Chapter Text
Tracking down cursed objects sounded like a really fun job when Salesa had first offered it to Jon. It reminded him of all those old, revered archaeologists finding lost civilizations, and he always liked to think of himself as preserving culture, even if said culture is worship of dread gods
It was fun, for a while. Once Jon swallowed the bitter taste of selling the objects rather than destroying them— we mostly sell to the Magnus Institute, Salesa had said, we’re preserving knowledge, isn’t that what you and your patron are all about? —and just leaned into the satisfaction of a job well done, he’d really started enjoying it.
After a while, though, it became pretty clear he’s just a human homing device. The pay’s good, though, and what the fuck else is he going to do with his skillset and lack of work experience? Join the Institute?
(That’s a joke. Joining the Institute is completely unthinkable for one fairly compelling reason.)
To balance out the distastefulness of selling cursed items rather than destroying them, which had been Jon’s preference and modus operandi for years, he’s taken to—well, he calls himself a vigilante, but only in his own mind because he’s aware of how stupid it sounds out loud. He uses his gift-slash-curse of omnipotence to tell when people around him are getting preyed on by the entities, and tries to save them.
It doesn’t always work. Frequently doesn’t, actually. Mostly because he gets a sick, overwhelming, beautiful rush of calm and euphoria and satiation when he’s just a moment too late and he has to watch someone succumb to their fears. He tells himself he’s still trying to help, to save them, and that he’s a failure when he can’t, but it’s hard not to feel like it’s a win-win situation.
He sometimes feels like he’s stuck with the trial version of the Eye. There are questions he can’t answer no matter how hard he tries, questions like why me . ‘Why’ is, in general, not a question the Eye likes to answer, and it’s getting really frustrating. There’s also places blocked from his view--namely the Institute.
Look, it’s not like he tries to see the Institute that often. He just...wonders, sometimes. Just because it seems to be the natural home of the Eye. It’s not because of Gerry. He couldn’t give a shit about Gerry. If they happen to run into each other when Jon goes in to give one of his periodic statements (because it makes the Eye purr like some weird, contented kitten in the back of Jon’s mind, and not because he wants to run into Gerry), it happens.
Jon’s also had to drop cursed items off at the Institute a few times, when Salesa’s ‘not in the mood for Bouchard’, as he jovially puts it. He only saw Gerry once doing that, and it wasn’t a particularly great interaction. Gerry had just scoffed at him, some disgusted holier-than-thou look on their face, and said “So this is what you’ve come to, then?”
(Jon couldn’t think of anything appropriately witty to say before they rolled their eyes and walked away, and it haunts him. He still occasionally thinks of comebacks in the middle of fitful, sleepless nights. They’re never fantastic, if he’s honest.)
He’s only thinking about the Institute so much tonight because Salesa’s over there now, probably chatting up Bouchard, driving the prices up. Salesa suspects Bouchard can Behold, though, so the haggling won’t really mean much. Jon’s fairly certain Salesa does it for sport more than anything else anyway.
Jon’s smoking outside a bar in Chelsea, near the river, waiting on the potential ‘come drink expensive yet awful wine with me and Bouchard’ invitation from Salesa that he’s learned not to ignore. There’s only a small chance it’ll even come, and he really hopes it doesn’t, especially after last time, but they’d both acted so goddamned offended when he refused the first time. He’s just waiting sort of nearby so if the dreaded text comes in, he can at least get to the Institute quickly and get it over with fast.
At least, that’s the plan, but he feels a creeping sort of cold in the back of his mind and sighs, dropping his cigarette to the ground and putting it out with his bootheel. He pinches the bridge of his nose and goes into the bar, ducking around people and heading to the bathroom, where the supernatural sonar in his mind keeps pinging him.
There’s a man sitting on the filthy, tiled floor, hugging his legs, face pressed into his knees. Jon’s eyes are good enough to see through the surface layer of reality, and it’s not hard to catch a long, foggy tendril of the Lonely starting to curl around the man.
Finally, it’s not too late to save someone--though Jon has a sick desire to just let it be--but he’s not going to.
“Excuse me,” Jon says, and the man blinks up. He’s got startlingly big eyes, reminiscent of a cow’s, innocent and clear, welling with tears. He sniffs hard, runs a hand over his face.
“Sorry,” he says, with a nervous bark of laughter. “Bit of an awkward position to--”
Jon’s not all that interested in small-talk or bonding or any of that. Befriending random victims of entities he happens to meet hasn’t gone well for him in the past. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
“What?” the man asks, opening and closing his mouth like a bewildered fish. He looks like Jon’s just seen his soul, which is funny, because he could , and he hasn’t even tried.
He might as well learn the man’s name. He metaphysically pushes the blinds in the man’s mind apart with two fingers, just enough to peek in. “Listen to me, Martin,” Jon says, and the man--Martin K. Blackwood, apparently, though the K is irrelevant, he thinks it makes him sound more professional--startles, eyes widening even more. “Something is after you, and it can only get you if you’re alone. You shouldn’t. Be. Alone . Understand?”
“Wh--who are you?” Martin asks, pushing himself backwards under the sink with his legs, further from Jon.
Jon feels a small, sharp hit of shuddering pleasure that he’s causing fear, but tries hard to step on it. “Someone who wants to help you. Is there someone you can stay with?”
“No,” Martin says, voice small. “I’m alone.”
“Flatmate? Parents? Friends? Come on,” Jon says.
“No one,” Martin says. “What--what will it do to me?”
“You don’t want to know,” Jon says. “Seriously? No one?”
“Who do you have?” Martin snaps back, and Jon blinks, thinking about it.
“No one,” he says, slowly. “But I’m not the one being preyed on by the Lonely, so--”
“Excuse me, the what?”
“The--look, it doesn’t matter, just--” Jon starts, but Martin cuts him off.
“No, it does matter, because you’ve just--come into this bathroom where I was trying to have a private cry, if you have to know--”
“Didn’t ask.”
“--and told me I can’t be alone because I’m in danger , apparently, and you know my name somehow, so really I think I might be in danger from you , actually--”
“Fine,” Jon says, sighing. “Don’t listen.” He turns to leave, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, and pushes the bathroom door open, heading back out into the bar. He makes it onto the street before large, soft hands wrap around his wrist.
“Wait,” Martin says. “I mean--how did you know my name?”
“I’m an excellent guesser.”
“Do I know you?” Martin asks, squinting at him, and Jon shakes his head, looking at the sidewalk between them.
“Never seen you before. Like I said. Excellent guesser.”
“Well. Since--since you spooked me like that, and I don’t have anyone to--to keep me from being alone, I think it’s only fair that you --” Martin starts, and Jon laughs, shaking his head again, more vigorously.
“No.”
“ No ?”
“Figure it out yourself,” Jon says. “Stay out all night. Hire a prostitute. I don’t care , it’s not my job, I was just trying to do a good deed.”
“You do care, or you wouldn’t have said anything,” Martin says, and alright, fair.
Jon sighs through his nose. “I was just offering a friendly warning.”
“It wasn’t all that friendly.”
“I have--”
“You can come to my flat,” Martin blurts, and Jon can feel the fear radiating off of him. Maybe the Lonely should branch out into feeding on the stupid, terrifying things people do to not be alone--or maybe it already does. “Since I’ll die if I’m alone, you--you should do the humane thing and--and not let that happen.”
“I didn’t say you’d die,” Jon says, drily, though he’s fairly sure Martin’s already won this one.
“Great, that’s not ominous at all, thank you--what’s your name?”
“Jon,” Jon sighs, running a hand back through his hair. “Look, I haven’t eaten, and I’m not--”
“I’ll make you dinner.”
Jon laughs, softly. “You’re really going to invite a possibly unhinged stranger into your home and make him dinner?”
“Well, you--you seem like you’re telling the truth, a-and I--if you’re staying to--to save my life, then it’s only fair I--”
“You’re not the brightest,” Jon says, and Martin recoils like he’s been hit, quickly closing his mouth.
“You’re sort of a cunt,” Martin says, bitterly, and Jon can’t help but full-on laugh at that, a peal of laughter that forces its way out of him.
“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Fuck, yes, I am. Being nice won’t get you anywhere.”
“You seem to think you’re some kind of Han Solo sort of anti-hero,” Martin says. “It’s not a great look. I’m not thrilled that you need to stay over to stop me dying, but, I mean--”
Jon quickly glances into Martin’s mind, which confirms his suspicion that Martin is, indeed, going overboard on this specifically to call Jon on his ‘bluff’ and get him to admit he was fucking with him. Jon’s not a liar, and he’s determined now. Martin can’t win this.
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” Jon says, with his best shit-eating grin, half-remembered from Gerry, a long time ago. “Lead on, Macduff.”
Martin makes a disgusted noise, rolls his eyes, and heads off down the street. Jon follows, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Lonely following as well, snaking down the gutters, waiting to grab at Martin’s ankles.
Jon’s now acutely aware of why he gave up on really trying to be a hero. It’s a lot of work.