum the incident had taken place in. Which meant if anyone saw him working through his list, he could plausibly claim he was trying to narrow down what wax museums had existed at the time so he could more accurately verify the incident. He didn’t really expect anyone in the Archives to question him; Martin was busy trying to update Mister Megabytes, Melanie was studying a war related statement that under any other circumstances Tim would absolutely have taken away from her except that he’d seen at a glance it was fake, and Basira was as usual camped out in a corner with a stack of books ignoring all of them. Still, the ring on his finger tightened periodically over the course of the day, so he knew someone, if not actually Jonah, was keeping an eye on them.

About halfway through the afternoon, he noticed Martin come back from the break room clutching his mug and looking somewhere between miserable and angry and remembered that he’d forgotten to bring the tea he’d bought in, let alone actually get an apology in. He made a mental note to be sure and do that the next day, then went back to work. By the time he left at the end of the day, he had two possibilities for where Jon could be…or more accurately, as he said to Gerry, two possibilities for where the Unknowing was going to be. But they were fairly certain the Stranger was holding him where the Unknowing would be, so that was a plus.

Gerry insisted he could handle figuring out which option was the correct one, and that if he couldn’t they could work on it over the weekend, so Tim, reluctantly, left him to it and went to work the next day armed with his laptop, the tin of looseleaf tea, and a battered paperback, the latter two of which he left on Martin’s desk.

Martin arrived less than ten minutes later. He mumbled a good morning without looking in Tim’s direction, then paused when he saw what was sitting on his desk. “Where did this come from?” he asked, a bit warily.

“Me. I’ve been meaning to bring you that for a week now.” Tim got to his feet. “At least the tea. The book is the one I promised to lend you ages ago, but…I owe you an apology.”

Martin blinked up at Tim. “For what?”

Tim shrugged. “Everything, really, but let’s start with that fight we had last week.”

“It’s…fine.”

“It one hundred percent is not. I’ve been…tense lately, and I’ve been taking that out on you. And I’ve been keeping secrets for what probably seems like no goddamned reason, and that’s not fair to you either. And I am sorry, Martin, truly.”

“It’s not like I’ve gone out of my way to get those secrets from you,” Martin said, softly. “You’ve offered, loads of times. And I keep brushing you off, because…because Jon doesn’t know yet, does he?”

Tim bit the inside of his cheek. “No. Probably not. Maybe. I don’t know what he knows anymore, Marto. I don’t think he knows the sorts of things I’m getting ready to tell you, but—”

“He needs to know first,” Martin interrupted firmly. “You, you can tell me after you tell him.” His shoulders slumped. “If he ever checks back in. Have you…heard from him lately?”

Before Tim could figure out how to answer that, Melanie came in, trailed by Basira, and they had to table the conversation.

Tim fully, completely intended to tell Martin later. He thought maybe he would offer to buy him lunch, then drag him into the tunnels where they would be unobserved and lay everything out for him. But Elias, the bastard, sent someone from Research down with a truly staggering number of boxes and a note dripping with false sincerity saying it was quite urgent they catalog them immediately, as there was likely something in there of use to Jon, and they’d ended up sending Basira out for sandwiches while Tim, Martin, and Melanie tried to dig their way out of the avalanche of papers without otherwise taking a break.

There was definitely something up, especially since Tim’s ring was so tight he almost expected to see his finger drop off into one of the boxes if he flexed it the wrong way, but there was no space to bring anything up, especially since Basira’s assistance began and ended at the sandwich run. In desperation, he invited Martin over for supper, but Martin, politely but firmly, declined.

“We can talk tomorrow, okay?” he said, eyes pleading. “I just…I-I need to decompress after…all of this.”

“Sure. I understand.” Tim tried to smile. “Take care of yourself, Martin. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He went around locking the doors and making sure everything was shut down for the night once the others had left. The ring slid a little on his finger, and he paused briefly as several things rapidly connected in his head, then shot Gerry a quick text: [Meet me in the tunnels. ASAP.] He hit SEND, finished locking up, and slipped through the trapdoor.

Tim wasn’t really paying attention to the time, but it was maybe half an hour or so later that Gerry arrived in the room they had been using to work out their theories. He came over to where Tim was staring at the map they’d put on the wall and, triumphantly, jabbed a pin into it. “There.”

Tim followed his gaze to the pin. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Well, we’ll still need to do something to confirm it, I think, but all the evidence points there. The House of Wax, in Great Yarmouth. It only closed in 2012, allegedly due to the owner’s failing health, but I found something interesting. The place was legendary as apparently being the world’s worst wax museum, and I found a thread on some forum or other where people were wondering what happened to the waxworks. Someone linked to an article saying that some Czech businessman or other had bought the whole lot, but someone else on the thread—just last year, mind you—swore they had peeked in the window and seen some still in there. So either there was no businessman, or he didn’t take them all…or someone’s still using it. And more significantly, someone else who lives in Great Yarmouth said they had actually seen a delivery van pick them up, but several other people accused them of lying, because everybody knows Breekon and Hope only deliver domestically, and anyway they shut down in 2013.”

“Were either of those users still registered to the website?” Tim asked, a little distractedly.

Gerry paused. “No, actually, now that I think about it. How’d you know?”

“Just a guess, but I didn’t reckon the Stranger would have let either of them live after that.” Tim ran a hand through his hair. “Good. We’ve got a location. Now we need a plan.”

“Well, this is a good place to come up with one, I guess. I’m assuming you’re worried about Jonah overhearing if we plan this elsewhere?” Gerry quirked an eyebrow at him. “How’d you know I had the answers, anyway?”

Tim turned to face him fully. “I didn’t. I just realized something else, and since someone has been trying to spy on us all day, I wanted to tell you down here before someone tried to pry it out of my mind.” He held up his hand and wiggled the finger with the ring for emphasis.

Gerry nodded. “Fair enough. Tell me.”

“Jonah. Whatever his ritual is…I think Jon being kidnapped is part of it.”

“Okay, you’re going to have to explain that one further.”

Tim folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. “Every time over the last week I’ve tried to figure out how to tell Martin what’s going on, something has happened. Someone’s come to give a statement. Somebody else has mentioned something high priority. Today Elias had Research bring down way more statements than they can possibly have accumulated in a year and insisted we had to sort through them right away in case there was something in there Jon needed to know about and we were up to our eyeballs in them for most of the day. He’s trying to keep us distracted and off balance so we don’t ask about Jon being missing. I don’t know how much Jonah realizes I know, but…I think he’s trying to keep me from telling Martin Jon’s in danger. Maybe he thinks I won’t bother to look for him, I don’t know. Or maybe he’s hoping I will and I’ll get killed in the process, but doesn’t want to risk Martin for whatever reason.”

“Martin’s not as dangerous to his plans, maybe?”

“Maybe. Point is, right now I think we have an advantage in that Jonah believes he’s kept us—kept me—distracted, but I don’t know how long that’s going to last. We’ve got to get him back before…whatever Jonah wants of him being kidnapped happens. Hell, maybe they’re going to use him to touch off the Unknowing.”

Gerry pursed his lips. “Could we blow the place up?”

“With Jon inside?” Tim asked pointedly.

“No, of course not. I don’t know that that wouldn’t kill you at this point.” In response to Tim’s raised eyebrows, Gerry elaborated, “You’re the Guardian, Tim. Your whole purpose is to keep the Archivist alive. If he dies, would you die too for having failed? Or instead?”

“I—fuck. I don’t know.” Tim bit his lip. “And I’m not going to push myself to try. But back to the original topic. How would we blow the place up without killing Jon in the process?”

“Well, get him out, obviously, then blow the place up.”

Tim considered the idea from all angles, then slowly shook his head. “No. I don’t think we have time for that. Our priority has to be getting in, getting Jon, and getting back without being noticed. We just need to figure out how we’re doing that.”

Gerry waved a hand. “Oh, I’ve got that covered, that part’s easy.”

“Wait, what?” Tim straightened, arms dropping to his sides. “What do you mean?”

“I was actually on my way back from the storage unit when you texted me. I’d gone up to check on the explosives and—okay, I snagged a few.” Gerry indicated the hard-sided briefcase he’d brought in with him. “Figured they might come in handy, but I didn’t want to lug out the whole case, it was heavy. But I noticed a van parked behind the unit. Damn near had a heart attack, actually, it was a Breekon and Hope van, but then I realized that it hadn’t gone anywhere in ages, the front tire had a huge hole in it. It’s parked out of view of the cameras, too. Reckon we could probably change out the tire, hotwire the van, and drive it up there without being noticed. As long as the actual Breekon and Hope don’t turn up.”

Tim took Gerry’s face in his hands and kissed him soundly. “You’re brilliant. Let’s do this.”

“What, now?”

“Ger, we don’t have time to waste. Every second he’s in there being tortured is a second closer to the Stranger’s plan working—or worse, Jonah’s plan. We need to get him back tonight, and it’s two and a half hours from the storage unit to Great Yarmouth. Let’s get moving.”

Thankfully, Gerry didn’t argue with him.

The tire wouldn’t be terribly difficult to replace; Tim had spent enough summers at the family vineyard to know how to do basic maintenance on a farm truck that had an issue in the middle of the field, and the van looked like it took standard enough tire sizes. When he opened the back—which was thankfully unlocked—looking for the jack and the spare, he found an additional bonus: three sets of coveralls and caps with the same logo on them as the van itself. One of them, which seemed to have been tossed in rather than placed carefully in the bag with the others, even had the keys in one pocket. He glanced over his shoulder. “Good news. We’ve got disguises.”

“Great. How about a tire?”

“Shit. There’s a space where it should be, but it’s empty. Got the jack, but…not helpful right now.” Tim dragged the jack out, then looked around and nodded towards another corner. “Let’s check those out.”

Gerry followed his gaze. “You’re just going to take from another vehicle?”

“It’s already missing one. They won’t miss another. Come on, like this is the most illegal or unethical thing you’ve ever done.”

“I feel like we’re straining the whole ‘ends justify the means’ thing to its limits.” Nevertheless, Gerry followed Tim over to the delivery van up on blocks.

It was obvious this one hadn’t been touched in a few years either, but the tires were in good shape, so Tim knelt down to begin removing one. As he did, Gerry tugged at the back door and opened it. “Huh.”

“What?” Tim said distractedly, wrestling with a particularly stubborn lug nut.

“Think this was a hospital van. Or a coroner’s van. Either way, there’s some stuff in here that might be of use.” Gerry pulled a couple things out and shut the door again. “Need a hand with that tire?”

“No, I’m good.” The last lug nut pulled free, and Tim lifted the tire off the axle. From there it was only about another fifteen or so minutes before the rotten tire was off the Breekon and Hope van and the new tire was on. He kicked the other three for good measure, then went to put the jack in the back.

He almost had a heart attack when he saw someone standing behind him in nondescript Breekon and Hope coveralls and cap with a cloth tied around their face, but then he recognized the eyes. “Jesus, Gerry, you trying to kill me?”

“No, if I was I’d have just moved the jack.” Gerry pulled down the mask slightly. “Suit up and let’s go. Nobody will look twice at a couple of uniformed delivery guys in a delivery van. Are you driving or am I?”

“I will. I think I’m going to know where we’re going.” He’d never been to Great Yarmouth before, but he was in this to rescue Jon, so he’d figure it out.

As they drove, Gerry outlined the plan he’d come up with upon seeing what he’d found in the hospital van. Tim critiqued a couple of points and fleshed out a couple more, but he had to admit that, with the limited time they had, he couldn’t come up with anything better.

“It just has to work. It doesn’t have to be fancy,” he murmured as he merged off the A111 towards their destination.

“Hopefully they’ll be sleeping,” Gerry murmured back.

“I don’t think they sleep, but hopefully we’ll be able to avoid detection.”

It was just gone midnight when they pulled into Great Yarmouth. Tim slowed the van down, conscious of the fact that there was no one else on the road, but equally conscious of the fact that if—no, there was no if. They were right, this was where Jon was being held, Tim could feel his presence—which did at least mean that the Breekon and Hope van was hardly uncommon here, so nobody was likely to look twice at it.

He stopped at an intersection, paused, and turned to face Gerry. He was deadly serious as he spoke. “This is going to be bad.”

“I know, Tim,” Gerry said. “And I know you’re not just talking about the Stranger.”

Tim nodded. “Listen. Listen. I am going to do my best to keep my head, but if I start—”

Gerry reached over and placed a finger on his lips, forestalling the rest of his sentence. “If you start looking like you’re about to tear this place apart with your bare hands, I will remind you that your first responsibility is to the Archivist. He’s alive. He isn’t dead. Your job is to keep him that way, and if you go on the attack you’re likely to get him and us killed. So don’t worry, I’ve already thought about it, and as much as I would hate to, if it comes down between your life and Jon’s, I’ll choose the way you won’t hate me for.”

“That…shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. But thank you.” Tim squeezed Gerry’s hand and drove the last few blocks to their destination.

The faded, dilapidated sign still had enough of the letters to be recognizable. There were no lights, which Tim wasn’t terribly concerned about, at least on his end, but also didn’t necessarily mean nobody was home; there was no guarantee the Stranger couldn’t see in the dark, too. Or that it even needed to see. Nevertheless, he slowly circled the block before he decided on the best angle of approach.

He glanced at Gerry. “Ready?”

“Born ready,” Gerry said with a nod. “Your campaign, Captain.”

“Right. We who are about to something or other salute you.” Tim took a deep breath and carefully backed the van up to the half open delivery door.

The inside of the House of Wax was not noticeably less creepy than the outside. Tim could hear odd echoes and creaks as the building shifted and blew in the wind, and he could smell the damp through the building, the threat of rain. Luckily it wasn’t raining just yet, which gave them a bit of an edge. Gerry stayed close to Tim as they slunk through the shadows of the old building.

The ring stayed nice and comfortable on his finger beneath the work gloves he’d donned, both to avoid leaving fingerprints and to aid in anonymity, meaning they weren’t being spied on. He concentrated on silence, stealth, and the sense that was leading him to his Archivist. It was…muffled, which he’d more or less expected; the Eye watched, but the Stranger concealed, and it was highly likely that even Jonah didn’t know exactly where Jon was. Still, the closer he got, the more sure he was. This was the right place. Jon was here.

Finally, he paused outside a heavy, rust-covered door that looked as though it hadn’t been touched in ages. Tim listened intently for a moment, nodded to himself, and carefully, carefully eased open the door.

The presumably dead internet theorist was right. There were still waxworks here, and they were every bit as rubbish as the place’s reputation had said. Tim vaguely remembered that the owners had named it for Madame Tussaud’s grandson Louis, but that he wasn’t involved with it—obviously, considering the lack of craftsmanship on the leering faces looking back at him. The uncanny, misshapen faces and forms leaned at odd angles, all of them positioned to face the same spot. There were enough of them in the way that Tim had to get a little closer before he saw what, really, he knew they were surrounding.

Sure enough, near the far side of the room, where another door was firmly closed and presumably barred, there was a chair. It was old and sturdy and had probably been meant for a waxwork—maybe the basis of an armchair, maybe of a throne, maybe simply a dining room table for a family tableau. The figure slumped in it, though, was definitely not made of wax.

It was Jon.

Jon, whose wrists and ankles were tied far too tightly to the arms and legs of the chair with thick, coarse ropes better suited for mooring ships. Jon, whose shaggy dark hair was broken up by a streak of dirty white where a cloth had been tied around his mouth to gag him. Jon, who judging by the rubber hose tossed casually to one side was being force fed the way prisoners on a hunger strike were. Jon, who had clearly been in this position for the entirety of the previous week.

Bile rose in Tim’s throat and a red mist began to fill his eyes. He wanted to go on a rampage, to storm up the stairs screaming and carve every single man, woman, and waxwork in this building into paper thin slices. He swallowed it down, though. That wasn’t what he was here for, he reminded himself. He had a job and a duty, and he would not make Gerry kill him to stop him from killing them both.

Slowly, carefully, he approached the spot where Jon was tied, Gerry at his heels, scanning the room the whole time. They were alone. For now. This was the best shot they would have.

It was time to go to work.

Tim truly hated the idea of what they were about to do, but it was the only way it would work. He nodded to Gerry, who nodded back and rolled the body bag they had brought with them out on a nearby worktable.

At the sound of the zipper being undone, Jon’s head jerked up. Tim could practically taste the fear in the air. He also knew he couldn’t risk talking, not here, so he crept up on the chair, counted silently to three, and clapped a hand over Jon’s mouth from behind.

“Shh!” he hissed, all he dared do.

Jon fought—feebly enough, but with panic and desperation and a few muffled, frightened sobs that nearly broke Tim’s heart—but Tim was stronger under the best of circumstances, which these were decidedly not. He managed to yank the bindings free, perhaps less gently than he should have, and get a grip on Jon’s torso. Gerry came around to grab Jon’s feet, and together they hauled him up and bundled him into the body bag before he could struggle too hard. The last thing Tim saw were the frantically rolling whites of his terror-filled eyes before they zipped the bag closed over his face.

He was alarmingly still as they carried him out to the van; either he was conserving his energy, he was paralyzed with fear, or he had fainted outright. Tim concentrated on getting them out of the House of Wax without getting spotted. Through a combination of skill, experience, and sheer dumb luck, they managed.

Tim climbed into the back of the van and kept Jon’s head and shoulders steady as Gerry shoved his feet in. Once he and Jon were both fully inside, Gerry slammed the doors shut. A second later, he was in the driver’s seat, cranking the engine to life with one hand and removing his mask and cap in one go with the other.

“Get him out of there,” he said over his shoulder, a bit hoarsely, as he pulled away from the curb. “I’ll get us home.”

Tim nodded and reached for the zipper. It caught at first, and he had to work it a bit to get it moving, but he finally managed to free it from whatever it was stuck on and slid it down as fast as he could. The second Jon was freed, he sat up and kicked his way out, scooting backwards to the far side of the van and pressing up against it, eyes still wide with terror and breathing behind the gag shallow and rapid.

“Jon, Jon, it’s okay, it’s me,” Tim said hastily. He pulled off his own mask and tossed it to one side, then held out his hands, palms forward, in as placating a gesture as he could. “It’s us. You’re safe. Here, let me…”

Carefully, telegraphing his movements as obviously as possible, he leaned forward and undid the filthy gag shoved in Jon’s mouth, then sat back and gave him space as he gasped for air. For the first time, he could see him clearly, even in the darkness of pre-dawn, and he didn’t like it.

First and most glaringly obvious, Jon was totally unclothed. Tim was hardly a prude, but there was a difference between naked and nude and Jon was explicitly the former; he’d been stripped bare and left exposed and vulnerable. He had curled himself into a tight ball against the opposite side of the van, and he was hugging his knees to his chest. His wrists and ankles were raw and bleeding where he’d been obviously fighting against his restraints, but apart from that, his skin looked to be in good shape—well, except for the scars, but even those had started to—finally—fade. Certainly it was in better shape than the rest of him, and Tim noted with another pang the jut of his collarbone, the prominence of his ribs. He was thin, too thin, and no way had he got like this in just a few short days. He wasn’t well at all.

Perversely, the Stranger had let him keep his glasses.

Tim grabbed the bag with the spare uniform in it and slid it across the floor to Jon. “Here,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and gentle. “Get something covering you, at least, okay? We’ll be back in London soon. Just remember, you’re safe.”

Without waiting for a response, he rose to the stablest half-crouch he could and crab-walked to the barrier between the cargo space and the cabin, then scrambled over it awkwardly. Only a fortuitous—or judicious—hairpin turn kept him from kicking Gerry in the shoulder. He dropped heavily into the passenger seat and fumbled for the shoulder belt.

Gerry didn’t take his eyes off the road. “How is he?” he asked in a low voice.

“He’ll be okay,” Tim said, equally quietly. “Once we get him home.”

“To Martin’s, then?” Gerry reached over and took Tim’s hand, still without looking.

Tim smiled, for the first time in what felt like weeks. “You know it.”

Gerry waited until they were well out of Great Yarmouth before he turned on the radio, but other than that, they rode the three hours to London—actually a bit less with Gerry’s lead foot—in silence. When they pulled onto Martin’s street, as Gerry peered at house numbers, Tim fished his mobile phone out of the cup holder and hit one of the preset contacts.

After a ring and a half, a slightly strained voice answered. “Tim?”

“Morning, Marto. Just making sure you were awake. I know it’s early.” Tim nodded at Gerry as he parked in front of the building. “You’re on the third story, right?”

“Y-yeah…?”

“Good. Be up in a few. Don’t freak out if you notice the van, we borrowed it.” Tim ended the call without giving Martin a chance to respond to that, then turned to Gerry. “Coming?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to be alone if they catch up to us, or vice versa.” Gerry gave Tim that cocky grin he loved so much and leaned over for a quick kiss before opening his door. Tim did the same.

Jon flinched when Tim opened the cargo doors, and his heart ached again. However badly their relationship had deteriorated during Jon’s extended fit of paranoia, you just couldn’t hate someone who looked this pathetic—like a cat that had been used as bait in a dog fighting ring and returned to the shelter for the third time. He was dressed, practically swaddled, in the outsize boiler suit they’d found and seemed to be trying to disappear into it.

“We’re home,” Tim said simply, standing back to allow Jon a clear shot at what passed for sunlight on an April Tuesday in London.

Jon stared at him uncomprehendingly, as if the word home was one he’d never heard before, but after a moment he unfolded himself and crawled awkwardly to the back of the van. He almost tumbled to the ground; Tim caught his elbow to steady him, and just as quickly dropped it at the panicked look that came into Jon’s face. He slammed the van’s doors—Jon flinched again—and then ushered him and Gerry into the building and jabbed the button for the lift. It creaked and clanked its way up to the third story, then disgorged them with seeming reluctance. Jon looked around in vague bewilderment, but followed Tim and Gerry down the hall, much in the same way a prisoner heading to the gallows might follow the hangman in a sort of resigned terror. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, probably because he’d been seated and bound to a chair for almost a week, but he kept up well enough.

Tim had only been here once before, but luckily he had been here once before, because most doors were unnumbered, and the ones that weren’t were faded and peeling and illegible in places. He counted under his breath until he came to the right one, then knocked three times. After a moment, the door opened cautiously, and Martin’s pale, worried face peered out.

“Special delivery,” Tim said cheerfully.

“Christ, Tim.” Martin blanched.

Tim stepped to one side and gestured for Jon to come ahead. Jon shuffled forward, then stopped and straightened as he—evidently��registered the face behind the door. Martin’s eyes widened, and he opened the door more fully. “Jon?”

From the way Jon…didn’t exactly relax, but definitely had some of the terror recede, Tim knew he’d been right to bring him here. Jon reached out for Martin, then stopped, as if unsure he was allowed to or afraid of what would happen if he did. Martin, thank God, seemed to understand, and he stepped out of the doorway. “Come on in. I’ll, um, I’ve got the kettle going, I’ll make us a nice cup of tea…”

Jon stumbled obediently into the flat. Tim, with a glance at Gerry, stayed outside, and when Martin caught his eye, he shook his head. Quietly, he said, “Take care of him, okay? It’s…it wasn’t good. Let him tell you about it when he’s ready. Not my place, you know?”

“Yeah.” Martin looked over his shoulder, then back at Tim. “Thank you. For finding him, w-wherever he was and whatever was going on. I know it hasn’t exactly been…easy between you two, but…”

“It’s my job, Martin,” Tim said. “Besides, I could hate him worse than Jurgen Leitner and it still wouldn’t mean I would leave him where he was.” He clapped Martin on the shoulder. “See you Monday.”

Martin blinked, and seemed about to protest, then stopped, swallowed, and nodded. “Yeah. See you Monday, Tim.”

Tim waited until he shut the door before turning back to Gerry. Together, they went back down out of the building and back to the van without talking.

Once they were back in the cab, Gerry started the engine. “I’ll run you home before I take this back to the storage unit.”

“I should go with you,” Tim protested.

“I’ll be fine. Nobody’s going to be looking for me. You, on the other hand, need a nap.” Gerry glanced at him sideways. “I assume you’re going into work tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I…kind of have to,” Tim admitted. “After all, I’ve still got the keys. And I need to keep Jonah from knowing what’s going on if I can help it. But I can—”

“You can get by on no sleep, but that doesn’t mean you should. You need as much strength as you can get to resist that bastard.” Gerry reached over and laced his fingers through Tim’s. “I’ll be okay, Tim. I’ll be home before you leave. I just want you to have time to rest and shower. Besides, Rowlf will be aching for company.”

“Christ, I forgot about Rowlf.” Tim sighed. “Maybe I’ll take him into work with me. He’d like that.”

Gerry squeezed his hand, and they rode the rest of the way home in silence.

#tma #cool fic

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