#he cook for his dear friend Jonathan

[mcchipisfried]

CHEF BOYAR D

[megamindsupremacy]

Clark Pines AU random headcanons

-sometimes Stan and Ford pull the "switch clothes and talk differently to see if anyone can tell the difference" trick to mess with the twins, and they fall for it a solid 35% of the time, but Clark never falls for it because he can hear their hearts and Ford's heart is FUCKED UP due to the gazillion volts of electricity he got during weirdmageddon

-Clark almost didn't go to college to stay and work at the Shack and maybe convince his dad to finally let him help with the portal, but Stan recognized Clark was smart af and didn't want Clark to be held back for his sake. And then Stan had twenty crises in a row when it came time for Clark to actually Go To College

-Clark has to wear (reading) glasses but he doesn't like the feel of them so he usually just carries them around and wears them as infrequently as possible. And then his entire secret identity becomes "put on glasses" so he has to wear them all the time and he's REALLY MAD about it

-Clark was originally going to college for some sort of mechanics/engineering degree, but once he left Gravity Falls, he realized just how weird his hometown is. Like, he was theoretically aware, but the guy lived there his whole life. He left a few times to visit the twins and their parents or for miscellaneous other reasons but he never really lived outside of Gravity Falls for any amount of time. So it kinda hits him how different The Real World (for lack of a better term) is, and he decides to switch to communications/journalism major instead. Also, he was not very good at engineering.

-The Mystery Twins are approximately the same age as Robin!Dick so they become pretty good friends over the years. Mabel has a gigantic insane crush on Dick and Dick has a tiny baby crush on Dipper and everybody is oblivious about everything except for Bruce and Clark, who have to silently suffer together about the situation until everyone gets over it.

-Dipper gets really into magic and spells and stuff as he gets older so he becomes Clark's go-to "there's weird shit happening and it's not the genre I usually deal with" person. It isn't his life's work like with Constantine or Zatanna, so he isn't a JLDark member or anything, but he definitely Knows Some Shit.

-I'm cooking something along the lines of "Mabel becomes the youngest congresswoman ever at age 18" simply because I think it would be funny and because nobody ever acknowledges how that one frozen president technically made Mabel a congresswoman in that one episode.

-You know how Jon Kent is named that after Clark's Canon Dad Jonathan Kent? Clark tries to name his kid "Stan" after his dad and uncle and both Stanley and Stanford are like don't you FUCKING dare, we have enough Stans in this family, please give your son a better name dear god

-When the Young Justice team (yj98, NOT yjtv) forms, there's a running bit where they keep fucking running into either Mabel or Dipper on every other mission, except none of them know they're Superman's cousins so they think these two weirdos are trying to do Evil Stuff when in fact they're just living their lives, and these lives happen to be absolutely insane enough to keep crossing over with teenage superhero shenanigans.

[dollywheeler]

October 19th, 1996

Dear diary,

Yesterday was so much fun! I haven’t been able to stop practicing Champagne Supernova all morning long. It’s still such a great song, and it’s even better now that I can play it myself.

It was weird leaving school with Mike yesterday though - first of all, to hang around after last period while everyone else rushed for the door, and then to wait as the school emptied out and Mike gathered his stuff. He had to make a detour past the office, so by the time we were on the parking lot it was basically empty.

I asked where Will was, and Mike explained that Will doesn’t have any classes on Friday afternoon so he went to pick up El from the greyhound terminal in Indianapolis. She is home again for a few weeks after spending the last two in Chicago with Max, Lucas, and Erica.

I was disappointed at first, but Mike assured me he’d be back for dinner. Just as I’d feared, it was awkward to be around Mike while it was just the two of us - I mean the only other time that has happened was when I was having a minor breakdown. It was a lot of awkward silence at first, asking stilted questions about how I was doing, and Mike tapping nervously on the steering wheel. I’d forgotten how twitchy he was, he manages to hide it well enough during class, but he does pace a lot, so that might be his outlet there.

Anyway, once he got back to his house it was a little easier - he got us something to drink and ran upstairs to grab his extra guitar - and then we settled into the sunroom to start practicing.

It was easy then - with the guitars between us like a barrier and having something to focus on that wasn’t each other. There was no expectation of talking about ourselves, no need to fill the awkward silence. The practice I got at at Stevenson’s paid off, as the intro to the song already went much smoother for me than it did Mike - I could even give him tips on shifting his fingers more easily.

By the time Will got back, I kind of regretted the interruption. It had been nice to spend time with Mike - after a while, it felt nothing like I’d feared; he didn’t make me feel small or like a child at all. For once, it felt like we were just friends hanging out. Even the moments where he was being too much of an annoying know-it-all older brother were strangely welcome.

I just don’t get why it couldn’t have been like this all along. Why, when he actually should have been my older brother, he was a million miles away.

I can’t think about it too much - I get too frustrated.

Anyway, Will got back and started on dinner while we continued playing. It was nice of him to cook for us so we could have more time to practice. Mom showed up right on time for dinner, and though tonight was a lot more casual than last time, it was just as nice. It's strange how quickly you can get used to something. Mike and mom mostly talked about Nancy and Jonathan’s latest work trip to Argentina. Apparently Nancy called right before mom was about to leave which is why she was a bit delayed. I think that made it easier for them - not having to focus on each other.

I’m sad I missed the call, so I might try calling her myself later tonight.

Anyway, I won’t get around to completing Song of Myself today as I’d planned, as dad and I are going on a spontaneous trip to the antiquities market in Bedford. I should have just asked Mike to read it to me while I was there yesterday. Hell, maybe I can convince Mike to just give me the cliff notes for Walden because I’m really not looking forward to having to read that next weekend. I already tried reading it once two summers ago, the last time we went to the lake, because it seemed appropriate, and it made me want to carve my eyeballs out from boredom.

I kept waiting for something to happen and all it did was make me want to rewatch Friday the 13th just so I could imagine someone chasing this guy around his cabin with an axe.

Anyway, I’m excited to go out with dad today. He’d just casually mentioned seeing an ad for the market during breakfast - I don’t think he was actually planning on going until I asked if we could go together so I’m glad I did. He doesn’t leave the house often enough these days. And I’ve barely seen him since school started because I’ve been so busy myself.

I heard him and mom arguing last night - though I couldn’t hear much, I’m pretty sure it was about having dinner at Mike’s. I really can’t fault him over it either. It’s just so confusing because Mike and mom talked much easier than last time, but seem to agree on not letting dad join us as well - I really don’t understand.

I know dad and him don't have much in common, but it’s not like they fought all the time either. Hell, dad doesn’t even yell ever - not even when Mike disappeared for hours on end and had mom worried out of her mind for the millionth time. I know I have no experience yet in being an adult but I’m sure having your parents over is just something you have to put up with - even if it’s against your will.

Besides, how can you actually learn to enjoy spending time with your parents when you never give them the chance? Nancy and mom get along better now than they ever did before. And sure, Nancy gets frustrated too sometimes with dad’s opinions, but she still comes over whenever she can and deals with it!

But what do I know, right?

Anyway, I really should be getting ready - dad wanted to leave before 11 and I have to be back in time for cheer practice.

Love, Holly

PS. Also mom called the developer and our homecoming pictures should finally be done sometime next week!!! I’m so excited to see how they turned out!

[love-kurdt]

Swooping, Sloping, Cursive Letters: 16

word count: 466

PLEASE READ THIS IS ME TRYING FIRST, AS THIS STORY RELIES HEAVILY UPON THE CONTEXT OF TIMT

December 24, 1988

Dear Will,

For as long as I can remember after becoming friends with you, I’ve spent Hanukkah with your family, and you’ve spent Christmas with mine. I’m not sure when exactly this tradition started, but I think it stemmed from me being a whiny little shit as a kid. It was probably along the lines of something about feeling left out. I’m not even Jewish, and you’re not Christian (neither am I at this point, if I’m being completely honest with you), but we make it work.

Hanukkah at your place was great this year. Your mom’s cooking was fucking legendary, which is kind of funny, because on any other day, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a kitchen. But Hanukkah is different. And I’m glad that she raised you and Jonathan to embrace your Jewish identity. I think it’s pretty admirable.

Speaking of admirable; I have absolutely no idea how you got through tonight in one piece. I’m barely holding it together. You know how I talked in one of these letters about that grace you have during horrible situations that helps you persevere? You certainly had it tonight. I fucking wish I had that.

Every time my dad said something related to his objection to having you over, or how art was a terrible career path to take, or how we weren’t to do any funny business later (which we weren't going to do anyway, because we aren't dating), I wanted to fucking lunge across the table and strangle him. Every time I found myself teetering on the edge of murder trying to stand up for you, though, you’d put your hand on my leg under the table and run your thumb against my knee, almost as if to say, I can take it, Mike, don’t worry. But I do worry. You deserve so much more than what you can simply “take.” And I hate that my dad has the sheer audacity to insult you like that, even on a fucking holiday. He has no chill.

…Well, neither do I right now, so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.

Anyway, I’m just writing this to thank you for helping me keep my cool. If it weren’t for you, I probably would have ruined the night with some indignant squawking about how you’ve been through enough and how my dad’s remarks were nothing short of dense. But I’m glad I didn’t blow up, or else you probably wouldn’t be too keen on staying over into tomorrow morning like you usually do. I really hope you like the gift I got for you. Spoiler alert: it’s a new set of pastels. And no, you can’t not accept them, because I threw out the receipt.

Merry Christmas, Will.

Love,

Mike

-

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[astrobei]

hi suni astrobi my beloved dear suni ❤️🫂

sending you a valentine's day prompt because i can annnnnd.

i challenge you to write miwi bc i need more miwi in my life. you can do whatever you want with this, but i want to see little baby will making a valentine's day card for his best friend, mike. bonus points if it has like paladin mike and dragons and all that other good ole fashioned dnd goodness.

hi andi andiwriteordie my beloved dear andi <3 happy valentine's day !! as a special present for you, here is my first ever attempt at writing miwi :^)

On Sunday night, Will’s mom brings home a bag of candy.

This, obviously, grabs his attention before anything else– brightly packaged somethings that crinkle loudly when his mom puts the bag down on the kitchen table. He can see them peeking out through the thin white plastic of the Melvald’s bag, and immediately perks up.

“What are those?” he asks, because it’s not rare for his mom to bring stuff back from work– especially on late nights like this, when she knows that Jonathan is busy with homework and no one’s had a chance to cook dinner, not when she’s been out all day and his dad is– well. His dad sure isn’t about to cook dinner, and Will has learned how to heat stuff up in the microwave but they’re currently out of everything that he can stick in a microwave. Will expects her to whip out a couple of TV dinners, and he kind of hopes she will, because it’s late and he’s hungry.

He peers over the long end of the table, trying to catch a glimpse, because the TV dinners don’t usually look like this– all pink and red and crinkly. His mom laughs, then holds the bag open by the handles so he can look inside. “Candy,” she says, “for your class Valentine’s Day party tomorrow.”

Will stopped listening after the word candy. He doesn’t know what Valentine’s Day is, and he doesn’t really care, because the bag is full of the brightly wrapped candies and chocolates that he saw in the store the other day when his mom took him inside. “Whoa,” he breathes out, and reaches out to stick a hand into the bag, even if just to make sure that what he’s seeing is real. A whole bag, full of candy. The wrappers crinkle some more, loud under his palm, and he pulls out a heart-shaped lollipop, flat and an almost aggressive shade of red. “Is this for us?”

“Oh, no way,” his mom laughs some more. “This much candy? All your teeth are going to fall out.”

Will grins. “My teeth are already falling out,” he says, pointing to where he’d lost his first one just a couple of weeks ago. He’s still not used to it, the strange space in his mouth where there didn’t use to be one before. He sticks the tip of his tongue into the gap there, and his mom rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

“Maybe that’s because of all the candy you ate at Halloween,” she says, and leans over to ruffle his hair. “It’s not good for you!”

“Danny in my class already lost three teeth,” Will mopes, “and he got three dollars from the tooth fairy, so maybe if mine fall out too–”

“The tooth fairy will refuse to give you money because you let your teeth rot on purpose,” Joyce says, and Will slumps into the chair next to her, pouting. “It goes against the tooth fairy laws.”

Will might only be six, but he knows that there’s no such thing as tooth fairy laws. There can’t be rules just for one person. That’s ridiculous. He tucks the lollipop from earlier into his pocket before his mom can see, though. Just in case. “What’s the candy for?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow,” his mom says, walking over to the kitchen and opening the fridge door. “Your class is having a party, and these are for your friends.”

Will frowns. “What’s�� Valentine’s Day?”

“It’s a holiday about celebrating the people you love.” Joyce emerges with a loaf of bread and a few slices of cheese. “Grilled cheese okay for dinner?”

They’ve had grilled cheese for about four days in a row now, but Will doesn’t mind. His mom makes them perfect. He nods. “Yeah!” 

“You have to eat the crusts this time,” she says. “Don’t think I didn’t see you throw them away last time.”

Shoot. So close.

“Fine,” Will agrees, then leans over to pluck another candy out of the bag. It’s pink this time. He thinks it might be strawberry-flavored. Will isn’t the biggest fan of strawberry, but candy is candy after all.

“I heard that,” his mom chides, back still turned to him, as the candy wrapper crinkles loudly under his fingers. “Put the candy back, Will.”

No! So close again. Will scowls at the traitorous sweet in his hand and tosses it back in the bag. “How did you even hear that?”

“I have superpowers, remember?” Joyce points to her ears and shoots him a wink. She’s probably right, Will thinks glumly. His mom has ears on the back of her head– or whatever it is they say.

“Why do my kids in my class get candy and I don’t?” 

“They’ll give you candy too,” Joyce assured him, flipping a sandwich over in the pan. “That’s the whole point! You trade candy and Valentine’s Day cards.”

Cards? “What kind of cards?”

“You can look in the bag. I picked some of those up on the way back from work.”

Will sticks his arm bag in the bag and shuffles it around, until soft cellophane gives way to the sharp edge of cardstock. He pulls one out– “Be mine,” he reads aloud, then wrinkles up his nose in confusion. “Huh?”

“Cheesy, huh?” Joyce slides a plate in front of him, and smiles. “Speaking of cheesy–”

Dinner! Will’s stomach rumbles, and in the face of a perfectly made grilled cheese sandwich, thoughts of Valentine’s Day slip instantly out of his mind. 

—

They don’t stay out for long, though.

“Jonathan?”

Jonathan’s room door is open, and he has his back to the door, but he turns around as Will peers through the doorway. “Oh. Hey, Will.”

Will shuffles his feet, hesitating. Is this a stupid question to ask? Surely Jonathan won’t think he’s stupid. Jonathan never thinks Will is stupid, even when Will asks dumb questions or says dumb things or acts super annoying. “What’s Valentine’s Day?” he blurts out.

Jonathan raises his eyebrows. “Huh?”

Maybe Jonathan doesn’t know. That’s a weird thought, though, because Jonathan knows everything. He’s in third grade now, which seems big and grown up and far away. It’s old enough for your grade to have an actual number. Not like kindergarten, which Jonathan says is, like, zero grade. “Valentine’s Day,” Will says again. Mom had been so vague about it, and he’s still not sure what’s up with the lovey-dovey stuff. Maybe Jonathan can help. “What is it?”

“Um,” Jonathan says. “It’s– the holiday of love, I guess?”

Oh. That’s lame. “Ew,” Will says, making a face. “That’s gross.”

“Tell me about it,” Jonathan sighs. “Why are you asking?”

“I have to celebrate with my class tomorrow,” Will sighs. “And mom got candy but I’m not allowed to eat any.”

Jonathan makes a sympathetic noise. “Lame.”

“I know!” Will exclaims. “And I don’t even– love anybody. Gross.”

“Well,” Jonathan says thoughtfully, “it doesn’t have to be love love. It can be, um. Any kind of special somebody.”

“Special somebody?” That’s a weird thing to call someone. “Huh?”

“You know. Is there someone special to you? Someone you really like?”

Will likes a lot of people. His teacher is really nice. He likes mom’s boss at the store, because sometimes he lets Will pick out a piece of candy from the display. He likes Jonathan, and he likes his mom, of course. But people who are special–

“Mike,” Will decides immediately. It’s an obvious choice, because Will hadn’t ever had best friends before Mike came into his life earlier this year. They do everything together– playing at recess, eating lunch, sleeping over at each other’s house. The other kids in the class even talk about them like they’re one person– MikeandWill– which makes Will smile. It’s nice to feel like he’s a part of something. Mike is special. Mike makes him feel special.

Something funny happens to Jonathan’s face, super fast, and then it goes back to normal. “There you go,” he says, then nods. “You can make something for Mike.”

“Like what?”

“Um, I don’t know. Draw him a card?”

“Mom already bought cards,” Will sighs.

“Make him a special one,” Jonathan shrugs. “Because he’s– um. Your special somebody.”

Will grins, wide enough that he knows his missing tooth gap is showing. Sue him. He thinks it’s cool, even if Jonathan has, like, five of them and doesn’t care. “Thanks, Jonathan!”

“Uh, yeah!” Jonathan sounds a little confused as he calls after him, but Will is already on his way to his own room. “You’re welcome!”

When Will gets back to his room, he pulls out his crayons and his paper, sits down at his desk, and–

He stops.

Oh no.

What is he supposed to put on a card? For Mike, especially, who’s one of the coolest people Will knows. What if he thinks it’s lame? What if he doesn’t want a card? What if whatever Will makes is so boring and awful that Mike laughs?

Will shakes his head. No, he thinks. Mike won’t laugh at him. Mike would never laugh at him, and that’s why he’s so special– everyone else laughs at Will, sometimes, about his clothes or his hair or the way he talks. But Mike doesn’t. Mike thinks he’s cool, and Mike thinks he’s fun, and Mike likes all the same stuff as he does– the kind of stuff that everyone else in their class thinks is lame but Mike doesn’t.

Will stares down at the blank sheet of colored paper. Blue, because Mike likes blue. And Will’s got a twenty-four pack of crayons and he doesn’t know what color to draw in, but everything else, the candies and the cards in mom’s bag, had been red or pink, so maybe Will should draw in red or pink too. And– everything else had, like, hearts on it, so maybe he can start there.

“For Mike,” Will says aloud, slowly and carefully, as he writes the words at the top of the paper. He’s pretty sure he spelled it right. He knows he’s got Mike’s name correct, at least. F-O-R. For. 

Yeah. That looks okay.

The heart is next. Will tries to make it big enough to take up most of the page, where the paper has been folded in half down the middle. It’s a little lumpy, but– yeah. You can totally tell it’s a heart.

Probably.

He opens the card to the inside, and pauses again. Great, he thinks, because what is he supposed to write on the inside? He’d already drawn a heart on the front, and it would probably be a little lame to draw another one on the inside.

“Think,” he groans out loud, putting the red crayon down and peering into the box. Half of them are broken, and some others are worn down to nubs, so it’s not even like he has a lot of options here.

What sort of stuff does Mike even like? Mostly the same stuff Will does, but then maybe that would be like Will is making a card for himself, and not for Mike. He looks at the paper some more, like maybe something will appear on it, fully-formed, if he stares long enough.

Nope. Nothing. 

Will sighs, and thinks harder.

Mike had liked that book they read in class last week– something about a knight rescuing a princess from a tower. Will hadn’t really been paying attention, because it was kind of boring and, like, sappy and about love, but Mike had been totally into it. Will had looked over during group reading time and his eyes had been huge and his jaw had been, like, on the floor. Will didn’t really get the appeal, because, again, it had been totally cheesy and sappy and gross. But Mike had found a stick at recess an hour later and brandished it like a sword, and Will had been too busy laughing to properly express how lame he thought the whole thing was.

It wasn’t lame when Mike did it, though. That’s why Mike is special– nothing’s lame when he does it.

Will picks up a crayon. He has an idea.

—

Don’t think it’s lame, Will prays, fighting every instinct in his body that’s telling him to squeeze his eyes shut and hold his breath. Please don’t think it’s lame.

Mike hasn’t said anything yet. Maybe he really does think it’s lame.

Will is starting to wish that maybe the asphalt of the playground could just open up and swallow him whole. Mike totally thinks it’s lame. Maybe Mike didn’t even want a card. Maybe Mike is weirded out. Maybe Mike–

“Did you really make this?”

Will blinks. Mike doesn’t sound weirded out. He sounds– impressed? Maybe?

“Um. Yes,” he says anyway. Mike’s eyes are wide where he’s staring at the card in front of him, and Will holds his breath after all– just a little– for one second, then two, then–

“Will!” Mike says, face breaking out into the biggest smile Will has literally ever seen him smile. “This is awesome!”

Oh, thank god. “Really?” Will can’t keep the relief out of his voice when he asks.

“Yeah!” Mike nods rapidly, never once taking his eyes off the paper. “This is awesome!”

“You already said that,” Will points out, but he’s smiling now too. “You really don’t think it’s lame?”

“No way!” Mike points at the crayon outline of a figure against the blue paper. “Is that me?”

“Duh,” Will says, pointing to where he had drawn an arrow and written Mike. Just in case there was any confusion. “It’s you as the knight. From the story.”

“I love the knight from the story,” Mike announces, and Will immediately feels like a million pounds of weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Thank god. 

“I know,” Will giggles. “You almost killed me with the stick you were waving around.”

Mike gasps. “Excuse you. It was a sword.”

“Sure,” Will says. “Okay. It was a sword.”

Mike looks like he’s going to say something else, and then he stops. He shakes his head. His voice is quieter now when he says, “You really made this for me?”

Will doesn’t know why they keep coming back to this. Obviously he made this for Mike. That’s why he’d labeled the drawing with his name. Mike. He’d meant for that to help, in case there was any confusion, but maybe he hadn’t labeled it well enough. Maybe two arrows next time. Or maybe he should add Mike’s last name, just in case Mike thought he made it for the other Mike in their class. “Duh,” he says again, because he isn’t sure what about this Mike isn’t understanding. “It’s for– Valentine’s Day.”

Mike goes a little pink. Will’s not sure why, because they’ve been sitting in one spot for all of recess so far, and Mike hasn’t been running around at all. “Really?”

“Jonathan said I should make a card for someone special.” Will tugs nervously at the zipper on his jacket. Why is he nervous? It’s only Mike. “And I think you’re special.”

Mike’s mouth drops open. He closes it, then opens it again, in an excellent imitation of their class goldfish Bubbles. “Really?”

Maybe Mike’s words just aren’t working today. Will feels like that a lot. He gets it. “Duh,” he says, for the third and hopefully final time. “You’re my best friend.”

“Wow,” Mike breathes out. “You’re an awesome artist, Will.”

“Really?”

Okay, maybe it’s Will’s turn for his brain to stop working. He’s not sure what’s so awesome about his drawing. You can barely even tell it’s Mike.

“Um, yeah,” Mike stares, like this is obvious or something. “You can totally tell it’s me! No one else in our class can draw this good. You should do it more. I think you could get, like, famous or something.”

Will doesn’t know about all that, but something warm and fuzzy is swelling up inside him anyway. Surprised and pleased at the praise. “Oh. Thanks, Mike.”

“I wish I made you something,” Mike says sadly, still staring down at the card, like he’s trying to absorb it with his eyes. “My mom just made me get the ones from the store for everyone.”

“It’s okay!” Will smiles. Really, he doesn’t need a card from Mike. He’s just happy Mike liked it.

“You can have my Reese’s,” Mike offers. He doesn’t fold the card up and put it in his pocket like Will thought he might, but holds it carefully in both hands and looks over at him, eyes wide. “Someone gave me one for our candy exchange, but I think you like them more than me.”

Will grins. “Okay!”

Mike hesitates, then suddenly, moves forward and throws his arms around Will’s shoulders. It’s sudden enough for Will to stumble backwards, a little caught off-guard by the puffy weight of Mike’s jacket and body against his. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Will,” Mike says. “You’re my best friend too.”

[thetargaryenbride]

Nail To The Coffin - S4 - Chapter 1

Warnings: unwanted groping, nightmares

Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Byers!Reader

Word Count: 5070

𝐀𝐍: 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘨𝘰! 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 4! 𝘞𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘨. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 4 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘌𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 5 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵~ 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦.

𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐎𝐎𝐂 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪��𝘦 𝘪𝘵! 🖤 🥀

Masterlist || S3, Chapter 9 || Chapter 2

LA, California, The Spring of 1986

“Dear Mike. Today is day one hundred eighty-five. Feels more like ten years. Joyce says time is funny like that. Emotions can make it speed up or slow down. We are all time travelers if you think about it. For example, this week is going very fast. I think because I’m so busy. I have to make something called a visual aid. I hope Mrs. Gracey will give me an A. Some exciting news. Joyce got an amazing new job. She gets to work at home. She says she loves the ‘freedom’. Will is painting a lot but he won’t show me what he’s working on. Maybe it is for a girl. I think there’s someone he likes because he has been acting weird. Jonathan is acting weird also. I think he’s just nervous about college. He is still waiting for his big letter. I hope he and Nancy get to go together. But I don’t know how he’ll get to college because his car is still broken. His funny friend Argyle has been taking us to school whenever Y/N can’t. His hair is longer than mine. And he and Jonathan like to smoke smelly plants together. Will got very angry when he found out. In fact, I don’t remember Will ever getting this mad at someone.”

Two Months Ago

“See you guys at dinner,” you waved at the two once they got out of the car and they bid you goodbye, watching you drive away, most probably heading to work or to do some other tasks. You had just dropped them off at home after finishing the classes for the day and the two were excited to get to their rooms, plop on their beds, and sleep until dinner, ignoring your words of ‘Don’t slack on your homework’.

But the moment they entered the house, a strange scent hit them, like someone was cooking something and had just taken the lid off just to be hit with the strong, smelly steam.

“Do you smell that?” asked Will as he sniffed, scrunching up his nose, and El frowned.

“It’s… weird.”

The boy threw his bag on the ground and followed the smell, El close behind, until it led him to his brother’s room. His hand grasped the doorknob and he gulped before slowly twisting it open, the sound of creaking filling the air.

“Wha-“ muttered the boy when he saw that pretty much the whole room was covered in smoke and at first he thought Jonathan might have accidentally lit something on fire. Then his eyes found his brother who was sitting at the edge of the bed near the window, smoking. And by the smell of it, Will immediately figured out that those weren’t normal cigarettes which hurtled him into a state of utter disbelief.  

“Will-“ his brother was about to say but the boy in question turned to look at Eleven instead.

“El, could you give us a moment, please?” he asked the girl and she nodded slowly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, before sneaking out of the room but staying glued to the wall so she could listen, curiosity overtaking her.

“It’s not what you think it is,” began Jonathan after Will shut the door and looked at him with such disappointment it pierced his heart like a rusty harpoon.

“What is wrong with you!? Are you out of your mind!?” raised his voice Will. “Why are you doing this? You know very well what Y/N went through. Even before the Flayer made her OD she’s been taking drugs for a long time. She’s clean now but you remember what Dr. Owens said!” reminded him the boy heatedly and Jonathan’s mouth opened and closed, unable to form words or find an excuse for his actions. “She can easily have a relapse and go back to taking drugs! Why are you smoking this shit? It’s not like she doesn’t already have a constant reminder of the hell she went through. Do you want to add up to it!?” his voice kept raising as he got more and more upset, and Jonathan looked at the floor, guilt visibly eating up at him.

“I’m sorry, I just,” sighed the boy regretfully. “I’ve been going through shit and…Argyle offered I try this. It’s been…truly helpful and I can’t find it in me to stop,” he admitted with sad eyes, and Will let out a long pained sigh, flabbergasted at his brother’s confession.

“We should-w-we should tell mom or Dr. Owens,” said the boy and Jonathan’s eyes widened, hands lifting as if he was about to protest. “This is a problem. A big problem in development. You need to get help. You need to stop this, a-and find another way to cope. We can’t risk Y/N having a relapse and we can’t risk you following in her footsteps,” spoke the boy with a shaky voice he was trying hard to keep firm and steady and his brother shook his head.

“No, no, I promise, this is not something dangerous, okay? It’s the same shit Eddie smokes! Okay? It’s not going to harm me. I swear! A-and I’ll try to hide it better! Y/N is not going to find out! She’s not even going to take a whiff of this shit, okay? I promise,” begged Jonathan and Will’s eyes darted left and right, frustration and concern gnawing at him, leg bouncing anxiously as he was being torn apart by the dilemma he was currently forced to face.

“I’ll…I’ll give you some time to stop smoking on your own…If you don’t do it in the next couple of months I’ll…I’ll tell mom.”

Those were his last words before he whirled on his heel and stormed out of the room, shutting the door with a deafening bang that made both Jonathan and Eleven flinch.

They have never seen the boy so mad and upset at someone else.

“He was very worried about Y/N and I understand him. I eavesdropped on them, which I’m not proud of, but I needed to know what was going on. I was worried too. I’m telling you now because it’s been two months so far and he’s still smoking those things. Me and Will don’t know what to do. Maybe you can give us some advice? Please, don’t tell the others, though. I don’t want Joyce or Y/N to find out. Speaking of Y/N… I know that you’re all worried and want to know more but…I’m still not sure if she’s gotten better or worse in the past months since the incident…Well, I guess it’s more of a year than a couple of months now. I can’t believe how fast time flies…”

“I’m home!” your voice resonated throughout the house and El gasped as if you had just caught her doing something she shouldn’t be, and she quickly finished the last couple of sentences before sealing up the letter properly and running down the stairs to greet you.

“Welcome home,” she grinned when she saw you in the kitchen, jacket, boots, and bag already gotten rid of, as you were in the midst of opening the fridge to take out some products and get dinner started.

“Is this another letter for Mike?” you asked curiously and she nodded. “Hang in there a bit more. Spring break is just around the corner and you’ll see him soon,” you smiled softly and she nodded, rushing out of the house in order to shove the item into the mailbox.  

But her excitement got crushed after she closed the metal lid and faced the house, thoughts rushing back to what she had written in the letter. She and Will truly worried about Jonathan and they truly had no idea how to handle the current situation. Moreover, they were worried about you.

You began smiling again but it never quite reached your eyes as it did before, and there was now a certain air of melancholia that you carried – a constant companion of yours alongside the dark circles under your eyes and the hollow cheeks after losing quite some weight since the incident last summer.

They found themselves stuck at a crossroad where numerous paths intertwined and they didn’t know which one was the right one. They didn’t know which one to take to help you and Jonathan.

“Honey, why don’t you leave the dinner to me and you can go rest instead?” Joyce offered while you were busy cutting some onions and you hummed.

“Well…let me at least finish chopping the veggies and you can take over,” you agreed, making her smile. “I’ll go for a swim then,” you told her and her smile faltered a tad bit.

“You sure you’ll be okay alone out there?” she asked slowly, unsurely, and you let out a light snort.

“Mom, I’m good. I promise.”

“But-“ she sighed in defeat, knowing that she couldn’t stop you from going to the water no matter what she tried, and just relented. “Alright.”

Just half an hour later, she was watching you exit the house in your surf attire and with the board in arm, sharing concerned looks with Will, who had joined them in the kitchen shortly after you had gone to change out of your clothes, and El.

“Should we… tell Dr. Owens?”

“No…let her be.”

“Here again?” asked one of the lifeguards from his station the moment you reached the beach and you shot him a look that made him smile and lift his hands in surrender. “I know, I know. Just sayin’, doll.”

You let out a sigh of contentment at the way the sand grains felt when you curled your toes around them and took a couple of steps forward so the water could wash over them. You basked in the sun rays for a while before marching into the ocean and climbing on your board, using your hardened-from-practice arms to swim further into the soothing embrace of the water.

At the end of summer last year, your mother had been solid in her decision to move to another town. In the end, she had settled for LA because you were going to university there and she was adamant in her want to be there with you, just like the rest of your family was.

Dr. Owens, bless his heart, had agreed to lend you a hand. He had found you a beautiful house in a nice and quiet neighborhood where you could live in peace and stay low under the radar for Eleven’s safety. At the same time, you’d be able to go to university for your lections and then go back home to your family instead of being separated from them and having to live amongst strangers in some sorority. As if finding you a house wasn’t enough already, Owens made sure that it was fully furnished so the only things you had to take with you were your clothes and personal items. All of your furniture were back home in Hawkins, in your house which you didn’t end up selling because you had aggressively insisted that you wanted to have a place to come back to.

“You have been saving our bums for so long, and this year you might have as well saved the whole country. The least I can do is get you a nice house and help you keep this one,” had said the doctor which had made you immensely happy and grateful.

At first, moving in was hard. The first two months in particular were extremely rough – probably one of the hardest moments in your life. It had reached a point where you didn’t want to even look at the ocean. Then, it’s like someone flipped the switch in you, and being near the water turned into a coping mechanism.

Now you couldn’t imagine being away from it.

“You’re rocking it, sweet cheeks,” commented the lifeguard once you finally left the confines of the water, a tanned hand ruffling his golden curls as he flashed you a pearly white smile, looking you up and down with his bright blue eyes. He was the typical Californian handsome guy who every girl fawned over.

But in your eyes, Steve was unbeatable.  

“And I’m still taken, Ronnie,” you huffed out as you squeezed your hair off of the excess liquid and he shrugged.

“A boy can try.”

“See you tomorrow,” you bid him goodbye with a wave and headed back in the direction of your house, rolling your eyes at what he shouted after you.

“And tell your Harrington that if he doesn’t come here to claim you, someone might steal you right under his nose!”

“Stars shining bright above you…Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"…”

You found yourself in a room that was dark and cluttered with junk, closely resembling an attic. Somehow, it felt both familiar and unfamiliar. You turned around to get a better look at it, ears straining to hear the faint sound of music that was wafting through the air like the smell of freshly baked morning waffles, instantly making you feel a bit better about being all alone in the dark, calming you down.

“Birds singin' in the sycamore trees…Dream a little dream of me…”

Suddenly, the door opened, allowing a bit of light to pierce the darkness, and in entered a little boy, carrying a jar with something inside that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He stilled when he saw you, eyes widening. Even in the dark, you could see how blue they were but also how sullen. His shocked expression melted into a scowl that didn’t quite suit his gentle features, and you reached out a hand, wishing to grasp his.

Then, the room began filling with water rapidly. The stable house began tearing apart plank by plank and you desperately tried to reach the boy and save him. He just stood there, unmoving, and watched on curiously until he got fully submerged and panic gripped at your heart. Shortly after, there was no sign of the house or the boy and you found yourself floating in the vast blue ocean.

At first, you didn’t get scared. You were confident in your swimming skills. But never mind how much you tried to swim to the surface, you wouldn’t budge. In fact, it seemed as if you were sinking more and more rather than reaching it. Your lungs burned and ached as you were running out of breath, the stale oxygen begging to be released and replaced by fresh one.

And then the panic settled in once again and you began kicking and trashing in your attempts at getting to the surface but yet again you kept sinking lower and lower, the light disappearing as you were once again shrouded in darkness. Vines wrapped around your ankles and pulled you down, down under, and the last thing you saw in the dark abyss before drowning was a set of familiar blue eyes glaring at you.

“Y/N!” someone yelled and your eyes snapped open as you shot up in bed and felt hands grasp your upper arms. “Breathe,” they instructed you. “Breathe!”

Only then did you realize you had been holding your breath, allowing only very small gulps of oxygen to pass through, your body so tense as if you had just jumped into ice-cold waters, every muscle in your body squeezed painfully.

You took a large gulp of air and felt instant relief fill you as you tried relaxing your body and focusing on calming your breathing.

“That’s right. In and out, slowly,” Will rubbed your back with one hand while the other held yours, eyes swimming with worry and lips folding as he gulped down the lump that had formed in his throat, his rapidly beating heart finally calming. For a moment he thought it was going to jump out of his ribcage.

“Thank you,” you breathed out as you leaned on his shoulder and let out a long exhale.

His room was right next to yours and the walls were thin enough. He had woken up when he heard loud, elaborated breathing and choking, and had immediately sprung out of bed and dashed to your room. This wasn’t the first time something like that would happen so he knew right away.

“Was it the same dream?” he inquired and you nodded.

“I just don’t understand,” you muttered as you pulled away and rubbed your temples. “I’m sorry for waking you. And thanks again.”

“Can I-Can I stay?” he asked timidly and suddenly all you could see was the baby brother who would always come to you after a bad dream.

“Of course, you can,” you smiled tiredly as you scooted over to make room for him and he climbed in properly, the two of you lying down.

Honestly, he was more scared about something happening to you again than anything, so he wanted to stay and make sure the rest of the night would pass by without any more nightmares or panic attacks.

“Aww, you don’t fit in my arms anymore,” you chuckled after you tried to wrap your arms around him and bring him in for a hug. “You’ve grown so much it’s unbelievable.”

“I guess…But if it weren’t for you, Jonathan, mom, and the others, I might not have gotten the chance to grow up at all. I mean…my point is… I don’t know what I’d do without you… and the others,” he muttered softly and you clicked your tongue, running your hand through his hair soothingly. “So, please don’t-“ he cut himself off because what was he supposed to say?

Please, don’t go? Please, don’t die? Please, don’t have panic attacks anymore? Please, don’t have episodes that could end up hurting you? It’s not like you had control over it. But it didn’t hurt to wish for you to be healthy and happy. It didn’t hurt to wish for all of this to never have happened and for everything to be like it used to. Mostly, he just wished that you were okay because he was afraid one day you would be swallowed by the trauma, leaving him alone. Every time you’d get panic attacks or other episodes, he’d feel like he was going mad with worry. Every time, he’d think of the worst possible scenario, and this constant paranoia and worry and fear were going to be the end of him.

He just wanted it to be over and everything to be normal again.

“Don’t go down this rabbit hole. Trust me, it never ends well,” you whispered and he hummed, closing his eyes.

“I’m just…scared,” he confessed and your eyebrows furrowed.

“Scared? Of what, baby?”

“I don’t know. It’s like…I have this gnawing feeling that something bad will happen…Please, don’t go to Hawkins,” he pleaded and you sighed.

“You know that I want to see Steve. It’s been some time,” you reminded and he just buried his head in the crook of your neck, making you release a long, heavy exhale and rub his back reassuringly.

“You’re thinking too much about it…I’m sure everything is going to be okay.”

Yet you didn’t believe your own words for a second.

“Wonderful assignment once again,” praised the professor as he casually strolled to your desk and passed you the graded paper. “I’m very proud of you, Miss Byers. But honestly, I’m not surprised. You are yet to present something unrefined, although something tells me you never will,” he grinned at you widely, dimples deepening, dark eyes crinkling into crescents, and you smiled.

“Thank you.”

Just then, the bell rang and the students who had received their papers back stood up and began gathering their things while the others stayed put to wait for the professor to hand them theirs.

“Not you, Byers. I need to talk to you. Stay in the room,” halted you the man and you stopped by his desk, waiting a couple of minutes until everyone left the vicinity and you were the only one left.

“I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?” you asked and he shook his head while rolling up the sleeve of his black shirt, and came to stand by your side, nonchalantly throwing a folder onto his desk.

“I wanted to show you this,” he pointed at it with his head, the silver earring on his left ear glinting on the light, and you turned your back on him, taking a step forward and opening the folder, eyes widening at the documents that lay inside.

“Hold on…is this-“

“I’ll be traveling to a couple of archeological sites in Egypt this summer and I’ll be taking a couple of students from the higher courses so they can experience the real deal of digging,” he explained. “You showed incredible knowledge at the beginning of the year so we transferred you to second year. And even then it seemed like you knew half the things already. Such a prodigy is only going to waste away stuck in here. You gotta go out there and gain some more experience. Those are all the documents you need for the practice program.”

“That’s…that’s incredible,” you muttered and he hummed.

And suddenly, you felt his presence too close for comfort. The hairs on your neck stood on end but before you could turn around, his front pressed against your back as he casually rested his chin on your shoulder and rubbed his nose against the side of your neck, inhaling your scent.

Your whole body froze, thighs clenching tightly in automatic response, as memories from that night at the diner invaded your mind.

“What are you doing?” you breathed out.  

“I can’t let you go just yet, though. You’re just…too inexperienced,” he murmured. “But I can help with that. You’re a smart girl. You know how one gets to the top, don’t you?” he asked as his hands began roaming over your body, groping you, and you just stood there in shock and denial, not knowing what to do.

In your mind, you were screaming.

You did not expect that your funny, bubbly, smart professor who seemed to get along with everyone and had a sassy sense of humor and a way of roasting stupid people, was actually a total douchebag in disguise.

In your mind, you were screaming for Steve, for Eddie, for your brothers, for Hopper, to come and help you get out of this sticky situation.

And then it dawned on you.

Hopper.

He hadn’t spent all this time teaching you how to fight and defend yourself just so you could fall victim to nasty men again.

You took a sharp inhale and slammed your thick-heeled boot against his ankle, making him yelp and take a step back. You took that to your advantage and quickly turned around, gathering all determination, anger, and hurt you could, and delivered a swift punch to his jaw. He staggered and fell against one of the desks, hand immediately going to nurse his aching area. In the meantime, you took the folder with the documents and put more distance between you two.

The moment you exited, your calm façade shattered and you let out shaky breaths as you tried to compose yourself and keep the upcoming panic attack at bay. You shoved the folder in your bag before adjusting your hold on it, shouldering it properly as you walked down the hallway.

“Thank you for arranging everything for me. But I’d rather go with Professor Xavier. If you can accept me into your summer practice program, I’m sure he’ll have no problem accepting me into his... Have a good day,” you muttered as you took a couple of steps backwards, while he watched on with a stupefied expression, before completely turning around and briskly walking out of the classroom.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion around you and you couldn’t help but think that people were looking at you, laughing at you, whispering about you as they passed you by, covering their mouths with their hands and leaning to utter vile words in each other’s ears, eyes never leaving your form.

It felt as if they all knew what had just happened and thought of you as a dirty person, blamed you, thought you provoked him somehow. If you had a skirt, you would’ve pulled it down. But you had jeans instead. You didn’t understand how and why it happened. Have you done something to evoke such a reaction? Have you done something that made him think you’d agree to something like this?

Why were men like this? Why were they so filthy? So self-centered? Why did they think everything and everyone had to abide by them? Why did they think they had a right to do whatever they wanted without facing consequences? As if women weren’t human beings.

They disgusted you sometimes.

You had to keep reminding yourself that not everybody was like Steve, Eddie, your brothers, the rest of the party, Hopper. How different would’ve the world been if they were, though?

You saw yet another pair of girls pass you by, their eyes burning your flesh as they whispered something, and you quickly pulled the sleeves of your leather jacket and shifted your arm out of their range of vision as your pace increased.

You just wanted to hide somewhere and breathe. You wanted to be able to breathe properly and freely because that’s something you hadn’t been able to do since the incident last summer.

You couldn’t wait for spring break to come because at least then you’d get to spend time with Steve and the others who you missed dearly. Maybe going back to Hawkins and spending time with them was what you needed to finally have a breakthrough and get that gulp of fresh air that you craved so you could finally move on and heal those wounds that you were unable to prior to now.

You wanted to finally go back home.

“So, how was your day?” Joyce asked, now your turn having come to share how your day went, and you shrugged, shoving a spoonful of chicken soup in your mouth and making everyone share a look. “Honey, you’re awfully quiet today. Is everything alright?” your mom asked again and you sighed, forcing a smile.

“It’s…more than alright, actually,” you began. “It seems my professors hold me-” you gulped and clenched and unclenched your hands nervously. “-in high regard. They offered me to accompany them on a couple of archeological trips, part of a summer practice program for the higher-course students,” you explained as you tried to force down the nauseating feeling that flooded you.

“What? But that’s wonderful!” exclaimed your mother, grinning from ear to ear and the rest smiled brightly.

“I knew you could do it! Never doubted you for a second,” El added and suddenly it wasn’t that hard to keep up the fake smile if it meant that your family would be happy and at ease. Besides, it’s not like you were lying. You were simply…not telling the whole story.

“Thank you…I can’t wait to tell Steve and the others.”

“I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic. Eddie especially is going to jump up and down, I just know it,” joined Jonathan and you chuckled.

“I can already form an image. But anyways, did you guys know that when you're underwater sound bypasses your eardrum and the bones of your middle ear and travels to the inner ear? This is called bone conduction and it apparently allows us to hear sounds underwater that are much higher in pitch than those we hear on land,” you rambled on and Jonathan, who was still high, scrunched up his face as he tried to concentrate on what you were saying, staring at you with dumb expression, and Will kicked his foot under the table, making him jump a little. “In one study, participants were able to hear frequencies as high as 200,000 hertz underwater, which is ten times higher than the top frequency that people are able to hear on land. Being underwater just seems magical, doesn't it?”

“Honey, you're getting more and more into this...whole marine thing. Are you considering becoming a maritime archaeologist or something?” asked Joyce curiously, eyebrows raised, and you shrugged.

“I'm actually...not sure about that yet,” you looked down at your bowl, swaying the spoon left and right, forming patterns in the soup. “I'm still fascinated by Egypt and other ancient civilizations and I wish to explore the old history of our world that's been buried and hidden. But one day perhaps, I wouldn't mind exploring the ocean too. After all, a lot of land got swallowed by the water throughout the centuries. Imagine what you can find down there,” you hummed as you scooped some of the liquid and popped the spoon in your mouth.

“Well, I can't,” slurred Jonathan. “I feel like I'd just suffocate the moment I dive in.”

“And since when are you claustrophobic?” you arched a brow and Will sighed, rubbing his temple in exasperation at his brother’s recklessness and irresponsibility.

“Okay, guys, let’s finish this up quickly,” ushered them Joyce, noticing something out of the ordinary in Jonathan’s and your behavior but choosing to let it slide for now and not pressure her children into talking about it, while pouring some refreshing lemonade in each of your glasses. “We gotta go to bed early today if we want Y/N to be on time for her flight tomorrow.”

“It’s kinda funny, isn’t it?” El tilted her head. “Mike is coming here tomorrow and Y/N is leaving. They’re gonna pass each other.”

“Yeah, honestly I regret that I won’t be able to see him but who knows? We might still get an opportunity.”

The only person who deflated at the mention of Mike’s arrival and your department and didn’t seem to be excited about it at all, the only person who wasn’t as bubbly and hyper as the others because he had a horrible, gnawing feeling that wouldn’t let him be at peace, was Will.

He just played with his food and silently watched the others converse, worried eyes following your form as if afraid you were going to be swallowed by the sand.

He did not want you to return to Hawkins.

__________________________

Tags: @anxiousbeech @ooenjoythesilenceoo

[nikaizkool]

Falling out of love hc

•Charlie

Spends a lot of time with you and takes you on dates to all of your favorite places where you two bonded the most.

Gives you new nicknames sweetie, dear, my love. Just really tried his best to deny his unlove for you

When he finally realizes it and accepts it he’d feel really guilty (as one does) and he’s distance himself from you. When you ask what’s going on “I can’t lie to you or myself anymore—I don’t love you anymore and i breaks me, your the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I hate myself for not loving you—I don’t understand it and it’s ok if you don’t either but-“ you understood. More than perfectly you under stood.

He packs up his stuff with a sad smile on his face with puffy red bloodshot eyes. Before he leaves he gives you one last look of grief “thanks for everything y/n, I love you.” He kissed your forehead then left

•Schlatt

Kinda sad about his mood isn’t as happy as usual and he’s just kinda sad about everything “hey remember that one time-?” He starts tearing up

Packs his stuff and says he’s going to a hotel for a bit but he leaves a not in the kitchen “dear y/n I love you so much but I can’t take the guilt anymore I don’t love you—you didn’t do anything and I’m sorry it’s just I don’t feel that spark anymore I wish you the best I love you (ps it’s not you it’s me ps were broken up) -Jonathan

•Wilbur soot

He’d start distancing himself hoping you’d get the signal but you didn’t so he started signaling by being openly flirty around his female friends when your there

Very neglectful causing you to crack “do you even love me anymore wil?” He’d start tearing up and nod “I don’t and I feel guilty so for the past month I’ve been trying to get you to as well—I’m so sorry y/n” just leaves without his stuff

•Quackity

Much like Charlie he’d get closer to you to try and feel a spark with you again he’d revisit your first date, cook with you, and watch movies with you but if that didn’t work he’d still stay with you

After 2 months of being in denial he finally realized how much he was hurting seeing you happy with him when he didn’t feel the same

Confront you at a date “I love you Y/n but I can’t keep telling myself I do more than a friend I’ve fallen out of love with you and it breaks me to know that your happy when I’m not I feel like shit and I can’t keep lying about it.” He’d kiss you one last time before leaving you.

[vyncentevelyn]

Eddie knows magic. Ok, so not like El - not the superhero or Upside Down shit. No, Eddie knows parlor tricks, street magic. Before literal hell surfaced in Hawkins, he had a whole trick planned out for when he FINALLY graduated. But, as things are for Eddie, that didn’t quite happen. He got his degree, just no walk across the stuffy gym floor. No moment on the makeshift stage for him to blow the school’s mind one more time. No, instead he received his diploma in an envelope delivered by none other than Hopper. It was better this way, a quiet graduation for the Freak who some still believed was a Satanic murder come to ruin the town. And so, with the revelation of not being allowed to attend his own high school graduation, along with all of the Upside Down escapades, Eddie kind of gave up on the magic.

  But one day while the party hangs out at Steve’s house, Eddie pulls out all the stops.

Eddie is stir crazy. It’s raining. The pizza is nowhere near cooked and Argyle, despite all of his chill, will not allow the group to eat raw dough.

  Argyle grabs Eddie’s wrist to stop him from eating a ball of leftover dough, blinks his pink tinted eyes, and sternly says, “Dude. That is like totally against health code.”

“It’s not going to hurt me. I have honestly put worse in my mouth.” Eddie chides.

“Nope. No can do. If you can’t follow health code, you gotta vamoose my man.” Argyle shakes his head.

Eddie bites his lip and then snags a smaller piece of dough, quickly popping it in his mouth. He chews a closed mouth smile on his lips as he looks at Argyle.

“Dude. I tried to warn you.” Argyle looks at Eddie. “You are now banned from the kitchen.”

Argyle pushes Eddie, a little harder than Eddie was prepared for, towards the living room. Eddie kind of trips but styles it out into a twirl as he backs away from Argyle.

“My apologies.” Eddie says.

Argyle points to the living room. “You can come back when it’s ready.”

Jonathan laughs. Arms crossed as he watches with equally pink eyes, leaning up against the counter. He smiles warmly but offers no assistance to Eddie.

Will shoots Eddie a look as he walks by the island, it’s the kind of look that says his hands are tied, that he’s sorry. Eddie rolls his eyes back in response.

Mike barely registers the exchange as he focuses on something he and Will were working on, just nods at Eddie as if it was Eddie’s choice to leave the kitchen.

Max and Lucas are too busy canoodling at the dining room table to acknowledge anyone else. Eddie sticks his tongue out at them as he passes. They are too lost in each other to even notice that.

Defeated, Eddie sulks into Steve’s living room. He flops onto the ridiculously white, plush carpet in front of the couch. Some movie plays on the tv but Eddie cannot focus on the screen long enough to even figure out what it is. He opens drawer after drawer in the strange “apothecary” coffee table. Finally, he finds something. He jumps up clutching his prize to his chest.

He smirks down at the couch. Robin, Steve, El, Nancy, and Dustin stare back. They are now his captive audience.

Steve blinks his maple syrup eyes, “Whatcha got there Munson?”

Eddie just smiles. He steps up onto the coffee table, ignoring Nancy’s chiding, and turns to bow at the couch.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and ghouls. It is a pleasure to have you all here tonight.” Eddie bows, swooping his arms out wide.

“Is it though?” Dustin asks, pushing the pause button on the tv remote.

“Oh, but it is my dear lad. For tonight, you are joined by Eddie the Freak who will perform tricks no mortal has seen.”

“Tricks?” El’s voice sounds disapproving. “Friends don’t lie Eddie.”

Eddie blinks at the young girl, tilts his head and smiles, “Magic, my dear girl. Not lies – I assure you.” He places his hand on his heart to emphasize his honesty.

Her eyes grow wide, “Magic?”

It only takes El’s awestruck expression to get Eddie to up his game. But when he sees Steve’s own eyes expand in wonder, Eddie can’t help but fully step into the role as magician.

As if to answer El’s question, Eddie shows the deck of cards he had been hiding in his hand. El smiles but he can see the speculation in her eyes.

He opens the deck of cards, haphazardly tossing the cardboard box to the floor, and passes them to Steve, “Darlin, you mind giving these cards a shuffle?”

Steve blushes but takes the cards. He shuffles the cards and then hands them back to Eddie.

Eddie fans the cards out in front of El, “I want you to take one card out. Don’t let me see it but show it to everyone on the couch.”

El beams at Eddie before carefully picking a card from the fanned deck. Eddie collapses the deck and turns away from the couch as she shows each of the couch’s occupants the card she had chosen. Eddie peeks from his peripheral and asks, “Did everyone get a good look?”

“Yes.” El’s voice is stern but dripping in happiness.

Eddie turns back and stoops down on the coffee table to be level with El. He holds the deck in one hand out to El, “Now my dear, place the card back anywhere in the deck.”

“Back in the deck?” El muses. She studies the deck and then slips her card back in the stack.

Eddie begins to shuffle the deck, “I want you all to watch very carefully.” He looks at each of them as he moves the cards through one another. “I am going to make your card leave.”

“Leave?” El asks, turning to look at Steve and Robin for an explanation.

Steve shrugs before looking right back at Eddie. Robin raises her eyebrows and nods. El furrows her brow at Robin before turning to Nancy. Nancy smiles softly and points a manicured finger back to Eddie. El glances at Dustin who is too focused on Eddie’s hands to even register El. Sighing, she looks back at Eddie and tilts her head.

“I am going to get your card to leave the deck, to vanish.” Eddie explains, flipping through the cards. The soft sputtering of cardstock filling the silence. “Watch.” He flips over the first card to reveal the 5 of Clubs. “This is not your card, right?”

El smirks, “That is not my card.”

“Watch, El.” Eddie flips the card back over before snapping the card, the reverberation making a soft hum. “But this is your card.” Eddie smiles, flipping the card over again.

This time the Ace of Spades is face up.

El’s eyes grow wide.

  Dustin shakes his head in disbelief.

  Nancy makes a small chuckle.

  Robin softly mutters, “Wow...”

  “Holy shit.” Steve swears.

“Ah, ah.” Eddie coos, “We’re not quite down yet.” He smirks at each one, holding eye contact just a little longer with Steve who is openly gaping at him. Eddie feels a sense of pride slip over each vertebra in his spine. He looks back at El, “Now, I told you I would get this card to leave, right?”

“Yes.” El replies.

“Here it goes.” Eddie turns the card over and places it back in the stack. “Watch, I’m going to shake it.” He moves the whole deck and his hand to the side before bringing it back to center with El. “Do you think it’s gone?”

El shakes her head. Eddie flicks his eyes over the rest of his audience. Each one is staring at the deck, and each one looks like they know what is about to happen.

He flips the first card back over, again revealing the 5 of Clubs, “It’s gone.”

El’s eyes narrow. “I do not believe you.”

“It’s gotta still be in the deck.” Dustin argues.

El nods in agreement.

Eddie smirks. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Dustin and El say in unison.

“Do me a favor El, ask Steve to check his back pocket.”

The whole couch turns to look at Steve. Steve stares back, with wide eyes, “I am in no way involved in this.”

“You didn’t feel me touch you, right? Not your hair, not your clothes. Nothing?” Eddie asks.

“No…?” Steve’s voice is wary, the pink returning to his cheeks and ears.

El looks at Steve, “Stand up.”

Steve stands from the couch and Eddie rises to full height with him. He smiles down at them from his coffee table stage as Steve reaches into his back pocket. Steve freezes. His hand still in his back right pocket.

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “Fucking no.”

“What is it, Stevie?” Eddie pulls a strand of his hair across his mouth.

“No.” Steve says again as he pulls the card out of his back pocket.

He flips the card over.

The Ace of Spades sits proudly in his hand.

Dustin laughs, “What the hell!”

Robin shakes her head, “That is insane.”

Nancy smiles, eyes bright and for a second she looks years younger. She claps her hands together in applause.

  “NO!” Steve yells.

El bursts into laughter. Her eyes shine as she stares up at Eddie, “You are magic.”

Steve is running with the card into the kitchen, “Max! Jonathan! Argyle! Lucas! Will! Mike! He’s…Eddie! He’s magic!”

Eddie smiles at where Steve disappeared into the kitchen. He can hear Steve gush to the group gathered in the kitchen. His heart beating fast with excitement and pride as Steve’s voice raises with wonder during his retelling. And he thinks for his next performance he will have an audience of one. He thinks he’ll bring his handcuffs over to Steve’s house and show him a different kind of magic trick…

[ramblingroommate]

My Dracula Daily Fan Cast

Am I extremely late to this whole thing? Yes. Do I care? Nope! Let’s go :)

Dracula

Shaun Toub: for the longest time I actually had Claes Bang (who has played Dracula before!) in this role, but after re-reading Dracula’s description for the twentieth time I couldn’t get Shaun’s face out of my head. Neither actor is English (not a coincidence) but while Claes is danish, Shaun is an iranian-born american actor. We don’t really know Dracula’s origins so I thinks it’s fine. Shaun is also almost ten years older than Claes which is great for the first part of the story and less so for the second half, but I think he could still play it off really well with the right make up (or CGI).

Jonathan Harker

George Mackay: he’s a British actor most people know for his role in the war movie 1917. I chose him because he has the general look I want for Jonathan (generic white boy my beloved) and I think he could bring justice to our dear friend, showing the hardships of the character really well instead of making him dull just to push a dracmina romance.

Mina Murray

Olivia Cooke: she’s an English actress mostly known for her roles in ready player one and house of the dragon. I mostly chose her because of her looks (tho I imagine Mina with black hair) but I know she was in her fair share of horror movies and even in a historical drama - both genres that mesh really well with Dracula.

Lucy Westenra

Sydney Sweeney: it was really hard choosing an actress for Lucy! Mina is always going on about how pretty she is so I wanted that but I also wanted PAIN. Sydney acted in Euphoria where she interpreted the character of Cassie who, and I quote, “fell in love with every guy she ever dated. Whether they were smart or stupid or sweet or cruel, it didn't matter. She didn't like to be alone”. I think that’s suuuuch an interesting acting experience for someone who has to play Lucy. The actress is four or five years younger than the other actors but Lucy is canonically 19 years old so I think that’s fine.

Arthur Holmwood

Simon Castle: Arthur was THE HARDEST to cast for me, I don't know why. I wanted a young noodle-ly boy with a sweet face but also a bit of a trust fund kid kind of vibe and I guess it was a hard balance to strike.

Quincey Morris

Dacre Montgomery: do I even have to say anything? Just look at the pictures… perfect actor for a perfect himbo.

Jack Seward

Charlie Rowe: I decided on this actor after seeing him in Rocketman; at first he seems like a big shot producer but then the real guy shows up and makes fun of him (that whole thing was too Jack and Van Helsing for me to ignore). I couldn’t decide between clean shaven and slight stubble so I put both.

Abraham Van Helsing

Mads Mikkelsen: I don't know yall. I just really like Mads okay?

[0nelittlebirdtoldme]

10. Do they share any hobbies or interests? How do these things bring them together?

18. How do they care for each other when one of them is wounded/sick?

28. Who’s the better chef? Do they cook for the other?

42. What’s their relationship like with each other’s friends/families?

For Harkula, please!

Thank you so much for the many asks, Salty! Doing this for my dear murder husbands 🥰

10. Do they share any hobbies or interests? How do these things bring them together?

Hobbies? Jonathan and Vlad both like arts and literature - Jonathan could listen him talk of the past and his history for hours. They both like music as well; Drac playing the piano and Jonathan his violin.

Interests? Does... blood and cock count?

18. How do they care for each other when one of them is wounded/sick?

With patience and unnatural gentleness, born out of worry. They could have screamed at each other just an hour before, hurling insults at each other, but if Johnny ever gets harmed in some way, Vlad turns deadly quiet really fast, being extra careful about where he can touch him or not.

28. Who’s the better chef? Do they cook for the other?

Human!Jonathan was a rather lousy chef. Drac is a fantastic cook, although he doesn't eat, perfecting the skill over millenia. As about their vampiric diet.... sure. They kill for and with each other very often.

42. What’s their relationship like with each other’s friends/families?

Jonathan's family was a mess in life. Drac doesn't have any relatives and in my headcanon, he gets rid off his Brides by the time he turns Jonathan into one of his kin. All they have, is each other at this point. Kind of tragic, honestly.

Ask game here

[vampyrs-and-witchers]

Jonathan

💋 - kissing

🍛 - cooking

💃🏻 - dancing

Dettlaff

😠 - managing with their temper

🙊 - keeping secrets

Regis

🌷- taking care of plants/pets

Orianna & Mary

😏 - lying

👗 - dressing with style

🔪 - melee weapons

🔫 - ranged weapons

Ask my muse(s) what they’re good at..

💋 - {Jonathan blushes at the question, clearing his throat slightly before speaking.} “I’d like to think that I’m a good kisser..! Though I suppose I’d have to put that to the test to truly see if I am as good as I think I am…”

🍛 - {He sighs softly, a look of melancholy in his eyes.} “Before my vampirism I could whip up a mean tomato soup as my dear sister and mother often put it, now however? I seldom find the need to cook. I wonder if I’m still as good or if I’m shoddy…?

💃🏼 - {He laughs, grinning as a blush dusts across his cheeks.} “Care to find out?”

😠 - {Dettlaff frowns, sighing softly as he rolls his eyes.} “How do you think, mh..?” {His arms are crossed as he glares at you.}

🙊 - {Dettlaff eyes you for a moment before finally choosing to reply.} “Ask Regis.” {He knows that his companion and friend would never tell anyone just how well he is at keeping secrets, because the thing is that he’s freakishly good at keeping secrets. Often going to great lengths to make sure nothing is found out.}

🌷 - {Regis smiles, beaming at the question like a child who’d just been asked to share their knowledge on their favorite school subject. He gingerly takes your hand and takes you around back, extending his free arm eagerly out front of you - you look on at the massive garden the older man has been able to tend to. It’s vast, thick, beautiful and clear,y well maintained. Every plant in flourish and full bloom. Clearly he has a green thumb!} “Does this answer your question?” {He asks, chuckling softly, a wolfish grin on his lips.}

😏 - {Orianna grins, while Mary offers a coy wink.}

👗 - {Orianna looks down at her garments before looking up, seemly offended you’d even ask her such a thing.} “Seriously?” {Mary clicks her tongue, rolling her eyes in annoyance.} “Pay them no mind, my dear, clearly this is a fool who cannot even use their eyes…”

🔪 - {Orianna shrugs.} “I’m… not sure I follow… would my claws count as a close-quarters weapon? If so, then I’d say I’m exceptionally well skilled. {Mary thinks back to her fight with her brother, how she wielded the wooden cross as though it weighted nothing.} “I would say the same…”

🔫 - {Both women shrug - unable to answer the question as neither have ever wielded any long ranged weapon aside from their blood art.}

[jonathansssstuff]

My Oc's Backstory. There will be some sensitive topics.

***FAMILY***

Jonathan Waldo Petrov was born in December 12th 1943 to a Polish-English, middle class family. He was born in Des Plaines, Illinois, USA. He was the middle, middle child of 5 siblings, born to Garek Petrov, who works as Engineer and Daliah Evan, who work as a Teacher. Jerzy(oldest son), Naomi(oldest daughter), Gabriel (middle son),Galina(middle middle daughter), Johnathan(him, middle middle son) and lastly, Benjamin(youngest son).

***CHILDHOOD***

Johnathan had a fair neglected childhood. His parents love him and his siblings but they didn't have any time to give affection and attention. He was diagnosed with Paranoia at the age of 8 because the kids(13 years old boys )in the neighborhood would threaten him to kill his cat. His father wanted him to get lobotomized but he decided to stop thinking about it, mostly forgetting about it.

***RELATIONSHIPS***

Johnathan has a good relationship with his mother but not so with his father. Johnathan's mother would teach him how to respect everyone,be quiet and stay clean but his father would force him to drink alcohol, force him to smoke(which will cause his lungs weaker as he grows up)and force him to fight with other kids just to make him "masculine". Johnathan didn't mind because he just thought that his father was just looking out for him and he loved every little attention that his father gave. Johnathan has the closest relationship with Jerzy,Galina and Benjamin.

***SCHOOL LIFE***

Johnathan was an average student where he would often get B's in his tests and exams. He didn't get in any trouble with his classmates and the teachers. Most of the time, nobody even knows he even existed. He was mostly good at English, Music and Art. He didn't participate in any school events cuz he just thinks it's a waste of time and stupid. He is really quick at learning Languages but he tends to forget their alphabets and spelling.

***TEENAGE YEARS***

In 1958, Johnathan(15 years old) is 6 feet 7 inches tall(he stopped there) but he weighed around 290lbs to 305lbs. He was the tallest boy in his class and because of that everyone is a bit scared of him. But some students would bully him for being big. He wasn't good looking but he could melt the shy girls' heart with his poetry and writings. He was the one who was helping his friends by writing love letters to their crushes. He stopped smoking because he's always having to do his job by working at Burger King and he doesn't wanna upset the customers. And he decided to work as an artist as a part-time job.

***LOVE LIFE***

In 1960, as Johnathan(17 years old) was painting in a park in the evening, a girl named "Faith Becker"(14 years old) approached him and asked him to draw a portrait of her while the sun is setting. She was a bit rude about it because she was upset that he didn't remember her. They've known each other for a few years but not that close. Johnathan agreed and started painting. From that on, they became more and more closer like best friends. Faith was a tomboy who is very carless while Johnathan keeps on fixing her mistakes. In 1969, Faith(23 years old) started expressing affection towards Johnathan(26 years old). Johnathan tries to avoid it at first but he then gives in to her affections and attention. In 1973, Johnathan(30 years old), who worked as a dentist and Faith(27 years old), who works as a cook got married. They had an adorable daughter named "Delilah".

***WHERE IT WENT DOWN***

In 1980, Johnathan was arrested for holding his daughter's r@pist in captivity and torturing him for 3 years in his basement. Faith didn't know what her husband is doing because he was torturing the r@pist in his other house's basement. When she asked him if everything is okay. He would answer with "everything's fine, dear, nothing to worry about." Johnathan was sentenced to 20 years in prison. Faith was forced to divorce her husband because her father didn't want a murderer as a son-in-law.

***JAIL TIME***

While Johnathan was in jail, he got the news that his oldest brother, Jerzy has died of liver cancer from Benjamin. Johnathan didn't know what to do. He has lost his daughter, parents, got divorced and now he lost his beloved brother. He gets into deep depression. He starts getting numb about everything. He gave up on his writings and paintings and just rotted in the corner.

***DEATH***

In 1995, Johnathan(52 years old) decided to un@live himself by beating his head against the brick wall multiple times in prison. Even though he died in jail, his spirit remains at his old abandoned childhood home. He would spare children and teenagers but it would be hard for an adult to trespass his property. His childhood house was a safe place for every child who are struggling at home.

[see-arcane]

The Strange Case of Mr. Hyde and Mr. Harker

The problem of the potion has been at least temporarily solved. Issues of supply have been erased with the aid of the League of Extraordinary Gentlefolk, enough so that triple and quadruple doses can be had...and often they must be. It seems the clock is still ticking down on the ever-imbalanced nature of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, even with a potential sea of the damned elixir to drown in.

It isn't until the night they see what looks like a kindred spirit in action that hope begins to simmer. After all, they had already known the young man before this.

If Mr. Harker can turn from concentrated kindness to the Thing crawling on the walls on a whim and back again, surely he must have some tips...

(For those not in the know, this is a sizable ‘what-if?’ scenario based loosely on the premise of The League of Extraordinary Gentlefolk comic-in-progress putting its roots down on Tumblr, a glorious public domain mega crossover and antidote to Alan Moore’s unpleasant take on the idea. Shout out to the amazing @mayhemchicken-artblog for all the fantastic work already put into the project.)

Ao3 link here

It was in a way almost as extraordinary as stunningly mundane how the mess began. Truly, its inception started long before the League took what mercy it could on him and his condition. Bless Utterson for his mercy, bless him for knowing Norton and his inexplicable wife. Bless Van Helsing, the dear old wonder. And bless, of all shocks, Mr. Harker.

The last time he’d seen the boy had been when Utterson had been cornered into something resembling a birthday party by his colleagues. It was the work of Peter Hawkins, may the old fellow rest in peace, who had conned poor Gabriel into thinking it was a mere talk of professional advice and the bonus of a drink. Instead, the trap had sprung in the form of a veritable horde of his friends assembled under Hawkins’ roof, the route of escape blocked, somewhat sheepishly, by young Mr. Jonathan Harker. Jekyll could still picture the lad as he’d been that day.

A trim fellow, long in the bones and with a curiously elfin edge to his features that stamped him as almost more fetching than merely handsome. His hair had been a solid brown back then, dark as burnt chestnut with eyes to match. Brief as their meeting was, Jekyll had been one of many in the silvering members of the party to wonder why Hawkins had brought his clerk along. A wonder that was followed by an increasing gladness that the young man was there. Not only for the fact that—as it became obvious—Hawkins had adopted Harker in all but law, nor even the revelation that dear tight-lipped Gabriel apparently knew the boy for better than a decade of his brief years, and was as warm with him as if he were blockaded by his own nephew.

No, what thawed the codgers among them was the fact that, like a flower gave off a scent or candle gave off light, Jonathan Harker radiated a feeling of whole and unvarnished kindness. He did not simper up to his seniors for their wise counsel and tales of the legal battlefield, fishing for footholds on the career ladder. Truly, Jekyll had winced over the boy’s politeness when he was ultimately pounced upon by the orators among them, ravenous to share their horror stories with fresh ears. He only broke this decorum whenever a maid or servant came round; staff he knew by name and helped deal with whatever dish or drink was brought in. At one point he cleared a plate and immediately disappeared to interview the cook for her recipe.

“He collects them for his fiancée, Miss Murray,” Hawkins told them en sotto voce. “They want to be able to make all they like themselves. I’ve known her half as long as him. A sharp girl, and as smitten with him as vice versa. If the country at large could ever see those two together, it would doom the prospects of every bachelor in the land, for every bachelorette would see what lies they’ve been fed about matters of love and wifedom. Husbands see their women as a nanny, wives see their men as a chore, but those two? They are Cupid’s own work.” A crease had formed among the half dozen already on the man’s brow. “Poor boy wants to marry her not long after he graduates to solicitor. I think he would set up camp in my office just to work around the clock to have pennies enough for the ceremony.”

Utterson had tutted over his own cigar, eyeing Hawkins with that placid steel that was the constant default of his gaze.

“Poor boy, he says.” Jekyll had nearly gawped at the ghost of a smile creasing under his beard. “As if you were not already gift-wrapping him a castle.” Hawkins had thrown a fuller grin back.

“Hold your tongue, Gabriel. That’s in confidence until he finds out the next workday. Let’s not give him a heart attack in the midst of your big day.”

“It would make a good distraction. I could run for the doctor…”

“The doctor is in,” Jekyll reminded. “And there is no escape. Now, what castle do you mean, Peter? Surely not the Transylvanian—,” But Hawkins had waved and shushed as Harker returned to the room, tucking a recipe in his pocket. Warm hours had rolled on and Jekyll became increasingly convinced of the lad’s nigh-tangible fug of friendliness. A less charitable mind might have likened it to the inviting presence of a chummy dog bred for slavering love, or perhaps some pampered fool so swaddled by good fortune they knew no better than to give and expect mirth.

But no. Jonathan Harker was neither hound nor coddled. It was simply his nature. A nature that, heading home and resuming his toils in the laboratory for the night, Dr. Henry Jekyll had found himself envying as much as shunning. Oh! To be so clean in conscience and intent that it could be felt like a sunbeam! It was the kind of absurd froth churned out by sentimentalist plays and soppier penny books. Such people did not exist. Certainly not among men.

Certainly not in himself. Try as he might. Rather, try as he might not.

It would almost be worth it, he thought, to merely obliterate the dregs of his uglier desires in a chemist’s form of spiritual surgery. Cut it out! Burn it out! Dissolve his evils into foam and let him spit the bile into the sewer to make him wholly the good Dr. Jekyll his friends and fellows believed! Ah, but he was too greedy. Too enamored of those unexercised ills to dabble in that direction. No, duality it must be. He would have his cake and eat it too.

Even so, Jonathan Harker remained a small smiling mote in his memory for days afterward. Like a grain of sand caught under a nail. Minor, yet unignorable.

So good a soul it could be felt. He wished the lad well. Wished harder that they would not meet again. And so such might have come true, but for the coming of Edward Hyde and the impending nightmare of their lopsided coexistence. That damned salt! It was a miracle that the keener minds that Utterson had brought him to could reproduce what they could from the potent crumbs remaining. The last granules of the stuff had been too paltry for a final concoction but enough—God, just barely enough!—to divulge the impurity that had empowered the original batch to begin with.

Thank God, thank God, thank God—

“Dr. Jekyll?”

He had nearly jumped out of his skin. A waste it would have been too, being so freshly regenerated to its proper form. Droplets of sweat and tears flew from his unshorn cheeks as he jerked around. And there was Jonathan Harker. Possibly.

The young man was remarkably changed since the last Jekyll had seen him. There was a greyish undertone to his pallor that brought the freshly dead to mind alongside a surreal impression of ancientness in the features. As if he were merely a stone carving of a young man that had weathered centuries versus the actual model. Most startling was the duo of hair and eyes. Brunet had washed out to a silvery white while the eyes—

Jekyll could not be sure it wasn’t a trick of the light, but a shine had come into them that made him uneasy. His thoughts turned sickly to those nocturnal beasts whose stare reflected moon and lamplight like polished coins. Seeming to realize he was staring, Harker blinked and whatever spell there had been in his silent apparition was broken. Though it made a slight resurgence when he laid his hand gently on the older man’s shoulder. The fingers were so cold he might have taken them straight out of a snowdrift.

“Doctor? What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

“Ah. It seems to be quite a reunion in this place.” He gave a hoarse noise that was not quite a chuckle. “I should ask you the same, young man. Who did Hawkins have you dealing with on his behalf, hm? Mephistopheles?”

It was meant as a joke. The spike of chill in the resting hand and the hollow gleam of the eyes suggested it was too near to truth for the young man’s liking. And there was something in the air. Some perceptible shift.

Jonathan Harker radiated an antithesis of what Jekyll had felt that day in Hawkins’ parlor; the same feeling that had come off him in soft waves just a moment before. Jekyll could not name the sensation as anything but an intrinsic warning. A metaphysical flash of a poison frog’s spots or the rattle of America’s desert snakes.

Take heed. No closer. In fact, back away. Quickly.

It shuddered up his spine and needled his hindbrain with ice and nightmare. He felt Hyde himself squirm within him. Kneejerk cowardice before a threat now elevated by a hundred.

But then, as quickly as that wretched bristle came, it was gone. Jonathan Harker even managed a weak smile. He was pure amity once again.

“You could say that. I bet my story is longer than yours. I’ve just returned from,” Jekyll caught him hastily adjusting his coat to cover his hip, though not fast enough to hide the handle of a startlingly large blade, “some business outside the city. No time for updates from here. If you can stand to share it, I should like to hear what’s happened to bring you to our door. Though only if you’re up to it.” The words were in earnest. But still.

“It is too much to say, for how little there is to tell. You would take me for a madman even if I spoke the truth. I would babble. Ask your friends, the doctors. Ask Utterson.”

“If you prefer it that way.” Experience honed each syllable. The eyes gleamed again, if dully. “But I have more reasons than most to hear out a man’s so-called babble without judgment. I was worse than that once upon a time. But privacy matters more in some cases. If you don’t wish to tell me, I won’t go fishing for the story from others. Just know that I am a member here. There is no tale too tall for me to hear and I have heard and played a part in many. All of us have. So. Would you prefer a drink and a talk? Or just the drink?”

As always, duality won. Drink and talk it was. Perhaps too much of drink, for it seemed to wash away all sense on his tongue.

Harker stirred barely an inch through it. He frowned over the poor child, of course. A cloud moved in his face when Jekyll spoke of that so-near miss with the battered Carew, Hyde having been startled from his full attack by a far more piercing cry of terror than any blunt plea or yelp from the old man. A keening voice so high in fear that the sex of the victim could not be guessed; just as the voice that Hyde and Jekyll would swear could not have its species guessed.

“It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!”

A declaration that somehow echoed in the brain without reaching the ear. In more than mortal fear, Hyde had abandoned his murderous project at a run. All delight in the evil was spoiled by the desire to put distance between himself and the voice that was not a voice. It was some thin boon, at least. He was stopped short of a crime that would see him sent to the gallows. Though prison was unquestionably on the table after both the witness of that maid in the window and the description from bruised and broken Carew.

“But even so! Hyde truly wished the man dead. That much I have never dreamt of even in my most hideous whims. Profanities, yes, awful fancies, but the perverse has never tipped over into bloodlust. That being so, I cannot even tell if Hyde could want to kill for killing’s sake or to commit the act solely for the danger it would bring on me. Revenge of the anti-conscience, as it were. I think he would not be so bold again. Not with so cold a logic as his. Surely not against,” Jekyll had swallowed, “not against one so important. But I fear that he might try other quarries out of sheer petulance now that the question of the salt is solved by better men than us. Than I ever was. He will see it as fresh allowance. Either by accident or intention I feel he will push our luck again. No, I know he will. And none of the secondhand joys he once gleaned for me are worth it. I know it, I know it.”

Poisons danced in his head. Razors. Ropes. Pistols.

“They should never have bothered with the salt. I should never have made my plea to Gabriel. I should have let the rot of Hyde take over, let myself wallow for lack of the potion, and then, come the inevitable, both our weaknesses combined would take the cornered animal’s route, as we both deserve.” He peered blearily down into the latest emptied glass. His reflection shined in distortion at the bottom. “Perhaps we will.”

“Don’t.” Harker’s voice fell on him like a stone. “Never take the final solution when others remain before you. Death comes to all.” Then, under his breath: “To most. There is only the matter of waiting and filling that time with the trials of better options. You are a man of science as much as the supernatural. Many of the scholars under this roof are. Is it not your habit to seek new routes where old ones fall short?”

“What? I don’t…”

“The potion is your only catalyst for the moment. Your only switch between one side and the other, and one that has been growing faulty in potency as Hyde takes on weight. If that’s the case, then the solution to your control must go beyond that swill.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It sounds like exactly what it is. Difficult. But also the only option a brilliant man can take when cornered, unless he means to cheat himself and leap straight to his end.” Again the cool hand returned to his shoulder. This time the chill was a mild thing compared to the thaw that came off the young man’s face. So young and so wretched at once. Jekyll felt for a moment like the younger man beside him; a boy weeping over a thorn in his foot, comforted by an old man bristling with broken glass and nails. “It will be hard to hold out. I know. But try first, Dr. Jekyll. Please.”

“I believe we must already be past titles, Harker. Henry is fine enough between us.”

“Jonathan for me, then.”

The cool hand fit in his own and shook.

That might have been the end of it. It should have been. There was work and practice enough to do on so many fronts. Hyde to wrangle, appearances to juggle. Busy, busy, busy. Perhaps if he had stayed indoors that particular fog-thick October night, all would have stayed as it was.

But he did not and it was not.

He had gone out for the sake of being out with stalwart Utterson in tow. Comforting as his friend’s presence was, he knew the gesture to be a mere safety line. Just in case, old man, just in case. Better to have cover of night for an excursion—just in case. He had insisted Utterson carry a weapon, concealed he knew not where, also just in case. Both men had grudgingly agreed to the others’ terms, both with matching sorrow. The melancholy of their once-golden friendship might have remained the sole trouble in the air but for the noise.

A miserable, glottal, hating, half-human noise that became a choir of gibberish wails and cries. There was no language in the mess that either could detect. Only senseless, slobbering anger. Growing closer. The moon broke through the clouds and gave better light to the situation just as the mass spilled into their street. The horde of them turned from a bruise in the mist to a sea of crisper human shapes. They were hulking men, all of them. Some wore their stature naturally. But others—some unspeakably grotesque others—did not. As if they were patchworks slapped together in monstrous proportions. Parts bloated by muscle or by too-long architecture of the bones. Some—Jekyll gagged to recognize this—had surplus anatomy to the point of seeming like abominations of man and insect. On top of it all, preceding their legion even through the merciful veil of the fog, was the stench.

Decay. Carrion. The chemical stink of mortician’s fluids and even fouler injections.

“Henry,” Utterson said in a tone pressed flat by shock, “I believe those fellows are dead.”

“I believe you’re right, Gabriel,” Jekyll returned, though with a tremor. Yes, the men stomp-shambling toward them were quite dead. Some fresh, some half-grey with decomposition, some dribbling the odd maggot or chemist’s juice. But dead. All dead. Their dead eyes spotted them standing frozen like sheep before the slaughterhouse. The dead saw. The dead surged.

In the same instant, so did panic. It leapt in Jekyll like a living thing—for it was. Fear shuddered, melted, wracked him with so sudden a spasm of change that it struck him with the brevity of a slap. And then Jekyll was Hyde and Hyde was running.

“Move, Utterson!” he had presence enough to shout, for the other man was still rigid where he stood. No, not quite. Digging in his coat for the weapon. A pistol, no doubt. “They’re dead you damned idiot!” he barked over his stunted shoulder. “Run!” But Utterson was never a man to run back in fear, but forward. So he did. So he shot. So he blew the liquid brains out of the nearest dead man—who kept running.

Jekyll screamed within Hyde, pleading, haranguing, think, think, think you selfish devil, think what loss it would be to them both to lose a friend, an ally such as him, when they were already anathema to Lanyon, Hyde, please not Gabriel, not him, damn you, not him, if you help no one else, not even your other half, help him and save yourself pain later, please, please—

Before Hyde could even pretend to listen to the shrilling in his head, before he could fully register that Utterson was about to vanish under a tide of hateful revenants, his finer senses snapped his head upward. Something else was in the fog. It clambered deftly as a spider along the brickwork of a high building. Through the murk, something flashed. Eyes like bright coins. Where the fog thinned, the moon lit on a head of pale hair and a gleam of steel.

What happened next would have been too fast for ordinary eyes. Hyde caught every heartbeat.

The crawling thing on the brick clambered down, leapt, and cleaved the nearest corpse’s reaching arms off. Followed by the top half of the skull, sending a far more impressive puddle of grey matter flying. Butchery ensued as a pale blur mottled itself with discolored gristle and ichor, some of which seemed to glow as it gushed from those few opponents that risked coming near. And there were but few. Dead though they were, the horde drew back as the pallid figure turned its attention on them. Some even clambered over their brethren just for more distance. Even standing where he did, Hyde could sense the reason.

Dread. Warning. Death is here. Come close, meet my eye, and suffer the consequences.

Not the aura of revulsion and disgust that was his own foul possession, that loathsome birthright that brought as many people running after him for violence as made them cringe and sneer away. This was a miasma of such cold promise of demise that it bordered on the tangible. A veritable perfume of concentrated fatality.

Hyde wanted to run from it and its owner. But not as much as Hyde wanted to see it. Especially as recognition finally revealed the executioner’s identity. His face came clear as he spared one hand to release the kukri blade to latch onto a nearby head and slam it against a wall, bursting skull and scalp like a gruesome egg.

The figure was Jonathan Harker.

And yet not.

As if in a trance, Hyde found himself reversing his sprint to follow the carnage as it was herded back and away down the alley from whence the mobile dead had poured. Utterson made some noise at him and tried to grasp his sleeve. He shook the man off as one would a gnat. Onward, onward, chasing the Grand Guignol scene into the night. And oh, oh! Such a scene! Such a play!

Neither Jekyll nor Hyde had ever been ones for theatre, but this was a show of phantasmagoria that stirred the very worst of rapture in their shared heart.

Harker was joined in his culling of the dead by some horde of ghoulish women, matrons and crones and a single dainty maiden, their nightdresses all stained with the spill of undead veins. Where Harker unmade the horde with blade and bare hands, the ladies ripped them asunder like wolves tearing into fatted calves. Beyond them, a giant of amalgamated pieces stormed through the last ranks of the army, seizing some squalling man clutching an ugly book and a bouquet of syringes to himself. The man hollered things in a reedy voice that sounded like so much madness. A tirade of godhood, of necromancy, of a living world owned by the dead who were owned by him, bow and obey you idiot thrall—

The giant broke his speech quite neatly with the breaking of both the man’s arms. Hyde had to stifle a laugh at the resulting squeal. The whole display carried all the comic weight of the fool characters Shakespeare always peppered his tragedies with. An entertaining distraction. But not so diverting as the second deaths of the cadavers. All had been put down but for some twitching. The lady epicures were seeing to brisk disposal as Harker wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. He stood like a pillar amid the viscera and viciousness for one glorious moment. An ivory Hades overlooking the Erinyes as they devoured back the unruly dead to their proper state.

But between one blink and the next, Jonathan Harker was the dear young man from the League. Hyde could sense the change the way a hand can tell a texture of gravel from silk. The boy looked on the scene with green at his edges, and picked his way deftly through the carnage until he reached the youngest girl of the hungry mass. She too was stepping back from her work a bit shaken. Shamefaced, even. A blip of sour hope rose in him—Oh, dear, what would Mrs. Harker think?—but no, the two were chaste as nuns with each other. Dull. There was some logistical stuff to do with the broken-armed would-be god of the dead still wailing at them and the giant.

Hyde recognized other familiar faces, as well as some new coming out of the makeshift battleground’s metaphoric woodwork. It was a wonder no heads had poked out of the windows to see the fuss. Jekyll would learn later that they had something of an expert in selective drowsiness and perception via an honorary member; the mention of whom made Seward red in the face. Hindsight would connect two and two and reveal the exemplarily voluptuous young woman in the cartwheel hat as their psychic cover. There was very little else to see, bar the giant and some of the company toting the raving fellow away—a fellow who suddenly found reason to keep opinions to himself by way of freezing looks from giant, ghoul, and Harker alike.

“Hyde..?” He did not jump. He’d felt Utterson coming and turned pettishly to face him. The soft old thing had even put the pistol away; though he saw his aiming hand had not left his pocket. “I think we ought to head back.”

“For another hop back to the good doctor. Oh yes, of course. Can hardly risk anything out of doors, can we? Not even in the midnight fog.”

His eyes slid back to Harker, now chatting with something of camaraderie and uneasiness among the carnivorous ladies. They cooed over him like any ring of spinsters over their siblings’ children come to visit. Harker endured them with all the charm of a pup. The thing upon the bricks, the thing that had made slurry of the undead, was gone.

“You never know who’s out in the dark.”

Once back at the League, still picking cadaverous giblets from his hair and fingernails, Jonathan Harker found a hostage situation waiting for him. Of a sort.

“He won’t drink it,” Griffin told him. “The little terror’s always fussed about it, but now he’s like a toddler facing his greens. The lot of us meant to hold him down, only he insisted he was waiting on you.”

“Me?”

“You,” from Jack. He was pacing, his lancet twiddling back and forth over his knuckles. “He made it sound as if you had some business to discuss.”

“That would be something, seeing as I haven’t shared more than three words with Hyde. None of them too polite either.”

“Even so, he’s sworn against taking his medicine without a fight unless you speak to him.”

“I can’t imagine what about. Where is he?”

“Utterson, Art and Quincey are keeping watch on him in the parlor.” Griffin sighed. “If you’d like me to ‘dress for the occasion’ and step in as backup…”

“Wouldn’t matter,” said Jack. He turned the lancet over so it caught the light. “Hyde would know. Higher senses, remember?”

“I’m sure it’s just some whim of his. Jekyll probably had some thought turning over in his head and that passed onto Hyde.” Jonathan tried to think back on what few crossings he’d had with the doctor since his introduction to the League and found all memories to be singularly benign. “Perhaps I upset him without realizing—?”

“Oh, he’s not upset.” Jack again. His eyes were almost brighter than the lancet with his own musing. “In fact, he seemed…eager. Giddy, almost. He says you’ve inspired him.”

Confusion redoubled in Jonathan to the point that he wasn’t certain if he was awake. The residual reek of West’s handiwork was too pungent for a dream, however. So:

“How, exactly?”

“He wouldn’t say. Only that, ‘It has been hard to hold out. But after seeing how Mr. Harker takes his condition in stride, now he is willing to try something new.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

“It might, if he’s referring to what I think he is.” The words left him placidly enough, but Jonathan felt a squirming cold turn over in his belly. He had thought he felt another presence nearby as he and the others went to work—one of a familiar odious quality. But there had been so much happening in the fray and aftermath that he’d disregarded it as a hiccough of his own senses overworking themselves. Apparently not. “Anything else I should know?”

The empty space where Griffin’s head was and was not turned to face Jack. Jack mirrored the motion. Then nodded.

“He says he wants witnesses. To quote directly, ‘Fetch as many of the doctors and scientific tinkerers on hand that you can. Even that Dutchman hack. We shall need their objective opinion when it happens.’ Van Helsing is out of the country and so it’s just down to me and Seward for His Majesty’s demands.”

“I see. But when what happens?”

“The transformations, he said. Emphasis on the plural.”

Edward Hyde was waiting for them on one of the divans. He sat quite alone, but for Utterson who dared to take the nearest armchair. Art and Quincey had posted themselves to block either exit of the room. When Jonathan stepped in, Mr. Hyde straightened to his full diminutive height. His smile was a grimace despite its earnestness.

“Mr. Harker. Thrilled to see you, young man.”

“Mr. Hyde. I wasn’t aware I’d earned your esteem.”

“You hadn’t until tonight. Ah, and here are the good doctors. Better doctors, let’s call them, to give due credit over my other half. The invisible man may have lost to his experiment and the head rattler may be lost to his own mental ills, but at least they aren’t such helpless things as old Jekyll. But neither a mesmerist! A shame. Van Helsing might have been instrumental in our show. Still, I believe we can manage. Seward, I trust you won’t mind us borrowing this for the duration.”

Before Jack could ask what he meant, surprise and annoyance flickered across his face as Hyde produced a clinical thermometer from some sagging inner pocket of Jekyll’s coat.

“When did you—?”

“Oh, Jekyll had a passing thought of asking to borrow one for his own testing. The thought passed on to me. He was curious if there was some recordable shift in temperature that might serve as a tell between one phase and another. A fever spike, a chilling drop. Hard to tell these things when your body is melting up and down. Not that it would matter to know, of course.” He waggled the thermometer before their eyes and his. “The old fool just wanted to have something new to record for his notes. Useless trivia though it is. He’d already guessed it right.”

The thermometer went on the low table before him. While the mercury was descending, it did so from a mildly high reading above the norm.

“There’s a minute increase in temperature. Stress increases heart rate, sets sweat rolling, setting a body simmering. Less the transformation’s fault than the mind’s. Harker.” Again that unctuous grin turned on him. It felt like grease on his eyes. As the little man grinned, he nudged the thermometer further across the table until it faced the adjacent couch to Hyde’s. “Keep that on your side.”

Taking the hint, Jonathan found a seat on the couch. Griffin and Jack bookended him.

“If this is about my hands being cold, then it’s a fair bit more pageantry than the revelation deserves.”

“No, not your hands. Hardly a worthy tell. Anyone with poor circulation can claim a chilly touch. It’s for the sake of your neighbors. We’ve no proper thermostat to use, but even the finicky sensor should prove the point to any doubters.”

“Of..?”

“You and I sharing similar situations, Mr. Harker. Not of the exact caliber, not of the same roots, but cousin conditions just the same. I did not just see you in action tonight. I felt you. Just as clearly as all the curdle-faced company here can feel me, albeit with different results. I revolt. This can act as a call to arms as surely as it might repel. But you?” Hyde clapped his hard palms together in delight. “Oh, you were death walking. Crawling, leaping, slashing, smashing—but Death just the same. A meat grinder on legs, sweating the guarantee of a painful ending in the air. That was you. Rather, the other you.”

Again, that cold twisting in the bowels. Something icier prickling behind his eyes. Jonathan quashed both and buttressed his expression with reinforced civility.

“I think you may have been smelling the spillage of tonight’s unpleasant work,” Jonathan said, gesturing to the rainbow of stains on sleeves and shirt. His coat had covered much, but the mess was potent. “As for the rest, I don’t see how said work deserves your praise or prose. I have picked up some unique traits over time. Some by necessity, some by, I will admit, pure mystery.” He was aware of the others’ eyes on him. Jack’s especially. “But I use them only as anyone would use their skill against an enemy. I am not two people. Just one person who reserves his grisly ability for when it's needed.”

“I didn’t say you were two people. You, cloying heap of sunshine and milksop courtesy that you are, are Jonathan Harker. The other you is not a someone else, but a something. Just as I am.” His oily gaze shifted from Jonathan for a moment to regard the others in the room. It paused for a not insignificant while on Utterson, who frowned sadly back. “Unless you lot truly believe in a more charitable outlook than Jekyll’s? That I am my own man and not a tumor with caricature opinions? An abscess of a homunculus vomiting out another man’s—a true man’s—worst intrusive ponderings? No, I did not think so. Assuming I can think, of course. Regardless, I am a Thing. Just as what I saw turning the living dead into mincemeat was a Thing.”

“Cogito, ergo sum, Mr. Hyde. You think, therefore you are. Enough to have a name. Enough to work against the will of the man you share a life with.” Jonathan gestured at the whole of him. “You exist as a person.” Hyde produced a low noise that must have been a laugh.

“Who do you mean to hearten with that sentiment, Mr. Harker? You or I?” The grin peeled up and back until the gums bared. “Or her? Good Mrs. Harker who kept her own souvenirs from her time as Count Dracula’s Bride-to-be? I am no head doctor, but it is plain to anyone even with a borrowed brain that the dear Miss Martyr must fret terribly over her own level of humanity. She seems the type—,”

“Is there a point you want to get around to?”

Hyde eyed him with some strange balance of wariness and glee. Then he leaned forward as imposingly as his stature could allow.

“The point is you cannot fool me, Mr. Harker. You cannot even fool these dullards’ simple senses when you are so close. Though I can’t tell yet if you’re actively fooling yourself or not. Denial is a powerful drug, after all. So. Are you going to admit yourselves as plural?” Hyde paused here to pull Jekyll’s notebook from another fold of his coat, as well as a pen. He flipped the former open and posed the pen above a clean page. A bead of sweat shined on his brow as he did so. “Or must I prove you both? It should be said now that I do not wish to. I quite despise taking such a risk. But the reward is worth the gamble.”

Jonathan fought down a sigh and an urge to massage away the headache now threatening like a storm in his temple.

“I’m still lost as to what you wish to accomplish by proving some sort of dual nature in me. I am always myself. When a threat arises, I am still myself, just focused on the task at hand. Would you call, for the comparison’s sake, a butcher two individuals because he behaves one way at home and another while he divvies up the cuts?”

“Butchers have a vocation and a professional mien,” Hyde hummed. The pen began to scratch across the paper in halting strokes. “But they remain themselves in mind and body, nature and supernature. I clearly do not. Nor do you, subtle though the change is. I have learned thoroughly how I am to the human eye. Confusing. Deformed without deformity. I am small and strange, but presented in a picture, I would pass as a mere man. Yet I am different. I feel different, needling those atrophied senses that the rest of the animal kingdom still owns in full measure. As the dogs bayed when your Dracula came ashore, the human mind snaps and growls at my presence. I am hated.” The pen scratched, scratched. “Even were I to be a saint among men, I would be hated. You, lucky lad, won a far better lottery. When you are not loved, you are feared. As neatly as dousing a lamp or lighting it. If you do not wish to call it a physical change, then dub it metaphysical. But the change is there. It is real. And I can prove it.”

Hyde took a bracing breath. Exhaled. Then turned the notebook to face Jonathan.

“See?”

Jonathan saw.

And Jonathan changed.

He would not notice it at the time, of course. The world was made too narrow for him in that moment. All that existed was Edward Hyde and the message upon the page. Its content was curt. Its implications sordid. All with Mina’s name at the center of what Hyde imagined happened before Jonathan was stirred on that hellish hour of October 3rd. A fuller list of fluids shared with the Count. Perhaps even a thrill to go with them. Perhaps, the note suggested, Hyde would see to her needs one night. Be she awake or asleep. Jonathan was gone so often, capering with his fellow monstrous ladies. Hunting for the same high of those naughty Weird Sisters and their supple kisses? No blame, Mr. Harker, and no trouble. Yes, Hyde would be glad to see to the missus while he was away. And if she declined, well, perhaps that new boy over in Whitechapel, that Ripper fellow, might just pay her a visit instead—

It was bait. Of course it was bait. Some part of him acknowledged it straightaway in the moment, and the whole of him would admit it later on. But there, here, now? The more pressing notion was that Edward Hyde had thought to even suggest any of it. That there was a possibility, however great or small, that he might decide, on a whim, to act on what was written. This would not do.

Inside the space of three heartbeats, if not two, Jonathan Harker and Edward Hyde were no longer sitting. They were not even within the wide circle of the seating area. Jonathan Harker stood facing the nearest wall with one hand outstretched. A hand that was locked like a hangman’s hug around Edward Hyde’s throat. The smaller man’s face was rapidly turning red as his hands scrabbled at the column of the strangling arm. Stout as he was, his heels could only kick at the air and drum the wall. Somewhere on another planet, voices were raised and feet were running near.

“This—!” Hyde gasped. “You!”

“Me,” the word left Jonathan like an ice chip. Someone put their hands on him. Jonathan turned his head at an angle to face them—Utterson, Art—and saw both men’s faces snap out of concern and into—

Fear. Fear. Fear.

—a paralyzed dread so familiar that he recognized it as if seeing a mirror—

—the head turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyze me—

—or else a certain residual vision in the Transylvanian snow. Mina had written it in kinder words than it had deserved—

—nothing seemed to stop or even to hinder them. Neither the levelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their attention. Jonathan's impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his purpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him; instinctively they cowered, aside and let him pass.

Purpose and impetuousness had been in attendance, perhaps. He had not been thinking of anything beyond the former. But he had seen well enough. Seen the slack and freezing terror that he had worn once upon a time, the shovel falling from a nerveless grip. Yes. He knew the effect well.

He certainly knew it then, seeing Art and Utterson halt and lurch back from their grip. Another noise came from Hyde. An airless chuckle.

“See! See! So—ughk—so-good-to-meet-you.” Red now tipped toward purple. “Lie-now-Harker. Say-you-are-unchanged.” Bloodshot eyes went glassy. “If-we-live-if-you-let-us-live—,” His mouth worked mutely a moment, straining on its last drops of air. “Teach-him. Teach-the-damned-doctor. How-to— How—,” His jaw worked dumbly and his hands began to fall away.

“How to what?”

“Change… No salt…”

The eyes began to roll up. Jonathan released his hold. Hyde fell to his knees, gasping. In the peripheral, Utterson plastered a hand to his own heart. Griffin, Quincey and Jack were closing in.

“The salt,” Hyde whooped through greedy intakes. “We are both so…so damned sick of living and dying by the salt and its potion. If I am…if I am truly born of his mind, I should be able to be suppressed…as easily as a thought or whim… That has been his fixation…control of self, of me, beyond being collared to the chemist’s lab. Ha…” He peered up at Jonathan with a mix of dread and hate and a bitterness that stretched so far it nearly circled around to sorrow. “…Indeed, I do want the secret for myself. I am a coward. I desire no fight I know will cost me. Just as all living things have a coward buried in them. It is called the ‘survival instinct’ out of politeness and only the suicidal may say they have grown out of it.

“I wished more than anything to be Henry Jekyll dying in your hand, whatever you are. Harker. Reaper. What-have-you. If I were, the sight of the good man strangling to death would have fished the bleeding heart back to the surface and we would both be saved far sooner. I do not even know if I am saved now, or running the clock until you reappear at another hour and divorce our head from its neck without witnesses. Or wrench it off, I suppose. There are a good many villains out there to shift the blame to. With dear Utterson’s pitying exception, your whole little club and the world at large would be only too glad to alibi you or sing your praises.

“I do not want to die, even as I do not want to rage as a prisoner in my maker’s skull forever. But to win the former, the most vital need, I know I must buckle to the latter. It is a sickening way to be. A Thing born of raw desire, having to bow under millstones of necessity rather than want. I hate it. I hate him. I hate us. I believe I even hate you. You, with your good frame and pretty face, drawing soft looks like flies one moment, sending armies running in another. All with Fate’s own gift-wrapped boons of our dead friend’s inheritance to his feigned son, the childhood beloved so fetching and wedded, and the lion’s share of supernatural winnings from your brush with the undead nightmare while your comrades came away hobbled or robbed.”

Hyde had enough saliva now to spit, and he did. He ducked his head after. It did not quite hide the shine of other wetness dribbling down his face.

“Yes, I do hate you. And I hate the hating. And I hate that I hate it. Impulse needs relief from itself, my fellow Thing. So teach him. Teach the idiot Jekyll how to play Cronus and swallow his mind-son whole and vomit him out as needed without the crutch of the potion before we are left choking down a pond's worth every hour.” He tried to spit again and only managed a cough. Something clear dripped from his cheek. “It is the only way we can exist.”

Jonathan considered this. More, he considered Hyde and what he could see of the man without and the man within. For the same reason he could tell where Griffin stood or his unseen cat padded, he could all but see the conjoined lives within that single unhappy body. Edward Hyde appeared to be less a cyst upon the soul of Henry Jekyll than a belated and malformed sibling in an unthinkable womb. If Hyde had truly been the manifestation of Jekyll’s below-the-gutter impulses at the start, that had been the impulsivity of an infant. Innocent and immediate in his wants, but with the ability to act on them with the faculties of an adult.

Except time had done to Hyde what it did to all children, no matter their leaning—it had taught lessons. It had fostered the need for deeper thought than the self-destructive mantra of, ‘I want, so I will.’ He recalled Jekyll’s talk of Hyde carrying a cooler reason and more cunning action than he thought himself naturally capable, just as he'd explained his suspicion that Hyde had contorted from the mere acting out of his constrained desires to something ‘inorganic.’ As if this child-brother born of the potion had festered into some base malignancy.

As Hyde put it, ‘a tumor with caricature opinions, an abscess of a homunculus.’ If the latter term had been mere theatre, it also brushed against something of Jonathan’s own suspicion: a homunculus. An inorganically made human in miniature, produced by alchemy. He had nearly had his ear talked off alongside the others as Van Helsing and Griffin went into a frenzy of theorizing while making plans to track down and interview the specific chemists in charge of making that initial tainted and powerful salt. There was, perhaps, a true Jabir ibn Hayyan working unawares in a lab somewhere; an unwitting collaborator with Jekyll the Accidental Alchemist.

But the mention of alchemy had focused only on the chemical potential, not what it had already made. Not an aberration, not a mere runaway subconscious full of ill and intrusive urges not his own.

Edward Hyde was a dwarf in a flask of flesh and he was, against his best wishes—wishes he had even outside of Jekyll’s hindbrain daydreams—congealing out of a Thing and into a Person. Enough that he had pounced upon realizations and plans ahead of any possible idea from Jekyll. The doctor had not been the witness-without, had not been the one drawing connections and harvesting a grim crop of hope and, most unthinkably, risking his life on the off-chance of goading Jonathan into putting his own dual states on display. Even taking this last as a display of ‘survival instinct’ entering a gamble for a reward later, to not wait until after the potion and Jekyll’s less volatile shield was between himself and any violence, to use his own ill nature to bait the hook, spoke too much of a calculation and grudging willingness for jeopardy that didn’t line up with either Jekyll or Hyde’s estimate of the little man.

In short: The plea had not come from the doctor. Nor from his own under-thoughts. It was Hyde alone who wished himself jailed and put on Jekyll’s mental chain, dragged in or out on his whim.

Unless he wants such a trick for himself, whispered a cold voice in him. It never raised its volume. It rarely spoke at all. But whenever it did, it did so with frost on its breath, speaking up from some lightless place below the cellar of his mind. Can you put that past him, nascent villain that he is? If he mastered such a thing better than the doctor, he could turn Jekyll into nothing more than a respectable costume to wear, donned only for the drudgery of work and safety while he stole ownership of their life’s greater bulk. True, he is a wanted man on the streets out there. But there is precious little to stop him arranging things to transplant himself and the doctor in a new country. One where he is unknown. And there is Mina to consider.

Cold burned in him. His hands folded into stones.

If he is a man, let him face a man’s consequences. If he is a monster, let him face the same. Why should he have more mercy than the demons that laughed as they killed and did worse? Why should he deserve any charity of your effort, your straining camaraderie? Why?

To the cold’s surprise, an answer was waiting:

Because, Jonathan thought back, there is Mina to consider.

Her. Lucy. All the people who had existed before, and yet within, the horrors they had become by dint of transformation. Even now, he still could not help thinking…

“Harker?” He blinked. Quincey was watching him. No fear sat in his face, only concern. “You with us?”

“As if you have to ask,” Hyde muttered to the carpet. “You felt as much before you saw his face. Good Mr. Harker doesn’t bite friends. Heh.” The greasy look slid back up to Jonathan’s face. “Under most circumstances. When it can be helped. And you’re trying to decide what circumstances these are, are you not? Does the Thing get help or get euthanasia, Mr. Harker? Do you—,”

But Jonathan had already turned his back. He slipped out from under any hand that tried to fall in his shoulder or steady an arm.

“Harker. Harker, answer me. Will you help or not?”

Walking.

“Harker!”

Walking. Waiting.

Hyde made a last hateful noise. It was almost lost among the others’. There was a rush of feet, great and small. Hyde coming close. Rushing, rushing—

Jonathan turned as Hyde swung. He had snatched up Utterson’s walking stick and aimed its heavy end at his head.

In a single motion the stick was caught neatly in his free hand.

The other was already occupied with driving into Hyde’s face like a granite block wearing a wedding band.

Jekyll woke to a muddle of sensations. The most pressing of them was the tang of the potion sticking tackily to tongue and palate, the comfort of a bed, and a throbbing pain so immense it had clearly brought him out of whatever pain-killing stupor had been applied. That hot ache sang its way outward from his right cheek, half-swelling his eye and tormenting his upper jaw. When he brushed the gauze swaddling it—oh so gingerly, yet even this sent thunderbolts through the spot—the flesh there was puffed with injury.

Memory sloshed like a thick soup in his likewise-aching head. Memories that might very well have been a lucid dream for all the sense its scenes made through the haze of drug, sleep, and pain.

“…Hello? Is anyone there?”

“Yes.” Jekyll jumped and promptly cursed at the fresh pulse of agony the twitch caused. Seward was sitting in a sort of half-gloom caused by the low light of the room’s lamps. Jekyll gave a brief thanks for that. His head and eye stung terribly, and a space at full brightness would have been a misery too many. He groaned and cradled his face. “Should I bother to ask how you’re feeling, doctor?”

“Like I ran my face into a girder, doctor.”

“Worse than that, I’m afraid. It ran into Jonathan.”

Like that, memory snapped into full focus. Jekyll groaned again.

“Oh, God. That all really happened, didn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it did,” Seward hummed, his gaze dropping to an open book in his lap. His left hand was obscured as he gently tapped some utensil along its pages. Jekyll couldn’t tell what the volume was in the low light, but he took it for one of the younger man’s sparsely used notebooks. The fellow was addicted to the ease and oration of the phonograph as a rule, he knew, and to break out a journal for the purpose of his notes suggested either a desire to let Jekyll sleep, or else not to let him overhear his thoughts. Seward's line of sight flicked back up. It was hard to tell as much except by the raising of his head, as the lamps caught on his spectacles in a way that obliterated his eyes with light.

“Where’s Harker? I need to apologize, I need to…oh. Oh, no.” Jekyll had been scanning the room without realizing it. Something of Hyde’s prickling senses had leached through to him, insisting another guest was present. Or should be. But it was only himself and Seward and no— “Where is Gabriel? Did he..?”

“Still in the building,” said Seward. His left hand danced along the same page. Over and over. “Talking with the Harkers. Thankfully, neither he nor Jonathan decided it wise to have this present during the chat.” From behind his volume, Seward brought up Jekyll’s own notebook, his thumb opening it to the latest page’s message. Shame and vertigo and deepest darkest self-loathing roiled in him at the sight of it. “How much of this was invention on Hyde’s part, Dr. Jekyll? Because if even a syllable of it was spun from your own fantasies…”

“No! Jack, God, no!” The cry strained on his cheek and he bit back another wince. Carefully, he went on, “No. He improvised that. While our more,” his throat almost closed as he tried to get it out, “perverse wants do swing towards the carnal, such have never skewed toward violation.”

“Just as they have never skewed toward homicide? Or want of homicide?”

“That was different. Carew was the spasm of violence from a bully restrained to the edge of madness.”

So he believed. And, he decided against mentioning, the very nearest he and Hyde had ever come to aching jointly for plotted versus kneejerk violence before the freak instant of Carew was a hunger to visit such on those who made sport of violation. A caveman’s take on righteous sadism, true, but if there was any ounce in Hyde he might mistake for virtue, it was that.

Aloud, he continued, “All he put down there was concocted just to goad Harker into—into what you saw.” Jekyll looked up from his lap, where he’d been hiding from Seward’s glare. “You did see him, didn’t you? The other Jonathan?”

“Yes. We all did. Just as we saw the thermometer.”

“And?”

“Unfortunately, no change in the reading. Despite every man in the room swearing by a feeling of sudden cold when Harker leapt at Hyde. Gooseflesh abounded. Freezing animal fear arose when he turned his lambent glare on anyone who tried to pry him from his attack. I will even grant that I felt dread like a tangible effect pressed into me. However, none of this was a great surprise. Certainly not when we have seen such before, both in action and in stillness.”  

Seward snapped his volume shut with a sharp clap. Jekyll noticed two things.

The first, that the volume was not a mere notebook, but a bound compilation of typed pages and newspaper print. Its front was stamped with the brand: DRACULA: Entries Concerning the Events of May 18—to November 18—.

The second, that Jack Seward was not holding a pen. It was his lancet. As with the glass lenses, the metal soaked up the ambient light until it seemed to glow in his hand.

“Which you already knew.”

“What?”

“Doctor. Van Helsing and the others may have granted you some snippets of the events that transpired in our past. The Harkers may even have given away some portion. But none of us, even with all our stunted mentions combined, would ever have divulged enough to inspire this particular bait. And so I checked the safe where this was kept,” his fingers drummed upon the volume, “the one of records both sentimental and historical. I imagine he was disappointed to find it so bare of more enticing contents. Nothing but glorified memorandum in that one. Hardly worth picking the lock, but for the joy of entertaining literature.”

“Seward—,”

“It was put back in its proper place, of course. No sign of disturbance. But for this.”

Jack Seward held the lancet at a new angle that flaunted its fine point. There was a tell-tale twinkling crust on one edge.

“Perhaps it was caught under your nails or stuck to a fingertip. Either way, there are only so many in this building who would bother handling this particular salt. Van Helsing and I have not opened the safe in months, and neither of us have combed through these pages since it was first tucked away. You might be able to convince me Griffin was the culprit…”

“Assuming I gave half a damn about prying into the other peoples’ penny dreadful backstories. Which I don’t.”

The voice of Griffin was there. Somewhere.

“Dr. Griffin..?”

But the invisible man did not speak again. Nor did he see fit to don the giveaway of a robe. Seward showed no reaction to this. Only scraped the lancet’s blade clean on his trousers before making the steel dance and flash in his fingers.

“We’re talking about you, Dr. Henry Jekyll. And company. Feel free to start explaining. Or, to save your jaw, I shall hazard a guess. You knew Jonathan Harker long before the vampiric nightmare came to call. Even at his most benevolent today, he is leagues apart from the young clerk you knew in those days. Curiosity gnawed. And via Hyde, that curiosity was allowed to bite. Enough to pick the lock, have a look, and replace the ledger before anyone knew he’d been there. A comparatively harmless vice, all things considered. Was that the rationale?”

“…Yes. Yes, it was. More, we—he—I—I-I don’t know—it seemed fair as it happened. All our hideous history had been poured out in a grovel while we were left in the dark about the people who now held the key to our survival. It was a petty act and it fed into a vulgar one tonight. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry stretches only so far, there, Henry.” Griffin’s voice. Somewhere. The right one moment, the left another. “It wouldn’t have stretched nearly far enough if Carew had died. It won’t stretch at all if you suffer another slip and Hyde, who is surely, truly not powered by your nature, decides to pitch another fit against whoever’s at hand. I doubt if he expected or even wanted to beat Harker’s head in. There’d be no chance of coaching from a dead man, after all. But hey. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he was going for another murderous tantrum.

“Just like maybe, just maybe, he would try the same on others here. Or out there. Why not, if he’s careful and quick about it? If he thinks he can get away with it the same way he knows he’d get away with Utterson.”

“What are you—?”

Seward leveled the lancet at him like a pointing finger.

“You might trust Gabriel to take an emergency shot at Hyde in a life-or-death situation, Dr. Jekyll. But from the start, there has been little question that Hyde, whether acting on your hindbrain or his own suspicion, doubts your friend could ever pull the trigger. He also gambled on the saving grace of good nature that is Harker’s default. The ‘true’ Harker, versus his apparent other half. Because Jonathan Harker is so very skilled at his dichotomy. His shifts. His extraordinary abilities that, try as I and Van Helsing might, we have never been able to explain. Man and monster. That is all Hyde can see as far as threats beyond the reach of law.”

“Terribly short-sighted of him,” Griffin hummed. Close. Too close. “As if anyone less obvious than the gallows or a solicitor with a sword were nothing to worry about. We are all heroic types here, after all. Nothing to fear from we bleeding hearts and misfits, right? Not if it risks a good man like you. Henry.”

“Which is a strange assumption,” Seward put in, playing with the lancet again, “considering all you two read. Or does Hyde think because Harker was prepared for damnation to protect his love, that his companions are any less willing to redden their hands? Because I did speak true, you know.” The lancet gleamed. “I do appreciate the term euthanasia. Most sincerely. As do my friends. And, though you may not believe me now, I am telling you this as a kindness.”

Jack Seward stood. The lamplight finally left the lenses to show a stare no less sharp than that of a raptor eyeing a snake approaching its nest.

“You are an old friend of my mentor. I respect you. I understand the pains of mind and soul you wrestled with to bring you to the point of the potion. But respect and fondness are vapor compared to the love I felt for Lucy Westenra, whose life I failed to save, but whose soul I was only too glad to see freed by true death. You, Dr. Jekyll? For all the amiability and care I’ve felt for you, do not let Hyde think for an instant that I would not free you both myself, in the swiftest clinical fashion. Nor would Van Helsing. Nor would Art or Quincey or Mina herself, who was more than prepared to fire a hole through anyone who touched her husband that sunset in the snow.

“If your passenger has labored under the delusion that he is protected by coddling hands and the shelter of your face, let him labor no more. For if Edward Hyde makes even a pantomime of any sordid attempt on anyone in the League—any innocent outside these walls—consequences will ensue. The level of mercy in it will depend entirely on who will get to you first. Because someone will. Even if you run.”

“Even if you’re alone,” Griffin whispered, so near his breath was in Jekyll’s hair. “Though in that case, it would be mere accident, of course. No way to tell otherwise.” When the voice spoke next, it was at a far table. Jekyll watched a bone saw float into the air and turn in the lamplight, as if inspected by a wondering ghost. “In short, the message is this: Fuck around, and you’re fucked. Period.” The bone saw pointed at Jekyll’s head. “Did he catch all that in there? Telegram received?”

Hyde had. He’d been catching it since Jekyll first saw the lancet. Fear had been bubbling ever since, and it had taken both their combined efforts to maintain their doctorial shape. How much was even left of the freshest batch of the potion? Five draughts? Four? Did it even matter anymore?

“Yes,” he finally got out. “Yes. He understands. We both do.”

We’re sorry. In all ways, neither Jekyll nor Hyde could bring themselves to say. We are a sorry, sorry Thing. If not for much longer.

Their final draught would be taken before the toilet’s mirror.

They had mixed it themselves in private. Stirred and squirreled it away as easily as anything. Not a grain of salt to be found within it. Plenty of unhealthy things, but not a bit of the salt or its fellow chemicals. The resulting mix nearly burned the nose to smell. Strong as it was, it would power through even Hyde’s sturdy makeup. That same sturdiness that had saved them dying with an even worse face behind when they made their exit. Distantly, both men wondered whose face it would be when they found him.

“It will hardly matter,” Hyde muttered to the glass. Yes, Hyde already. Even after guzzling the last dose a mere hour ago. They could swim in the potion and not make a difference. Too late, too late. Had it always been too late since that first drink? Would there have been a difference if they had halted two, three, even four changes in? “No, it does not matter,” Hyde echoed again. His eyes found the reflection staring back at him. Revolting. Repulsive. Repugnant. Forever after. “I ruined it, didn’t I? Pouncing on the boy like that. Turning the whole lot on us with a foul joke. I should have left it to you. You’d have talked him around.”

Assuming he would have any answers for us, Edward. Yes, Harker changes to do what he does. Perhaps there is some split buried in that snowy head. But it is not one like ours. Not even a cousin. We were fooling ourselves to think otherwise.

“Were we really? Or did I ruin it before we could get both our hopes up over a trick we could not imitate? Or abuse?”

…Maybe.

“Maybe, he says. You are the brains of both of us, Jekyll. Did I botch this because you wanted it? Because I did? Which?”

I cannot say. But I believe I would have botched it either way. Because I know—we both know—that we have tried all that might work otherwise. We have suffered through hypnotism, through different drinks and shots, through meditation and stressors. Nothing has changed. We tried, as Harker once told us to try, and we know there is no other ending but as this.

“No. Suppose not.” Hyde laid one gnarled hand upon the mirror. Strange, he thought, nigh in synch with Jekyll, the way their eyes seemed now. So old in the young face. Solemn, yes. But lacking the irksome weight that so often met them in the glass. “Is this you making a last-ditch attempt, doctor? Trying to turn me over to you? If you want to die all dignified and out of baggy clothes, there’s time to make a last batch.”

No. No, this is fine. Only it’s almost funny. We choose now to share our thoughts civilly rather than simply play conspirator or saboteur. Why is it men are like that when they know the end’s inevitable? What makes them so placid?

“Mr. Harker put it well enough. Despair has its calms. Why did you never mention our snooping to them, by the way? I never was clear on that.”

Embarrassment. Tact. Guilt. Why not you?

“Didn’t seem worth the bother. We do love a dirty secret. Loved them, anyway.” The draught rose to his lips. “Do you suppose I’ll fade away when this kicks in? Or will the Judge on the other side deem me man enough for Hell?”

If it is the latter, then I doubt we shall ever part ways, Mr. Hyde.

“That would figure, Dr. Jekyll.”

And with that, the drink was quaffed. A noxious taste and a worse effect chased it. Burning and foaming and choking he went, they went, bucking and jittering on the floor where he’d fallen. He and him and they spasmed hideously all together. It was not entirely how they’d expected the poison to take effect—in truth, it was almost as miserable as their first transformation—but it was taking effect. In three, two, one…

The door smashed open so hard the bolt tore out of the frame.

A moment later there were long fingers jamming down their throat and the whole acidic mess came rushing up from their belly in a gagging tide. Cold implacable hands turned them over so it could be retched out without drowning in it. They heard the voice of Jonathan Harker first bellowing for the resident doctors then, up by their ear, soft and urgent as he told them to breathe, breathe, breathe, hack up anything that comes up, breathe. It was a hard chore with everything still burning and dripping, sizzling even their gums, eyes and nose running in rivers as their current damned-blessed hardiness fought a far lower dose of poison.

Damn it, damn it, why had he stopped them? Was this not what he’d wanted? What all of them wanted? Even themselves? What was the boy even doing here?

“What are you doing here?” they demanded aloud. Oh, that was odd. The poison had clearly done some damage to their vocal cords. Their tone was garbled somehow. Weirdly echoed. But that was not all. Whatever work the toxins had done, it was enough to disorient the whole of them. The room looked out of perspective, somehow, and their limbs were wrong, they were—

Wait.

They looked down at themselves. Yes, their shirtfront was stained in poisonous swill and bile and the unfortunate-looking dregs of supper, but more importantly that shirt fit. As did the trousers. Henry Jekyll’s clothes fit. And yet, the hands were not the doctor’s. Were they? They were fine-boned and long, yet of that ruddy and hard-palmed texture that belonged to Edward Hyde. The sight boggled them.

…Why did they think of themselves as them?

Their head turned so slowly it creaked on their neck as they regarded Jonathan Harker with owlish wonder. Harker, in turn, seemed a touch surprised too. Shock had died for the young man ages ago, naturally, so surprise was as much as could be hoped for. Terribly unfitting for the occasion, they thought, but it served as good enough reason not to break into a blubbering heap of confusion.

“Look in the mirror,” Harker told them. “Do you need help?”

No, they did not. They took his hand anyway as they staggered up, feeling almost drunk as they found their footing. And their reflection.

They were still staring by the time the rest of their audience arrived.

“What happened?” That was Utterson. Still here. Still here. For them. “Where is he? What—,” He stopped short. Though they’d yet to turn their head, they imagined he was gawking with the rest. Harker still stood beside them, unblinking, but with some secret cooking behind his bonny lashes. “Who is this?”

“We aren’t sure, Utterson. Not at all.”

In the mirror, two young men were looking out of the glass. Jonathan Harker on one side. On the other, a youth who might have been Henry Jekyll’s own brother, had his parents ever produced one. Dark hair, smooth features, tanned skin, long bones. And eyes of two tones. One the pale iris of Dr. Jekyll’s. The other that queasy brightness of Mr. Hyde’s.

“Harker.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll not flatter you and say you know for certain what this is. But you look far too sure of yourself to not have a decent hypothesis. Out with it.”

“Nothing so scientific. Just a guess.”

“Which is?”

“Question for a question.” They looked at him. His eyes caught the light like the points of a lancet. Or the coins on dead men’s eyes. The effect sat bizarrely with so gentle a smile. “By any chance, were you two talking to yourselves before this?”

There may as well have been a theatre production for all the gawping packed into the League’s parlor. Weeks of practice with Harker had passed since the initial revelation and now every head in their menagerie, including a few of the honorary brigade, had found time in their schedule to squeeze into the room. Ostensibly so everyone was aware of the change and nobody was stuck as last-to-know—Mrs. Harker and Mrs. Norton seemed utter sticklers on the point of banishing as many secrets as possible, alas—but it was obvious on too many faces that they’d have invented reasons to come watch the display.

It was perhaps a bit gratifying to see Mr. Harker finally perturbed enough to get some proper pink in his pallid face. If he were flustered long enough he might even pass for better than a comely corpse. They considered mentioning this aloud, but decided it would draw attention away from the show. Later, then. For now, let the young man squirm.

“It occurred to me not long after Hyde made his play with my, ah, condition. Mine is, as most have guessed, a transformation that’s left its stamp quite permanently. Physically, I am always able to do what I do.” To illustrate, he hooked a pinkie under the low table, a thing of exquisitely expensive craftsmanship and incredible weight to match. The pinkie tipped it up as if it were made of feathers. “It is either static or possibly developing at a slow rate. All the other solicitors I know who took the courses for this type of thing are all keeping tight-lipped about the particulars. Isn’t that right, Norton?”

Godfrey Norton shook his head beside a mildly bemused Utterson and a deeply unhappy Seward.

“You’ll not get trade secrets out of me that way, Harker. Nor will I share the hair dye recipe.”

“Damn.” The in-joke earned a laugh or ten before he moved on. “The gist being that I don’t have any grander traits to add or subtract when I throw myself at a fight. I always look like I do. But as most of you know and as Hyde very clearly picked up, I do undergo a sort of change. And I stand by the analogy of a butcher at work versus a butcher at home. The man is the same, but the ‘professional’ side of him takes over when it comes time to finish the task. It is always an active shift for him, just as it is for me. But neither is ever wholly just the butcher or just the man at home.”

“Just the monster or just the man,” they corrected from their spot on the divan. “No need to blush about it, Harker. Monsters can be better men than most men, and vice versa. Was that not the sermon we three settled on?”

“It was. And that point does stand. We’ve all had more than fair reasons to adjust our perspectives when it comes to matters of all-or-nothing identity and where the lines are regarding humanity versus monstrosity. In some cases, the lines aren’t there at all. No black, no white, just a gradient along a spectrum. But when it comes to cases like mine, Jekyll’s, and Hyde’s, the two furthest ends of that spectrum do have minds of their own. And while each can operate free of the other’s input, the result is never as good as collaboration. At least, not as I’ve experienced it.

“What started with my journal-keeping seems to have transferred, by natural or supernatural means, to a sort of internal dialogue. Less like simple A to B to C thought, and more of a…” he dug for a word.

“Chat,” they put in. “Jonathan the Solicitor talking things out with Harker the Reaper. ‘Yes, we could put up with this absolute ass of a client, or we could lop his head off. Hmm. No, no, too much trouble hiding the body. Save that energy for the side job.’” They bared their teeth in a grin any imp in Hell would be proud of. Well, no, too deep. Purgatory, perhaps? “Don’t say you haven’t thought it.”

“I won’t. Of course I have. Everyone has passing outlandish thoughts, no matter how fine they are in their day-to-day lives. Your problem used to be the fact that all those passing thoughts and wants and intrusive what-ifs from Jekyll’s mind kept funneling over to Hyde. Then, when Hyde became more of himself than just a shadow of Jekyll, extra complication was added. Impulse developed into intellect and intellect became a whole person. One who grated even against himself as he suffered the reverse of Jekyll’s predicament. No longer just pure impulse, he started growing a hierarchy of needs versus wants—the same mental checks, balances, and restraints that everyone else must develop as they grow up. And that put the two men to war as much as any vicious spasm; at a guess, the attack on Carew was a side effect of that same growth. Hyde kicking and screaming against himself as much as any mere outburst against Jekyll.”

At that, they could not help a nod. It was true in retrospect as much as the scene itself. Yes, Hyde had done it to rage at Jekyll after an overlong imprisonment. But they could not lie to themselves and pretend there was not something of panic in it too. An awareness they’d not even had words for yet, but the announcement of those hyper-conscious senses that declared to Hyde that his carefree insidious nature was steadily corroding under new impulses. Impulses that weren’t impulses but—ugh—thoughts. Emotions. Considerations. Concerns. Needs. Responsibilities. Uuugghh.

Poor Carew had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was made a punching bag for it. Look! Look! I am a monster! I am a horror! I am raw and unchecked! See? See?

They blanched at the memory. Shame for one, childhood embarrassment for the other.

“All this,” Harker went on, “combined with the problem of the potion losing its strength brought the whole mess to a boil. It couldn’t have been doing wonders for their focus, let alone anything like collaboration between the two sides.”

“Especially when both sides were still half-convinced one wasn’t even a person.” They swallowed around a lump. “Not even enough to be a monster.”

Jonathan nodded at them.

“Exactly. Not while you were both in an increasing state of stress. When I make my change going up against an opponent, I am stressed—but not the Jonathan Harker swinging the blade or crawling the walls. He is focused because we are focused. Same for the reverse. I talk to myself and I am better for it, just as speaking to a journal once kept me steady. The same, I thought, should be tried with Jekyll and Hyde. I was discussing as much with Mina and Gabriel when…”

Here the roses flared back in his cheeks. Awkward as a foal.

“When your psychopomp senses started ringing?”

“I felt something was wrong," Harker allowed. "Something was—was ending or in emergency. I can’t define it, except to say I guessed where you were and that you were in danger.”

“What uncanny guesses you make, Mr. Harker. If only it could be put to the lottery. Up you came to the rescue, and one undignified bout of sickness on the tiles later, there we were. I was. Whatever.” They spread their hands in the manner that said ta-da. “Because you had another right guess. Jekyll and Hyde had been talking to each other. There was a…”

Most edifying discussion about how very near we were to being slaughtered like a two-headed calf by the doctors on call if Hyde did a big enough no-no.

They thought it. Thought it loudly as their gazes drifted to Dr. Seward and Dr. Griffin. Then thought it was at least some kind of secret out of this whole thing.

“…moment of epiphany, let’s say. End of the rope and end of all hope. The potion was turning pointless and it seemed to the conjoined wretches that Mr. Harker had washed his hands of them. You know, with the exception of the hand used to knock said epiphany rattling about their head. Jekyll and Hyde found themselves with a truce born of their mutual desire to cut ahead and be done with themselves for good. In that united decision of death, there was calm. Followed by, for the first time, genuine dialogue between the two. It carried on all the way to the mirror and the draught. And as the killing shock took over, something else was dislodged in their makeup, already loosened by the two men’s heart-to-heart. Once Harker had finished burping us until the poison was out, we had already happened.”

“You being..?”

“Edward, for the most part. Perhaps even an Eddie. Just as we—,” there was a sudden melting contortion of the man on the divan. A shrinking. When it ended, a dwarf sat there. One in late middle age, with the heterochromia of the eyes having switched places in the eyes. His smile was a kind curl and laughter sat benignly in his crow’s feet. “—are mostly Henry. Or maybe a Hank. And the audience will notice one unmissable factor in both ourselves and in Eddie.” Again they spread their hands; smaller digits, but now wan with pale indoor hours bent over notes and test tubes. “Namely, that there is nothing amiss about either of us. Not in the extrasensory way, at least. No radiation of repugnance nor sugared goodwill. Hyde in his solitude could not help his unpleasant miasma. Like so.” There was another shifting spasm.

Then young and stout Edward Hyde leered out at them.

“Here I am, in all my glory, making you all turn appropriately pucker-faced. Though notably less so than I have been accustomed to before. Could be due to exposure lessening the impact. Or, if Harker’s own otherworldly feelers are correct, I am giving off less of the old souring effect. My former unfettered moral deformity, as the poets in the crowd put it, has been tempered by mental and spiritual growth.” His gaze met Harker’s. “The homunculus fully formed, so to speak. And, in the opposing direction…”

A last spasm and shudder and stretch and then—

Henry Jekyll sat there. Smiling and very near to weeping.

“…here is the alchemist, in one piece. Or four, doing their best to hold the arrangement. Which was the crux of the issue all along. Arrangement. Agreement. The working theory is that the potion kicked an irreversible condition into motion from the first draught. Even if I had never had a second or third or so on, my duality as Jekyll and Hyde was already inevitable. The routine drinks just prodded the change along faster, like shoving a stone downhill when it was already rolling. But the anxiety of that latter period where Hyde started to overshadow me and Hyde’s own changes started to overshadow him reached their horrid crescendo and it all turned into pure hysteria on both our parts. We hated. We warred. We had to coexist or not at all.

“Bickering and clawing at each other when the solution was right there. Hyde’s womb was my own soul, my mind. Even as his own person, this was unalterable. And so the affliction worsened as the conflict in a mind will spoil everything in one's life. Indecision and panic and loathing that couldn’t decide if it was more for the self or the other kept us unable to help ourselves until it was too late. And it would have stayed too late if you hadn’t broken the door down, Harker. Thank you. For that and so much more.”

Harker grinned at him.

Badly.

Coldly.

“Like not killing you?”

Between one blink and the next, Harker was over the table with his heel planted against Jekyll’s chest. The kukri was already out and swinging in a brilliant silver-white flash toward the doctor’s neck. There was not even time for the gathered League to gasp.

Not until the steel stopped a bare centimeter short of grazing the man’s sweat-glazed Adam’s apple. Specifically, the Adam’s apple belonging to the still-present, and thoroughly bug-eyed, Henry Jekyll.

“Scared?” Harker asked.

“A bit,” Jekyll croaked.

“And yet still here.”

“Right. Yes.” He gulped. Carefully.

“Then that's the last test passed. Congratulations, doctor.” Harker promptly took his blade and his foot back with a sprightly gesture. He pricked his thumb purposefully upon the steel’s edge to feed it, then sheathed it with care. Smiling all the while. It was not a cold thing, but the joy in it was no less insidious. Jekyll rubbed his throat thoughtfully. 

“I thought you were joking about this part.”

“Yes. And it was just a joke.” Harker beamed at him.

Jekyll swallowed again as he thought on that miserable conversation with Mina Harker who, to his mingled surprise, relief, and mortification, had been far less incensed than her husband about the ‘joke’ of the goading note. Disappointed, yes, but not incensed. In her words, if she and Mr. Harker took every degenerate come-on with any degree of seriousness in their strange work, they wouldn’t get any work done for all the indignation they would have to slog through. She had been more concerned for her beloved who really didn’t have to go throttling and/or beheading every person to voice a crass word in her direction. Though it was sweet. Harker had countered that she should be just as prudent about not turning every other succubus-adjacent bogeywoman into so much Swiss cheese when they came scrambling after him. Though he was glad to have her in his corner…

And on and on and sickeningly, disturbingly on. The whole exchange had left Jekyll, Hyde, and everyone in-between considerably unsettled.

Back in the present, the makeshift theatre was breaking up with laughs here, celebration there, chatter everywhere. He and Harker both had found no escape from Van Helsing’s latest monologue on the subject, despite having gone through no less than eight already during their interim of practice. The one solace to the Hyde within him was that the Professor took more than a fair share of time to crow excitedly to a stone-faced Seward about all the leaps of psychological puzzle-solving Harker had rushed through at a sprint while red-faced Harker tried to will himself into Griffin’s level of invisibility. Silver linings and all that.

Utterson was, of course, the last one in the room by the time clusters of the League had drifted off into other spaces and personal talk.

Jekyll joined him for an hour. Two. Three. Four. The things that may or may not have been shared between them are private matters. As are any tears that may or may not have been shed, likewise the identities of those shedding them. Towards the end of the night, before the hansom took each to his home—and no, not a word will be said about who within the person of Henry Jekyll wept most at the prospect of a full and uninterrupted return to that place and its faces—they shared a final chat.

“…And you are certain you’ve not seen any more revenants skulking on these streets? Ghouls? Werewolves? A few ghosts on parade?”

“None that I’ve seen, Henry.” Utterson turned to him, the placid gaze still seeming addicted to the sight of Jekyll’s face. “Do you prefer Henry now? I do not know how long it will take to be used to ‘Hank.’ It sounds weirdly American.”

“Mr. Morris thought the same. But not to worry. ‘Hank’ belongs to my compacted self. Hyde is still ‘Edward’ at his ordinary state. And the churlish youth with the patter of brat is dear Eddie. At least, so we have ordered things in here.” Jekyll tapped his brow. “Though I doubt that’s the question that’s gnawing at you now that we’re away from prying ears.”

Before Utterson could admit as much, Jekyll shifted to Eddie.

“You’re worried this mental camaraderie among imaginary friends and fiends is only temporary.”

Eddie to Edward.

“Or that it’s a form of madness like those poor souls in the asylums.”

Edward to Hank.

“Or that it’s all some long game to somehow make another try at juggling last wills and testaments and a fresh uninhibited runaround of various merry sins.”

Hank to Jekyll.

“Which would all be fair suspicions to hold. I would be glad if you held on to them, just as the League surely does. Even if circumstances have changed with regard to Hyde’s side and my own residual unscrupulous cravings. I will not lie and say I do not wish to have unsaintly periods. I do. But with Hyde’s own alteration, there has been a change in equilibrium. As if all the best and worst of my natures have been spread out and intermingled to make an existence less strangled by ‘black and white.’ Striving for the pristine life nearly broke me, just as striving for the most sordid life broke Hyde. We were both of us performers trying to meet and overdo our roles.”

“And what does that make you now, my friend?” Utterson wondered aloud. There was no tremor in it, though there might have been some in his eyes. “How can I know who I speak to anymore?”

“By action, Gabriel. Faces can lie as well as words. But action—the actions all the selves that make me intend to take going forward—will prove me. Because this whole grotesquerie really does come back to my mishandling my wants. By painting everything from the rudest urge to the dullest bit of self-gratification as equal sins, I repressed myself to the point of actual madness. What sane man would have chased and drunk that damned elixir at the risk of death otherwise? For a man to be perfectly angelic is an impossibility, just as pure evil is, without driving one insane. Having more than learned the lesson there, my wants have changed.

“Rather, they have multiplied. All of them tinted with more satisfactory purpose than the mere scratching of an itch. I am more good than I am evil by nature as much as practice, Gabriel. This I can say without hyperbole or vanity. Yet evil is in here as well; rather, cruelty. And it needs its expression too.” Jekyll smiled. It was not quite his own—a jointly crafted grin. “Much good can be done by hallowed means. But if even a fraction of the tales I have overheard as well as spied while making my clockwork visits to the League are but the tip of a larger threat, it suggests we live on the edge of a world ready to be cannibalized by bastards of human and supernatural ilk. The kind of undiluted evil that cannot be parried by goodwill and charity. For that, the world needs its own monsters standing guard, taking point, lopping heads. Metaphorically or otherwise.”

“Forgive my saying so,” Utterson cut in, “but neither you nor any of yourselves have much in the way of practical fighting skill. If you mean to start throwing yourself into the fray with Harker…”

“No, nothing like that. Being hale is no match for that particular polymath of the paranormal. The boy’s juggling Hawkins’ office, detective work, and monster management on scarcely a blink of sleep while the best I could manage was balancing two lives. Yet I do have an advantage my fellow extraordinary oddities lack.”

“That being..?”

“Is it not obvious? They are all steadfast heroes, regardless of their amount of humanity. You can practically feel it wafting off of them. But me?” Jekyll shifted to Eddie. Mismatched eyes twinkled. “I can more than pass muster as a villain, all too ready to mingle with and menace my compatriots in the worsening of humankind with chemical-to-alchemical knowhow. I could never be mistaken for one of the League.” The mismatched eyes blinked. Heterochromia faded to Hyde’s gaze alone as a ghost of the rotten aura thrummed out of the young man. “Not if we put our minds to it. Not until it’s too late for the bastards to undo my mess.”

“…That is quite a leap to make, Eddie. All of you. Are you so sure of yourselves?”

Eddie shrugged.

“It is what we want to do. That’s more important than ‘sure.’ Though there is one last thread lingering which I’m surprised you’ve yet to ask us about.” Again, the smile was wrong for the face. This one was too much Jekyll’s in its mirth. Heterochromia returned in a flicker.

“What is that?”

“You’ve not even inquired about my new last name. ‘Edward Hyde’ is still quite dangerous to be in these parts, you know.”

“Very well. What is your surname?”

Eddie beamed. Beamed and thought of other goodies found lurking in that safe of memories. Not all of them belonging to the vampire hunters. Not all of them about violations of the blood and body.

Not all of them yet addressed.

Some months later, a Lord Henry Wotton found himself facing an occasion he had thought impossible. He was at a loss for words. Namely because all his words appeared to be getting dutifully recorded. Some young cad in black with unequal eyes had taken to trailing him throughout the party with a notebook in hand. The initials on the spine were stamped E.H.

No matter where Wotton drifted, no matter who he spoke to or when, the fellow followed. Always with an unmissable air of one trying to stifle a laugh whenever Wotton opened his mouth. It was curious, even amusing for the first quarter of an hour. By the full hour mark it had grown tedious. By hour two it was bordering on the unbearable, if only because so many of the eyes present had ceased to mind him when he spoke, but turned inevitably towards the young man in black.

Scratch, scratch, scratch went the pen. Flip, flip, flip, went the pages. Ha, ha, ha went the unaired cackle hiding in the odd eyes. Distinctly at rather than with a single witticism. Finally...

“Very well, my dear shadow. I must bite. What is it you are up to? Penning a biography of the party or just myself?”

“Nothing so grand, my lord. I had come here merely to refresh my memory of the best way to deliver the verbal equivalent of gold-plated horse droppings. Thank goodness, you are precisely as vapid as I remember. Excellent material.”

So saying, his pen poised again.

“I do pride myself on proper presentation of vapidity,” Wotton hummed. “Though I must have slackened since last we met, as I usually aspire to the verbal equivalent of—,”

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Ha! There it is!”

The young man turned the notebook around so that Wotton and all their audience could read the notes. Apparently, he had invented a sort of tally mark game. There were bullets titled:

HYPOCRISY (FREE SPACE)

DISAGREE TO SEEM SMART

DISAGREE TO SEEM ALOOF WHEN CALLED OUT

AGREE TO SEEM ALOOF (ADD HYPERBOLE = BONUS)

RANDOM FRENCH

INSULT WOMEN (UGLY)

INSULT WOMEN (PRETTY)

INSULT (X) RACE

INSULT (X) COUNTRY

APPLAUD APPEARANCE OVER SUBSTANCE

APPLAUD APPEARANCE OVER SUBSTANCE (WAX POETIC MONOLOGUE = BONUS)

ACTIVELY GIVE BAD ADVICE IN HOPES OF ENTERTAINING DISASTER (SEE: SIBYL VANE, BASIL HALLWARD, DORIAN GRAY)

Each title was cluttered with tally marks. ‘Agree to Seem Aloof’ now had the most at ten dashes.

“You see, once it became clear that your script hadn’t changed a jot in years, there was no reason to take notes. You’re predictable to the point of being mechanical and I need only fill in the blanks for my role. So, to pass the time, I made a little sport. And now look! I’ve hit a ten and owe myself a treat. Oh, now don’t make that face. We both know your sheep love your enabling nattering enough to stay and hover around simpering for your approval rather than go asking silly questions about who has how much culpability in this or that death. Which certainly no one knows about, of course. No one who matters.” The young man’s teeth bared in a sickle. Around him, the air curdled. “Probably. Anyway!”

So saying, the young man clapped the notebook shut so loudly it sent people jumping and others’ heads turning.

“That’s me done for the evening. My thanks again for your wise tutoring. Most invaluable.”

“I don’t believe I heard your name, my friend. I should quite like to address you in the future.”

“Me, Wotton? I am nobody important. Which I suppose does not narrow it down very much. No one is important to you but you. You would walk on your own wife’s face to spare mud on your bootheel. So, a name.”

He made a mock bow and the mismatched eyes almost seemed to blaze. For one surreal moment, Wotton swore he saw the pale eye brighten to the same unhealthy sheen as its twin. The air did not merely curdle as this happened. It nauseated. It grew filthy. It grew poisoned. It grew with the young man’s grin. When the grin split a final time to speak, the voice was wrong. Almost as if it were two timbres in unison, speaking low.

“Eddie Harker, my lord. I do hope we shall see more of each other. Hopefully before consequences have a chance to happen. Between the corpses and the cuckolds piling up in your wake, there’s no telling who will get to you first. Best of luck either way. Good-night.”

With the sound of distinctly less-than-enraptured clamoring at their back, they slipped out of the revelry and melted into the night, pulling down their hat and gripping a newer, sturdier walking stick in one glove. One that would not break in two should the need arise to break something else. Alas, much as they would enjoy seeing the little lord’s teeth scatter and his silver tongue scorched, all of themselves had sadly sworn off any repeats of Carew. There were better things to inflict. The kind of pains that the right kind of patter would never fix. A little hobby to round out the espionage. But that would come later. Not tonight.

Tonight, the sky was clear, the streets were calm, and from a single throat came the sound of a laughing choir. Content to be together.

-FIN-

-?-

[lost-between-letters]

Jealousy Jealousy

Pairing: Jonathan Byers X Reader (she/her)

Requested by: anon

Warnings: fighting, jealousy, some insecurities, eventual fluff

Word Count: 1,222

Summary: a call from Nancy brings out some problems

One of Jonathan's mixtapes was playing in the background while they were sitting in the living room and doing their homework in peace. Y/N was sitting on the sofa, her leg leaned against Jonathan's side, his left hand resting on her knee.

"Hey, can you tell me what you wrote on 6a? I've got-"

The phone ringing in the kitchen interrupted Y/N.

With a sigh, Jonathan got up, took the call and listened to the person on the other side with furrowed eyebrows. "Huh? Yeah, of course. I'll be there, see you Nancy."

And without explaining anything, he grabbed the keys from the counter and made for the door.

Y/N cleared her throat. "Jonathan?"

"Yes?" He turned around, eyes flitting back and fourth between outside and her face.

What the hell?

"Where are you going?" She asked, voice strained to not show the annoyance that was cooking inside of her.

She couldn't help it. Nancy was a nice person; Y/N would even call her a friend from time to time but this was getting ridiculous. Jonathan couldn't just get up and ditch her for Nancy.

"To the Wheelers?"

And why was there exasperation in his voice?

Y/N took a deep breath and pasted on her most genuine smile. It felt like a grimace. "Mind explaining why?"

"Since when are you such a jealous person?" Jonathan aimed for joking but the sharp edge made her flinch.

Despite the steel in the words, Y/N refused to shrink away and stood her ground. "What's that supposed to mean? All I did was ask where you're going after taking a phone call from Nancy!"

"And that's not being jealous how?" He crossed his arms and glared.

The whole conversation was infuriating. Why couldn't Jonathan see how he was hurting her with his behaviour? Hell, even now he was across the room and not next to her on the sofa. Like they had been before Nancy had called.

Y/N threw her hands in the air. "I'm sorry if you're thinking that I'm being jealous when you're jumping at every cough from Nancy while I'm right here. Do you even see how much that hurts? Always being your second choice? I'm your girlfriend if you haven't noticed!"

Then, Jonathan's voice became acidly. His face set into a stony mask of his usual half smile. "She called because Will cut his leg while they were outside and needs to be picked up. You're not my second choice but if you can't see that, you need to leave. Now."

The door fell shut behind him before Y/N could come up with a reply.

Shit.

That evening, Y/N stood on the Byers' porch and contemplated knocking. Was that a wise choice or should she wait a day or two until they had both cooled down?

She had done as Jonathan had asked her to. Packed her things and left before him and Will came home.

And now she was back, a box of chocolate and two of his favourite flannels (that she had ... borrowed) tucked under her arm as peace offering.

Y/N took a deep breath and knocked.

"Oh hello! I thought you were already here, Dear," Mrs Byers opened the door with a confused smile but ushered her in nonetheless.

There was an awkward moment of silence were Y/N attempted to come up with a reasonable explanation. But then, Will's head poked around the corner, saw her standing there and waved. "Hi Y/N! Wait, Jonathan is in his room, I'm gonna get him."

"No, that's alri-"

"JONATHAN! Y/N IS HERE." Both Mrs Byers and Y/N flinched at the sudden shout. Who knew that this boy's lungs were this huge.

Loud silence followed.

Mrs Byers cleared her throat. "Just go, Sweetheart. He's been in a bad mood since he got home, 's got nothin' to do with you."

Oh, if she knew. With a guilty shrug, Y/N walked past them and knocked on Jonathan's door.

"No."

"Jonathan, please," Y/N leaned her head against the door, "I'm sorry. I was angry and insecure and took it out on you. You're an amazing boyfriend and caring brother and too good for me. I know that I'm not your second choice and you're not mine either. I would choose you over any other guy in a heartbeat. Sorry that I lashed out."

Another hostile round of silence. Then, a deep sigh. Shuffling footsteps.

The door opened unexpectedly and Y/N nearly toppled over. Jonathan caught her by the wrist but kept the distance between them.

She could tell that he was still angry. His shoulders were tensed up in a way that she had last seen the day kids had drawn insults all over Will's locker. But his face wasn't as set in a frown as it had been this afternoon. There was hope.

So Y/N extended the box of chocolate. "Do you take my token of affection?"

Jonathan eyed it for a moment, noticed the shirts she was still holding onto and plucked one ball of chocolate from its packaging and into his mouth. Then, he snatched the flannels and took a step to the side.

Y/N smiled shakily and walked into the room.

"I'm still mad at you," Jonathan stated and sat back down on his bed where he had been lying previously with a book in hand.

"I know," Y/N said and took a hesitant step closer, "but could you forgive me?"

Jonathan shrugged and took another bite. "Already did. I can kinda see where you're coming from. Doesn't mean I like you shouting at me. Or questioning my feelings for you."

"I know," she repeated guiltily. What was there else to say? Y/N knew logically that she wasn't entirely wrong either but she definitely had overstepped a little. It wasn't like Jonathan actually jumped at every of Nancy's calls, he was just being protective. Like he was with Will. Like he was with her. But with her it was still a bit different. Jonathan wouldn't let Nancy hide in his room whenever a shouting match grew too loud. He wouldn't hold her through nightmares and kiss her until she forgot everything else either.

That was one of the reasons why Y/N had fallen in love with him in the first place. He was caring and always there for the people he loved. Unapologetically and with his whole heart despite his status as the weirdo (one Y/N despised whenever someone used it as insult against her boyfriend). But knowing about his old feelings for Nancy and seeing him still care for her was hard sometimes.

Jonathan huffed once and waved for her. "C'mere. I can't stand seeing you upset."

"But you're mad at me." The words slipped past before she could stop them. Why was she sabotaging herself again?

"And I still love you," he said and made room for her, "come over."

Y/N didn't need to be asked again. She kicked off her shoes and crawled up the mattress until she was leaning against the headboard.

"I don't want to fight with you," she told her knees.

Out of the corner of her eye, Y/N saw Jonathan reach over and felt him tangle their fingers together. "Me neither. Let's forget this, alright?"

"Alright."

With a hopeful smile on her lips, Y/N allowed herself to be tugged into his side.

Jonathan Taglist: @gwendolynmary @black-ink-stars

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[howl-fantasies]

GOTHAM MASTERLIST

Last update: 30/10/2022  // Requests open (I can write in English or French)

Welcome dear.

I just finished Gotham (again) and my brain's wheels were turning happily while I imagined another character in the game: the reader.

You're not really on the good side but you're not 100% bad either. Which leads to funny mini scenarios where you're a friend, a psychiatrist, a lover, a frenemy, ecc. Most of them are in texts form, but some are written normally.

I have a huge unhealthy crush on Gotham Fox version of Victor Zsasz. Anthony Carrigan is an amazing actor and I love his performance!

Also, English is not my first language so I deeply apologize for the mistakes. I am no writer, just a poor woman having her fun with some nonsense on this platform.

Masterlist

HEADCANONS

Gotham villain in love

Cooking with Gotham villains

Gotham villains in a haunted house

Gotham villains when you’re at the hospital

Gotham villains + Jim reacting to reader speaking in French 

Victor + Gotham villains + Y/N what do they think about dancing? 

Gotham villains walking on their S/O when they’re on their “off” mode - NEW -

Gotham villains having met the reader when they were sane - NEW -

REQUESTS 

Gotham villains having met the reader when they were sane - NEW -

Skyfall (Y/N was shot and makes a last request to Victor) - NEW -

Gotham villains walking on their S/O when they’re on their “off” mode - NEW -

Oswald and Y/N bonding (platonic) - NEW -

Y/N on her period and having mood swings (Victor Zsasz x reader) - NEW-

Gotham characters realizing they were total douche with Y/N - NEW -

Y/N hacking Gotham characters’ phones - NEW - 

Dôles de Dames part 3 (French) 

Y/N reaction after Oswald almost beheaded Victor 

Very special talent Oswald x reader (romantic) 

What does Y/N think about Victor’s sense of fashion 

Y/N thinking she’s pregnant and imagining how Victor would react

Gotham villains when their S/O wants to surprise them

Bloodbath Zsasz x reader

Riddler & Scarecrow S/O being friend/flirting with Ivy and Harley

Damsel in distress Oswald Cobblepot x reader (platonic)

Gotham villain and Jim finding out the cute side of the reader

Being surprised in the middle of... you know... but Victor doesn’t stop Zsasz x reader

Gotham Villain when you’re kidnapped

Drôles de dames part 2 (French) @immortal-velociraptor​

Drôles de dames part 1 (French) @immortal-velociraptor​ story

Second thoughts Zsasz x reader, linked to @immortal-velociraptor story

Gotham villains seeing their S/O being catcalled

Understanding Zsasz x reader having a panic attack

Turning point Jim, Ed, Oswald, Zsasz x reader

Politeness Alfred x reader x Bruce (platonic)

Nightmares Jonathan x reader (romantic)

Jealous Gotham villains (headcanons)

Victor being caught and send to Arkham Zsasz x reader

Kiss against a wall Jim x reader

VICTOR ZSASZ X READER

GOTHAM ASSASSINS P1

GOTHAM ASSASSINS P2

GOTHAM ASSASSINS P3

GOTHAM ASSASSINS P4

GOTHAM ASSASSINS P5

GOTHAM ASSASSINS P6

Summary: long posts. While Jim Gordon takes his marks in Gotham as a cop, nothing prepared him for his first meeting with Y/N. Famous assassin, sass machine and one hell of a fighter, the GCPD's rookie will quickly learn that catching the woman means getting an angry other assassin directly on his tail. The mini-series will globally follow the main plot.

Never gonna give you up.

Summary: Victor is torturing thugs by order of Oswald when someone is interrupting him.

In the phone book

Summary: Zsasz is at GCPD. Harvey and Jim try to understand why he wanted to shot them, without success. Oswald suddenly came in and think he had discovered Victor's weakness.

The contract

Summary: Victor has a contract on his head placed by Y/N and wants to know why.

Unforgivable

Summary: Victor is texting the reader and is awfully sweet. So much, that it sounds suspicious.

The score

Summary: The reader is at GCPD. Harvey and Jim need her help to talk to Zsasz and even find a plan. But it doesn't sound that good for the reader.

Night Fever

Summary: reader asks if Victor is free tonight for some fun in a... Gotham's way but is still a bit salty about their last conversation on Riddler's phone.

Ba(l)d emergency

Summary: Barbara is texting reader and ask for her help to stop Victor who's ready to blow her shop.

Valeskape

Summary: reader is missing. Harvey and Jim try to convince a very pissed Victor to help them to find her.

Hit me with your best shot

Summary: Victor is asking how the reader is feeling after she was injured. He may be the cause of her suffering.

Is that Pepperoni?

Summary: who said assassins can't take a break once in a while? Victor and the reader are ready for a pizza, milkshakes and old movies.

Pax Penguina

Summary: Victor informs the reader they'll need a licence of misconduct from now on. He didn't really anticipated nor appreciated how reader answered him.

Lethal Goofball

One of Victor's Zsaszettes send a series of video showing Zsasz acting like a goofy boy every time he sees something related to the reader.

Poisoned

Summary: Zsasz is under Ivy's phenomenon and Jim is asking for reader's help.

Be my Valentine

Summary: what does Valentine's day look like when you're dating an assassin?

Nightmares

Summary: reader was gased by Scarecrow and is texting Victor from Lee's clinic. They'll need Victor's basement soon.

The "Fun way"

Summary: Victor needs to use reader's new freezer. But there is one problem.

Unfriend

Summary: Victor needs to leave Gotham to see his Bubbe and gives reader's number to Wendell. Worst idea ever.

Bubbe

Summary: Victor's bubbe wants to know if the reader saw the rabbi and if it went well.

Stalker

Summary: when Penguin asked Zsasz to go spy on Scarecrow, the hitman didn't anticipated what he would find in his flat.

Trick question

Summary: what happens when an infamous assassins duo is in one of the GCPD interrogation room? Nothing good, definitely.

Babysitting

Summary: what happens when Y/N find little Martin in her flat and the boy tells her Victor brought him in? Nothing good. Definitely.

Domesticity

Summary: (long post) full fluff. Zsasz and Y/N are spending a peaceful movie night. A good opportunity to have a glimpse of Victor chaotic psyche and his thoughts about Y/N.

Alone

Summary: Jeremiah blows up all the bridges in the city. In the middle of the absolute chaos, Zsasz and Y/N are trying to find solutions.

Boy time

Summary: Wendell is trying to convince Victor to join him at Iceberg Lounge in order to find some nice women. He seems to have found one, but there is a little problem with her.

Put a ring on it

Summary: when Y/N is seen in town with a ring around her finger, everybody is freaking out. Except for Victor.

Unexpected

Summary: Zsasz went berserk that night against the GCPD. Y/N saw him and isn't very happy with his recklessness.

Wonder Viking

Summary: Ed has Y/N's phone and Victor wants to know what. Problem? The answer seems unbelievable.

Bloody murder

Summary: when Y/N is not answering her phone, Victor knew something happened. He didn't anticipated the whole villains to be responsible for her silence.

Ex

Summary: (long post) what happens when Y/N and her ex meet again? More importantly, what would Victor do when seeing the other man trying to flirt with her?

Dispute

Summary: having a couple dispute when you're an infamous assassins duo can be dangerous. Especially when the arguing is done with flying bullets.

Men on a mission

Summary: (long post) Falcone sends Zsasz and Y/N after the owner of the new bar in town, the Golden Tiger. The occasion for the couple to reaffirm the Italian Godfather's authority in Gotham and maybe have some kind of twisted fun.

Sir Stalker

Summary: Y/N found a strange box in her drawer and open it. She now understands how Pandora felt.

Vacations

Summary: Jim suspects Y/N to be responsible of a murder. Problem she's not in town nor is Victor, and she can prove it.

Idiotic duet 

Summary: (Long post) Ever wondered how Y/N and Zsasz became an idiotic duet?

Shot

Summary: (Long post) Y/N was shot when she was on a job after one of Oswald’s tantrums. Victor is taking care of her. Fluff. Full fluff. And a bit of blood to, it’s Gotham after all...

Conjugal bliss

Summary: (Long post) Oswald decided to find a better match for Victor than Y/N. No reason things go south. Right?

PLATONIC JIM GORDON X READER

FRENEMIES p.1 (request)

Summary: (long post) Jim was infected by Tech virus and tries to fight it without losing his mind. He asked Y/N to help him and an even bigger favor.

FRENEMIES P.2 (request)

Summary: (long post) Second part of the FRENEMIES mini series. Jim is still fighting Tetch virus to try to find an antidote. But as shit hits the fan, he'll need Y/N help again.

The Godfather

Summary: Jim needs some information about Sofia Falcone. And everyone in Gotham know that if you want to know something, Y/N is the better person to ask.

The fellowship of the crime

Summary: Y/N send Jim misterious and philosophical messages. So much, that Jim is freaking out and even accused Victor to have brainwashed her.

The Sims

Summary: Y/N started to play the infamous life simulator game. Problem she's not playing with the traditional one. And Jim would quickly understand it.

Bad influence

Summary: Jim is trying to make Y/N realise that Zsasz isn't good for her sanity. Will she listen? Of course not.

A little affair (request)

Summary: (long post) Jim is chased by Maroni's men after he tried to stop a drug traffic when he crossed the path of Y/N and ask for her help. Problem? It worked maybe a little too well.

Assassination classroom 

Summary: Jim is targeted with Barnes by Gotham assassins. His only solution? asking for the help of the most terrifying one. 

PLATONIC OSWALD X READER

Give it back!

Summary: Ed's block of ice is missing. Oswald is sure Y/N is the culprit.

Ghost aren't real!

Summary: Oswald is terrified after seeing something looking like a ghost. He asks for Y/N help but didn't really like her answers.

PLATONIC OSWALD X READER X ZSASZ

Say that again

Summary: Oswald is being Oswald. Reader and Zsasz weren't exactly listening.

Shouldn't have asked

Oswald invited reader at his club to talk about Ed and seeks relationship advices. He soon regrets it.

Names

Summary: Oswald is trying to convince Y/N and Zsasz to do the "call your s/o by another name". Worst idea ever.

PLATONIC RIDDLER X READER

Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde

Summary: Ed needs his IQ back but Lee doesn't seem to want to help him. So he tries texting one of is best frenemy.

Oxytocin and endorphin

Summary: Ed needs some comfort after he saw that Lee is still in love with Jim.

PLATONIC RIDDLER X READER X ZSASZ

So you care?

Summary: Riddler wants to know reader's feelings for Zsasz. But his reasons aren't exactly genuine.

Stalking classes

Summary: Ed needs some help to defeat Oswald and ask Victor for his guidance. Maybe he wasn't ready for it though...

RIDDLER X READER X OSWALD (platonic)

Trap in a cage

Summary: remeber when Oswald and Riddler are trapped in their cages? Well, now Y/N is with them and helps Oswald to be a pain in Ed's ass.

COLLABS

VICTOR X Y/N - MAGGIE X JIM

Little Lamb or next fallen angel?

Summary: (long post) Since she came to Gotham, Maggie, a mischievous and cunning young woman, caught the attention of Y/N and Jim Gordon. Which of the dark or the white side will win Maggie's allegence?

Girl time

Summary: (long post) Maggie is having a shitty day and her relationship with Jim is still pretty bad. Fortunately or not, Y/N decided to visit her at her flower shop and tried to boost her mood. But comforting isn't easy, especially when you're a sadistic assassin who tends to like playing with people distress.

A collab with @immortal-velociraptor and her lovely OC Maggie 🤩😍

GOTHAM ON CRACK

Small texts between Y/N and the main cast of the series. Big insanity, little to no sense, a bit of humor.

Relationship goal Zsasz x reader - NEW -

Toss a coin to your killer Jim Gordon x reader - NEW -

The threat Oswald x reader - NEW -

Riddle me this ep.6516 Riddler x reader 

Best frenemy Oswald x reader

Trainning Selina x reader 

Good egg Victor Zsasz x reader 

Future Jim Gordon x reader

Education Bruce x reader 

Tell me something I don’t know Oswald x reader

Domesticity ep 5464321 Victor Zsasz x reader

2 simps and a sadist Jonathan x reader x Riddler

Don’t touch anything Oswald x reader x Zsasz 

Need a hand? Victor Zsasz x reader 

The bomb Harvey x reader x Zsasz

What time is it?! Riddler x reader

Tell me something I don't know Riddler x reader

Biggest fear Scarecrow x reader

Surprise Barbara x reader

Disconnected Barbara x reader

The dog Oswald x reader

Costume Jerome x reader

Game Harvey x reader x Oswald

What do you want Zsasz x reader

The scale Oswald x Zsasz

Bazooka Jim x reader

Grenade Oswald x Ed

The bill Barbara x reader

Priorities Jim x reader

That thing Zsasz x reader

Period Oswald x Zsasz

Scorned women Jim x reader

The ring Wendell x reader x Zsasz

White rabbit Tetch x reader

Halloween Ed x reader

Bon appétit Zsasz x reader

Hypothetically speaking Ed x reader

Matching tie Zsasz x reader x Jim

SUPRISE Scarecrow x reader

Something I don't know Oswald x reader

Something I don't know Jim x reader

A bit Strange Dr Strange x reader

Teletubbies Zsasz x reader x Jim

Something in common Barbara x reader

Fortune teller Bruce x reader

First degree Ed x reader

Warning shots Zsasz x reader

Frog in a blender Ed x reader

Pizza delivery OC x reader

Fanfiction Jim x reader x Zsasz

Shopping spree Zsasz x reader

Memes Ed x reader

Relationship goal Zsasz x reader

Do the math Barbara x reader

Spicy meeting Zsasz x reader

Weird dream Zsasz x reader

Here for Gilzean Jim x reader x Zsasz

No fighting Oswald, Zsasz, Butch, reader

Ultimate boss Oswald x reader x Zsasz

Self derision Zsasz x reader

Statue Owald x reader

Let me spoil you Zsasz x reader

Game of Memes Oswald x reader

The Godfather Sofia x reader x Carmine x Zsasz

I said no dogs Zsasz x reader

QED Riddler x reader

Gotham Memes

 Good old times Jim Gordon x reader

A pirate’s life for me Alfred x reader

Matchmaker Barbara x reader

MMORPGotham Jim Gordon x reader

Objection Jim Gordon x reader

Pax Penguina 

Phobias Zsasz x reader

That’s strange Riddler x reader

What is love Zsasz x reader

Gypsy witchcraft Jim x reader

Shopping trip Zsasz x reader

All play and no work Zsasz x reader

Who’s the doc? Jim Gordon x reader

What do you know about children Oswald x reader

Don’t bang the librarian Riddler x reader

Assassin’s crip Zsasz x reader

[campfire-octopus]

I have not read the book, but I've been a bit curious over what the Count wants out of all this. He is moving? to London? (or maybe England?)

His intentions toward Jonathan don't seem negative. (?)

It very much feels like he's trying - he went to the trouble of buying the house and arranging the lawyers, and he is very clearly /trying/ to make Jonathan happy and comfortable.

He made human food for our dear friend Jonathan. (Humans eat MULTIPLE TIMES every day, did you know?) Also, cooking is one of those chores that takes time— the Count can't rush through this like the beds or whatever, he has to wait for the bread to rise, and rise, and bake, and all the other dishes besides.

The Count keeps him safe. The wolves from the carriage ride, the sleep warning (We'll come back to this later). One could even argue that throwing the mirror is an attempt to protect him— the peasants are certainly not really /benefiting/ from knowing that the supernatural is real.

And the blood in that scene! The Count is clearly tempted, and looking back, even from our dear friend Jonathan's point of view, the Count doesn't seem like he was in control of his actions. But! He gets shocked by the crucifix, recoils, and then he /doesn't/ press the subject. He manages to snap himself out of it. He doesn't try a second time, or even seems tempted, he just wants Jonathan not to bleed again— keeping him safe by stopping Jonathan from putting himself in danger. This is echoed by his later warning about the rooms, so it shows a pattern.

That sleep warning— Jonathan straight up kinda ~ignores it~, but the Count comes rushing in to save Jonathan from his own folly.

The Count has some pre-existing relationship with the ladies, and yet when Jonathan *violated the rules the Count gave*, the Count intervenes and defends him.

He also, like, moves at human speed when Jonathan's watching, so he's clearly trying to set Jonathan at ease by being human-like, even if it seems like what he's managed is uncanny valley.