Chapter Text
When Jon goes, he wears a three-piece suit. It's tailored to him: black, sleek, with the faintest pop of something almost blue to act as company; faded tie, subtle handkerchief; a bow, sometimes, when they were feeling cheeky. Blue isn't really his color, Martin said, but that was fine. It was Martin's favorite, and really that was the point.
When Martin brings him to where he needs to go, Jon looks his best -- always. Freshly polished shoes; dark hair pulled back, with strands of silver (but not only silver), caught at the nape of his neck with a ribbon. Nails painted, shirt freshly pressed, all of him clean, sorted out, taken care of.
(He thinks of before, when Georgie would sometimes choose his outfits when they went out. A cool band shirt for a concert, nice jeans for dinner. Jon hadn't minded, or at least rolled over without much of a fight. He doesn't like to think about Georgie, though.
So he thinks about Martin instead, fixing the knot of his tie with Jon's hands. Jon feels the fabric twist under his fingers, the subtle nudging, pulling, twisting. He likes the way his hands linger, smoothing the tie down, down, until it rests on his stomach. Then one comes up again, and his lips touch the inside of his wrist.)
Today, Jon is at a tall, elegant building in the city. Many men with suits walk in, briefcases at the ready. Jon is taken in. No one gives him a second glance. He belongs here.
The elevator is nearly empty, with only two other men standing near the back. Jon does not look at them; he can’t; he wouldn’t care to anyway. His hand presses a button and Jon waits.
When the doors open, Jon steps out first and turns left. He walks down to the end of the hall. The carpet renders him silent. It’s an ugly orange and yellow thing, where the yellow twists like a snake into itself, weaving up and down the hallway, reminding Jon of things he’d rather forget. His gaze is drawn up to focus on a door. Room 109.
Jon knocks. He waits. Part of him begins to grow tense. This is always it -- the part where his body feels all at once too stiff and too unwieldy. Taught and ready to snap. Loose, about to slip. Jon takes a deep breath and attempts to move his hand into his hair. Instead, it drifts to the door. He knocks again. Three times, no longer than before, no more aggressively than before. Then the tips of his fingers very briefly touch the corner of his mouth. Just for a moment. Jon waits, and he is no longer tense.
The man who answers the door is unimportant, but Jon looks him in the eye and Knows all at once why he is here. Jon’s voice is calm and friendly in the least genuine way as he introduces himself as Mr. Blackwood, as he says he has a message, as he pulls the envelope from his suit pocket and holds it out to the man.
His name is not important, but Jon knows it all the same: Victor Cylus is written in elegant black script on the envelope, just below the stamp. Mr. Cylus recognizes the stamp. He goes pale. He doesn’t want to take the envelope, but Jon will not spare him. With a gentle twitch from the finger of his free hand, he helps Mr. Cylus along. Those large fingers are shaking when he grabs the paper, thick and heavy with his fate, sealed by black wax, stamped by an eye with odd lashes. Jon helps him accept the burden of it, makes sure it sticks to the whorls of his fingerprints. Then he says, simply, “Good luck with your next meeting, Mr. Cylus,” and turns to leave.
The man is furious, but it doesn’t matter; he can’t do anything. He is frozen by the knowledge of silk. He has been caught in a web not his own, for the first time in his life, and there is no way to stop what is coming. What balances atop those threads, teasing him with vibrations that promise only what he himself has bestowed. That’s reason enough, Jon muses spitefully, to be afraid.
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.
Martin brings him to a park next. Jon is a bit more conspicuous here, but no one seems to care overmuch. He watches couples weave their way along the well-worn trails while children defy the known, running through wild weeds and tall grass. Jon breathes more easily when he’s taken beyond that section of the park.
This one is easier. Jon gets the idea once he steps off the trail, into a thick clump of trees near the edge of the park. Spider corpses are strewn amongst the leaf litter. Even now, Jon holds little love for them, but things have changed (so many things have changed), and he hates the worms more.
They’re long, spongey, coiling things, bursting from the spiders’ abdomens, spilling into the dirt and mud. Some were dead, but most were alive, writhing and gathering in a small pool of rainwater. Dead spiders were piled along the rim like rocks on the shore of a lake, broken open, spilling orange parasites and viscera into the mix.
A deep hatred (and lingering fear) that is not Jon’s propels him. Jon opens two of his true eyes just enough to keep the worms in his sights as he works. Weaving his silk into the surrounding trees is easy enough. So, too, is pulling the spider from the dark empty pit of his pupil. It is fat and streaked with scarlet and he sets it down near the pool to let the thing do its work. It is not like the corpses gathered, which it gleefully consumes in a way spiders should not consume things. Jon leaves it there, knowing it will grow and it will continue to eat, and soon the touch of Filth will be gone.
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.
There is one last errand to run before Jon is able to return home. Walking briskly, Jon makes his way through town. It’s a busy hour, commuters making their weary way home as the sun sets.
Jon turns a corner and is just as surprised as the person he collides with, both of them shouting and tumbling in an ungraceful heap onto the ground. It sends a ripple in the cloud of civilians nearby; some of them gasp and hover, some of them startle and stare with curiosity, some simply step around the mess and continue on their way. Jon feels a flare of annoyance at their inability to actually do anything.
“I’m so- so sorry!” says the one he ran into. They’re young, maybe only twenty years old, with short hair so blond it’s nearly white. As they sit up, they despair at the sight of their satchel spilled over, covering the sidewalk with papers and books. “God, no!”
As they frantically leap after papers, Jon gets to his knees and says, “Pardon me! Are you quite alright?”
“I’m- sure, yes! Just, uh, just, the papers! I need these for work-”
“Oh, let me help you then-”
Jon catches some of the papers with his hands; some, he catches with his silk, keeping them from blowing up the street until he can grab them. The crowd has now disappeared, fulfilling every expectation of Jon’s as no one offers assistance in wrangling the paperwork.
There’s a grateful smile waiting for him when Jon hands a stack of papers back. For just a moment, Jon thinks he recognizes the person. Something about their face- about their eyes-
As they speak, offering some form of thanks before clumsily stuffing the papers into their satchel, Jon’s hand reaches behind him. Fingertips wrap around a slim book. Jon does not know what he says in response, merely makes a show of turning his back to collect the last of the books while slipping that one into his suit.
His companion does not notice the missing book. They thank him again, apologize again, and Jon offers a smile and shakes their hand without thinking. He feels something skitter up his arm, his finger, his nail, disappearing beneath their sleeve. Watching them go, he works against the desire to feel guilty and quickly disappears into London’s busy evening.
When Jon has a chance to inspect the book, his budding suspicions are confirmed. The bookplate tells him all he needs to know. It appears safe to carry in his suit pocket, so Jon leaves it there as he heads home.