Archive of Our Own

It is remarkably easy to find an axe in central London, and Tim is remarkably good at acting like he's not carrying one as he descends into the tunnels beneath the Royal Opera House. He's taken to doing this late at night; not that he thinks he'll actually find what he's looking for, but for some reason he can't get the thought out of his head that it might work, that they might show up again, and that this time he'll be ready for them.

Plus, he's got nothing better to do; it's not like his friends talk to him anymore. Being the number one suspect in the murder of your own brother tends to alienate people.

It's quiet and musty down here, as usual, as Tim sits and stares into the dark. It's pitch black, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't really care what happens to him at this point, but if anything will give him the opportunity for revenge, he'll take it.

But tonight something different happens. There's a noise in the dark—shuffling footsteps—that has him leaping to his feet and grabbing the handle of the axe.

"Oh for fuck's sake, put that down," a dry voice resonates from much nearer than Tim had thought. How the speaker had known he was carrying an axe in the near pitch dark is something that he can't justify, but then very little makes sense anymore.

"Who are you?" He says, and he hates that there's a waver in his voice when he says it.

Beside him, there's the scrape and sizzle of a match igniting, the glow of a cigarette butt, and the scent of sulfur and smoke. Before the match is put out, he briefly catches the angles of a young man's face, shadowed by two curtains of black hair.

"Who wants to know?" The man replies as they fall into darkness again. "Seriously, I'm not going to hurt you. Put that down."

He hesitates for a moment before lowering the axe. 

"I'm looking for something," Tim finally says.

"Looking for trouble, apparently." The masculine voice has amused undertones, and the speaker hasn't drawn away. There's the sound of an exhale and the smell of smoke.

"You could say that," Tim says. "Or I guess just waiting for it to find me—no offense."

"Eh, that's alright," the man says with a chuckle. "I'm usually doing the same. Looking for things to burn usually, maybe a monster to fist fight."

Tim actually laughs at that, the sound ringing through the tunnels around them. He hasn't been doing much of that lately, much less in the place where his life fell apart. "Maybe we should team up then. I don't suppose you've seen any clowns down here?"

There's no response for a moment, other than a hollow whistle and another waft of smoke.

"Not yet," the man finally says. "Have you?"

Tim hesitates, then says. "Yeah, a while ago now."

Oddly neither of them has gotten a torch out. Tim feels right now that it would feel like too much like an interrogation. The last thing he wants is to feel like he's being cornered and commanded to explain himself. He's had enough of that.

But when the man says, "Tell me about it," somehow it doesn't feel that way at all. It's got the undercurrent of a possible ally, someone who knows what information he's listening for. Maybe he's projecting and just really wants to finally get this story out. For all he knows, this person is a hallucination and Tim is just talking to himself, but fuck it.

So he tells his story—all of it. With the cops he'd ended it with Danny's breakdown in the living room of his flat; he'd even shown them the hand drawn pictures his brother had made. He'd even given them the flier he'd been clutching after that nightmare (after memorizing and photographing it, of course). It was enough of a lead for them to follow, he'd thought, but of course the only lead they'd followed was Tim's.

There are a lot of security cameras in London. He couldn't explain why he was standing outside the Opera that night, but ultimately they couldn't pin anything on him, hard as they tried.

Telling the whole truth doesn't help as much as one would think. In fact, by the end of it, he can barely get words out, and he finds himself sitting on the dirty ground, back to the wall. He feels like he's been wrung out. Hearing the story aloud, there's a part of him that doesn't even believe it despite the fact that every detail is as vivid as if he were watching it unfold in the moment.

Boots crunch against the floor and the clothing rustles as the man sits down next to him. Tim can hear his breath, the cold press of a leather jacket against his upper arm. For some reason he doesn't shrug away.

"Want a cigarette? I'm Gerry by the way." the man says.

"Tim. And no thanks," Tim says, slightly disarmed. He wishes he smoked right now, but he knows all it will do is make him sicker than the lowkey stomach ache he's had for the past several months.

The man strikes another match to light another cigarette of his own, and this time their gazes meet in the brief glow. Tim catches the shine of multiple facial piercings, and the glint of hard, dark eyes, both his actual ones and the ones tattooed on his fingers and in the cradle of his throat.

"I believe you," Gerry says quietly. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault, you know. Any of it."

Tim bites his lip hard, thankful for the shield of darkness that hides his tears. If he was expecting Gerry to say anything, it wasn't that. Maybe something condescending, an attempt at comfort. But not belief. And certainly not the fact that these fuckers had a reputation.

"I should have helped him. I froze up. I'm a coward," he chokes out, trying to keep the knot of repressed feelings from unraveling him.

"You're not a coward." Somehow Tim can hear Gerry's eyes rolling. "That thing has more power than we do. You couldn't have done anything if you'd tried—and there's a good chance you were actually trying and literally couldn't move."

"I don't know," Tim whispers. The story hurt to tell, but having someone there who takes it at face value, even seems to know what happened, is a huge relief.

"Have you told anyone else about it?"

Tim barks a laugh that slices through the dark. "No. They'd have sectioned me. Who's going to believe that a fucking skin-stealing clown killed my brother when they've got a perfect person to pin it on right in front of them?"

Gerry hums thoughtfully. "Have you heard of the Magnus Institute?"

In one of his late night Googling sprees as he searched for something that would make this all make sense, Tim had indeed stumbled across the Institute. He'd considered paying them a visit, but it almost felt like walking into a church for the first time in years. It didn't seem like the sort of place he'd belong.

"You should go give them a statement," he says. "Some people treat them like a joke but they know a lot more about this kind of thing than…oh…the cops for instance."

Tim snorts. "Yeah no shit. Tell me about it."

Gerry laughs, low and soft, and Tim finds he likes the sound of it.

"You really shouldn't be down here though. You won't find them, but there's plenty of other nasty things down here that I promise you don't want to deal with."

"Then why are you?" Tim says.

"Because unlike you, I know what I'm doing," Gerry says. "Go on then."

Tim stands, unsure of why he's taking orders from this stranger, but soon he finds himself above ground walking back to his flat. He never goes back to that tunnel, but the next day, he does go apply for a job as a researcher at the Magnus Institute. The head of the Institute offers him a job on the spot.

–

Normally Gerry doesn't come in through the front door of the Institute, but it's not like Rosie's going to stop him. Plus who cares if he runs into Elias? Elias knows he's there regardless. Gertrude has told him that much, despite the fact that he knows how much more she could be telling him.

What he doesn't expect today is to see a familiar face in the hallway, one that he'd only seen once illuminated briefly in the dark, but one he remembers all the same.

The man seems to remember him as well, because he stands stock still, staring at him like he's just been caught with his hand up a vending machine.

"Tim, what are you doing here?" Gerry hisses once he's close enough. He gestures at the lanyard around Tim's neck. "I told you to give a statement, not take a job."

Tim's mouth drops open, like he'd like to argue, and Gerry has an intrusive thought about how attractive that mouth is. It doesn't matter—he shouldn't be fucking working here. Dammit, Gerry shouldn't have told him to give a statement, no matter how badly he wanted to follow up on the story and hunt down the things that had hurt him (and if he wanted that, Gertrude needed to get her hands on that statement).

Damn him for his sympathy. This is why he doesn't help strangers (except he does, god dammit, he's always helping these poor saps against his better judgment). It backfires. Of course it backfires.

But people who are marked by the fears are stuck in their crosshairs forever afterward, and Tim is practically glowing with more than one. The Stranger, obviously, but there are also hints of the Desolation and The End, which is disconcerting. Maybe the only thing that's saving him from them right now is the fact that he's protected here. The Eye loves people like Tim. Elias probably popped a huge boner before he even walked through the door, and not just because the man is unfairly hot.

That last bit wasn't something he'd been able to see in the dark, though from the timbre of his voice and the brief glimpse he'd gotten, it's not terribly surprising.

"I wasn't aware you were my supervisor," Tim says, lifting his chin and…is he flirting? He seems like he's flirting. This is a far cry from the dark, moody tone that he'd heard when they sat in the tunnels together.

Gerry sighs heavily, masking his attraction with irritation. "Look, just, you know–be careful. And stay away from the Archives if you can help it. Nothing good happens down there."

"Which is why you're heading there right now, is it," Tim says, still defiant. It's infuriating. 

"Yeah well, as I said, I know what I'm doing." Just keep telling yourself, Gerry , something inside him chides.

A smile lifts the corners of Tim's mouth. "If you say so. I'll let you get back to your important business. Don't be a stranger."

Gerry tries not to cringe at the choice of words. He also tries not to stare at Tim's ass as he walks toward the research department. He fails at both.

–

Tim starts looking forward to seeing Gerry come into the institute. He sometimes disappears for long stretches of time, but then appears in the courtyard again, smoking cigarettes and squinting into the trees around the institute as if he's birdwatching. He probably needs glasses. He seems like the sort who won't get glasses even though he needs them. Lately he's been finding himself thinking a lot about what kind of person Gerry is. 

Finally, he thinks he might try to find out.

"What on earth are you doing?" Tim says one day, spotting Gerry in the courtyard standing beside a trashcan full of flames, about to throw a book into it.

Gerry blows a raspberry. "That's a Leitner. You know what those are now, don't you?"

He does, unfortunately. He's learned a lot of unpleasant things since getting a job at the Institute, and these books figure into a lot of them. They get lots of ridiculous ghost stories reported to them at the institute, but whenever one of these books is involved, the stories are different. They feel real.

None of them have really had anything to do with clowns, though, so Tim doesn't let them take up too much mental real estate.

"Not the best optics, though. Book burning at a research institute sends mixed messages," Tim says.

Gerry tsks. "I mean, you aren't technically wrong," he says with stubborn certainty. "But we both know it needs to be done."

His size doesn't quite match the magnitude of his personality or his intensity, but it also doesn't detract from how interesting Tim finds him. And, honestly, quite hot. Who doesn't fancy a bad boy, after all?

"It'd be stupid of me to try to argue with you," Tim says.

"You're not wrong about that either," Gerry says, and this time Tim is treated to a reserved smile. It's really rather gratifying to know he brought even that out. It emboldens him to draw closer until they're side by side, watching the book's pages curl and smolder in the fire.

"Are you sure it isn't more dangerous to burn them?" Some of the stories Tim has researched involve supernatural fires, and he can see how burning a book like that might act as some kind of starter pistol.

"I've been fine so far," Gerry shrugs. "You might be right about some of them, but I've yet to find one."

"Oh, so I get to be right for once." Tim fully turns to Gerry, arms crossed over his chest.

Another smile, and this time there's teeth. Even better.

"You're really something, aren't you?" Gerry says, eyes sweeping over Tim from head to toe. Tim has never felt more transparent.

"That seems to be the general agreement," he says. Sue him, he's feeling flirty. In spite of everything that's happened, he's been doing much better lately. It's a little bit of medication, it's being surrounded by people who weren't there for his big disasters, and it's also the prospect of finding some answers. And right now, it's the fact that he's talking to a very attractive man who seems like he might even be interested.

"Among who?" Gerry says.

Tim shrugs. "Anybody with eyes," he says.

Something dark passes over Gerry's face, like a cloud over the sun. It isn't jealousy; there's too much sadness in it. That's not something he loves to see, but it does throw wood on the fire of Tim's curiosity.

Gerry knows things. Things that Tim wants to know. Whatever Tim can get from him will be worth his time. And sure, part of it is that he wants answers to his questions about what's going on in this place. But he also wants to know why he's got paint in his cuticles, whether the bands whose t-shirts he wears are actually any good, and, of course, what drives him to chase answers of his own.

He also wants to know a lot of other, less innocent things about Gerry.

"I get off at five," Tim says, because why not? "Can I buy you a drink?"

Gerry looks back at him with so much shock that Tim almost takes back the invitation. But then his face changes from shocked, to thoughtful, to pleased. That last look looks really good on him.

"Yeah, alright."

–

It's just a drink. A drink, and a very nice conversation. But then Gerry goes home alone.

Then it's drinks every Thursday. But again, Gerry always goes home alone. 

It's not that he doesn't want to take it further, but Gerry takes far too many risks. He and Gertrude working within a world that is more dangerous than Tim has begun to grasp, even with all the independent research he does. With those marks on him, Gerry's worried that one more intimate loss would drive Tim into a place too dark to return from. 

That's one risk Gerry doesn't want to take. He already cares about Tim too much. And that mark from the End, in particular, worries him. The nihilism and pain he'd heard that first night has ebbed, that Tim has shown himself to be warm and funny and magnetic. The idea of Tim losing that spark again…well, he deserves better.

Sure, Gerry could back off from his work with Gertrude, but he owes her after she freed him from his mother.

Of course he tells Tim as much about that whole thing as he reasonably can. A simple Google search for "Gerard Keay" brings up article after article painting him as a matricidal maniac, and he wants to be sure that Tim knows the truth. Tim assures him immediately that he believes him. If anyone would believe him, it would be Tim. Still, it's an enormous relief.

"What about you?" Gerry says. "Any progress on the Circus?"

He knows that Tim has been researching everything he can get his hands on about it, and he feels a little bit guilty holding back what he knows. But he likes to check in from time to time to see what Tim already knows before he gives him information that might send him catapulting into a dangerous situation.

"I've been looking into Robert Smirke actually," Tim says, and Gerry can't help but raise his eyebrows.

"What about him?"

"Well, he designed the building where it happened, right? And some of his other buildings seem to be central to the stuff we're researching. I'm trying to find the similarities between them." 

So close, but not close enough that Gerry will tell him more.

Tim takes a sip of his margarita. Because Tim is the kind of guy who drinks margaritas. "Also, I think I just like old buildings. Maybe in my next Act, I'll study to be an architect."

A jolt of hope passes through Gerry. "You're thinking of giving up the search then?"

He regrets the words almost immediately as he watches Tim's expression falter. 

"There's nothing wrong with that," Gerry adds. "These aren't the sort of things that one man can sort out on his own."

"Well, I'm not really on my own, am I?" Tim says, looking him straight in the eyes. His are a deep brown that seem to betray every feeling he has. The feeling he appears to be having right now is entirely too trusting, more trusting than Gerry deserves.

Gerry knows he's still the only one who knows what Tim went through, that he's the only one who knows why Tim is there, what he hopes to find. Hopefully, Gerry can beat him to the Circus that he and Gertrude are currently attempting to defeat. Hopefully, that will spare him more pain, keep him from being consumed by things that are worse than pain.

"I mean, there's an entire institute dedicated to it, right?" Tim adds hastily.

"Well, what do you know? You're right again," Gerry says, and raises his pint. "Cheers."

–

When Tim opens the door to the courtyard, he can immediately tell there's something wrong with Gerry.

"Hey, why the long face?" Tim attempts levity. One thing he's learned about Gerry is that his hard exterior protects a soft heart, one that he wishes he could be trusted to care for. But that's not for Tim to decide.

"I um…" Gerry drops his cigarette on the ground and twists it under his boot. "I'm not going to make it Thursday, or probably…I don't know how long."

It hits Tim harder than he expects it to. He's come to rely on their time together almost as much as therapy, though he hopes that it hasn't been so one-sided. The idea that he may be wrong about that makes him queasy.

"Where are you going?" As much as he tries, he can't make it sound casual.

There's a struggle happening behind Gerry's eyes, which Tim catches before they close completely. He sucks in a breath then says, "We think we have a lead on the Circus. We're going to start with France, but it might not stop there."

Tim feels his jaw drop, and the sickness of guilt shifts to betrayal. "Why didn't you say something? Take me with you!"

"No," Gerry says emphatically. "It's not safe. Gertrude's taking me because—"

"Because you know what you're doing," Tim says icily. "Right. Of course."

"Tim…"

"What?" In equal measure, he both wants to run away and stay and berate Gerry for lying to him. He takes a couple of breaths in quick succession and clenches and unclenches his hands, which doesn't help calm him at all.

Gerry takes a step toward him. "I'm doing it for you."

"No." Tim doesn't know what he's saying no to. He feels like he's going to scream, or cry, but then he also feels Gerry's hands on his upper arms. The lump in his throat falls into his chest, but he still can't form words.

It wouldn't matter anyway, because Gerry is kissing him.

He backs him into the wall, hands on his face. Any anger gripping Tim is channeled to his grip on Gerry's waist and how hard he kisses back.

After a few intense, breath-stealing seconds, Gerry pulls away from him with a gasp.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I-I'll call you when I'm back?"

"Please," Tim says, just as softly. "Please come back."

"I will. I promise." Gerry steps back, and within seconds he's gone.

And he stays gone.

When Tim finally spots Gertrude in the Institute again, months later, Gerry isn't with her. The call doesn't come, and doesn't come, and finally Tim knows that it never will.

It isn't until he starts working in the archives, when he's researching Case 0121102, that he finds out what happened to him, about the brain tumor that killed him while they were in America. 

He leaves for the day without telling anyone.

–

Gerry wakes up on the floor to the sound of very soft weeping. At least that's what he thinks it is; it feels like he's hearing it from underwater, like he's looking into refracted light.

"Jon, why are you crying?" A soft, tremulous voice is saying.

"I burned Gerry's page," a deeper, breathier voice says. "It was just…much harder than I thought it would be."

"Oh, Jon. I'm sorry."

Oh. The new Archivist. Right. That guy. He wasn't all bad, but he is certainly much too soft for this job. These things are going to eat him alive. Probably why Elias chose him, but that's something to look into later.

"No, I should have done it earlier," Jon says. 

Yeah, you definitely should have , Gerry thinks, trying to blink his eyes into focus.

"Well you've done it. He's free now. You did the right thing."

"Thank you, Martin." There are a couple mumbling attempts to speak, then. "I-I'm w-worried, Elias is…"

A wanker .

"A wanker," Martin says, and if Gerry were in control of his faculties he'd laugh out loud.

"Well, I was going to say dangerous, but yes," Jon chuckles.

"I can handle myself," Martin says. "Really looking forward to burning things, honestly."

"Why am I not surprised?" There's very obvious warmth and fondness in his voice.

There are several seconds of silence, then several more, then the unmistakable sound of a mouth on a mouth. Ugh . Great way to wake up—a pounding headache and other people making out. Gerry closes his eyes and sighs, or at least he thinks he sighs. If he does, it isn't nearly loud enough to stop them.

He's not quite sure what's going on with his body exactly, but there is feeling in his hands, his feet, everywhere. His head still hurts a bit, but he no longer feels squeezed, flattened, inhuman.

Holy shit. Is he alive? How can that be? Best not to wonder about that right now. He's fucking corporeal, and that's what matters.

Gerry opens his mouth and tries to speak, to interrupt these two before he hears even more things he doesn't want to hear. It's like trying to scream in a nightmare though, with no sound coming out and his tongue heavy in his mouth. Thankfully, though, he hears speaking again.

"Please come back," Martin says. "I need you here."

"I will, I promise," Jon says, and Gerry knows for a fact that he's lying his ass off. There's no way he can make a promise like that. He knows this from experience.

Tim. Fuck. Where's Tim in all this? It has to have been years now. Has he left the institute? Was he hurt when Gerry didn't come back for him?

"And make sure Tim doesn't kill himself, ok?" Martin says.

"Well, he doesn't listen to me, but I'll do my best," Jon says bitterly.

Oh no. Gerry tries, too fast, to stand, but all he feels is a useless, full-body spasm. This is getting very irritating; if Tim is running headlong into trouble, Gerry doesn't have time for his stupid body to be uncooperative.

There's the sound of footsteps, then a strangled little sob above him from Martin. Poor sap. Gerry wiggles his fingers, and finally, finally , it works.

"Hey," he finally says. Well, that's not what comes out. What comes out is something more like hurrrrrrgh .

Martin yelps, and a round face framed by soft curls appears over the top of the desk that Gerry's lying behind. The man's eyes are swollen and red from crying, but now wide with shock.

"Oh my god, who are you?"

Gerry makes another incoherent sound. This is really obnoxious.

"Hooooly hell, you're Gerard Keay," Martin says, voice shaking. "H-how? How are you alive?"

"Gerry," he manages to squeeze out. Well, at least that's close to a word. "Where… going…?"

"Um…um, do you know about the Unknowing?"

"Yes, I've heard of the fucking Unknowing." That time it came out as a full sentence. Apparently anger helps, so that's encouraging. Gerry has that in spades right now. "Help."

"Oh!" Martin comes around the desk, and reaches his hand down for Gerry to take. Gerry flails an arm out and misses, and Martin has the nerve to look angry with him. "Just—" he heaves a sigh, leans down, and scoops him up in his surprisingly large arms. It's kind of nice to be touched after so long, but the absolute indignity.

Martin sets him upright on the desk and keeps a balancing hand on his shoulder.

"Where are they?" Gerry says.

"U-um, the Great Yarmouth wax museum, what are you—stop it! You can't walk!" Martin grips Gerry's shoulder hard when he attempts to hurl himself off the desk.

"I have to," Gerry growls, lurching forward out of Martin's grasp again.

With another sigh, Martin gently places Gerry on his feet. This time, he feels himself, in his body just a little bit more, and after a moment is standing up straight. Ok, ok, it's coming back faster than he was worried it would. He takes a step forward, and Martin catches him before he can crumble.

"I need to go, I need to help."

"Jon…" Martin stops, then closes his mouth. Then he nods slightly. Then he nods more certainly. "Yeah, ok, he needs all the help he can get."

Gerry nearly laughs at that. He takes a few more shaky steps until he can stand on his own. Then Martin orders a car.

–

Nothing is anything anymore, and how could Tim have possibly thought he would be of any use here? The plan went wrong. Of course it went wrong. He doesn't even remember what the plan was anymore.

All he has is an axe, one he's held on to for a moment like this, but one that can only swing through open air no matter how close the uncanny shapes get. They swirl around him in gaudy costumes, faces sagging, clouded eyes flickering in and out of consciousness like lost radio signals.

People, not people, things , claim to know him in voices that are unrecognizable–not just as who they claim to be, but as humans in the first place.

Maybe his brother is here. Maybe he's been here all along. He thinks he sees him. He thinks he sees Sasha…but that thing was never Sasha, was it?

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter who they are. It doesn't matter who he is. If he's certain of anything (he isn't, he never will be again), it's that he's nobody.

He sees Gerry. But no, he doesn't see him either. Gerry is dead too.

–

It's like walking through a portal as he walks into the museum where the ritual is taking place. An unnatural light beckons him forward, straight into the chaos of a place that was never meant for living humans. Gerry may not be dead, but when he walks in, feels no depersonalization, still feels himself, he knows he isn't exactly human anymore.

But that's something he can worry about later. All that matters now is finding Tim in this sea of vacant eyes and painted skin suits (and Jon, of course, or Martin will certainly find a way to kill him).

It's the glint of an axe blade that finally does it. The weapon Tim had been holding the first time they'd met is now raised like a bat and ready to swing into the nearest enemy. Gerry knows that Tim can't tell the difference between an enemy and a friend right now. Nobody can but him.

And apparently Jon.

"Wait! Tim, what do you see?" Jon says.

"I see my asshole boss!" Tim snarls, and Gerry speeds up, dodging the jerky dancers that try to block his path until he's in Tim's eyeline. "Or…wait…Gerry? No, you're not Gerry, you can't be." His voice is cracked and desperate, but Gerry doesn't have time for his heart to break.

"Look at me, Tim," Gerry says sharply. A gratifying wash of recognition passes over his face, real recognition; his incomprehension is completely unaffected by the supernatural.

"It can't be," Tim breathes. "You're dead."

"I'm here, it's me" Gerry says, because that much he does know. He pushes back hard against the painful emotions and uncertainty that attempt to stop him. "Put that thing down."

He's standing in front of Tim now, and Tim drops the axe with no hesitation and throws himself into Gerry's arms.

A shadow looms over them. "Oh what is he doing here?" The squeaky voice coming from the stage could almost be called whimsical if it weren't underscored by palpable evil. "Your kind doesn't belong here. We're dancing a new world to life! You're too late to stop us!"

Gerry ignores the clown grinning from behind Tim's head. "Tim, keep your eyes on me."

"Gerry??" A desperate voice calls out from nearby.

Gerry doesn't break eye contact with Tim. "Jon, get over here, now." He feels the man close beside him, panting with fear.

"Tim," Jon gasps. "What's in your hand?"

Tim tries to step back from Gerry, but Gerry grips his elbow, looking down and spotting a bomb's detonator in his hand. A flash of despair nearly drives him to his knees, but he stays anchored in place as a quiet voice whispers to him that this was how things were meant to be, that it will all be alright.

"It's too late! The world is ours!" The shrill voice rings around them. "That toy won't help you now."

Tim's expression falters, even as Gerry squeezes his elbow, trying to keep him anchored there with them.

"Both of you, hold onto me," Gerry says.

"What are you—" Jon starts.

" Do it ," Gerry cuts him off. Jon does as he's told, and Tim does too, though much tighter, face buried in Gerry's shoulder.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Tim whispers in his ear.

"Of course I do," Gerry says. "Press the button."

Tim does.

–

The rest of the day is a blur, digging themselves out of the rubble and flecks of gore and fabric, dodging police, but they end up at the seaside, tucked together against a bluff. Jon's disappeared somewhere with Basira, maybe looking for the murder cop. Maybe he should care about where she's gone, but right now he can't focus on anything but Gerry.

"This can't be real. I have to be dead," Tim croaks, mind and body still reeling from everything it's been through.

Gerry sniffs. "Trust me, you're not." His hands are cold, but his eyes smolder as much as ever. "And I promised I'd come back."

And Tim can't help it. After years and years of loss and trauma, he's disfigured with scars, broken and humiliated and lonely as hell, he can't hold the tears back anymore. Gerry holds him through it, lets him bury his face in his soot-covered chest and shake with tears.

"I'm so sorry," he hiccups.

"What for?" Gerry says.

"I'm a total wreck. I'm not who I was. I don't think I ever will be again," Tim says.

Gerry wraps both arms around him and squeezes so hard Tim can barely breathe. "Yeah, neither am I," he says quietly as the worst of it clears away. "And we're here now. So maybe we should team up, yeah?"

Tim finds himself laughing, first silently, and then with more volume. It's been a very, very long time since he's done that. He pulls back from Gerry's chest so their eyes can meet. He runs a hand through his long hair, maybe in a cursory effort to clear away the grit from it, but mostly to feel it between his fingers.

"Damn you, but I think you're right again," Tim says.

They sit, watching the tide coming in, until the light fades from the sky.