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August, 2012
There are two strangers in the front room of Pinhole Books.
There are two Strangers in the front room of Pinhole Books.
Gerard watches the pair warily, but they might as well be invisible to the delivery men. Their twin gaze is focused entirely on Mum, who stands in front of Breekon and Hope. There’s a coffin propped up against one of the Strangers, and it looks inexplicably heavy.
It’s easy for Gerard to fade into the background. The shelf behind them digs into their spine, but they ignore it.
“We’ve got—”
“—a trade for you.”
“Thought you might—”
“—like to have a look.”
Mum raises an eyebrow. Her voice is cutting, but Gerard recognises the undertone of curiosity. “Is this a delivery?”
“No.”
“Hm. Well, let’s have a look,” she decides.
The one on the left has a box under his arm, and he holds it out to her. From their position on the edge of the room, close to the hallway that leads deeper into Pinhole, Gerard can’t see any label on the package.
She takes the box and slides a rust-red stained razor blade around the edge, neatly slicing through layers of tape in a jagged, halting movement. Gerard holds their breath as she looks inside.
“Oh,” she breathes. Her voice is almost rapturous. Her back is to them, but they know that tone. It’s the same sound as when they used to bring her Leitners. Back when she was still proud of them. “Oh, I see. Where did you get this?”
“Around,” one says gruffly.
“Interested?” asks the other.
Gerard can’t tell which one spoke first.
Mum tears her gaze away from the box. She’s a tiny woman, barely 150 centimetres, and the two Strangers tower over her.
Gerard’s not scared for her. They know these two wouldn’t be able to destroy her. Nothing escapes the End, and nothing escapes their mum. A pit is slowly forming in their stomach, though, and they can’t pinpoint the source of the dread.
What’s more dangerous? The box that piqued Mum’s interest, or the creatures who brought it?
“Yes,” she says calmly. “You suggested a trade?”
The delivery men exchange a look. “Address the coffin—”
“—to Pinhole Books. We don’t—”
“—want it. Take it, and you can take the pen.”
Mum barks out a laugh that makes Gerard wince. “I’m not fool enough to invite the Buried into my home.”
Oh.
There’s a weight to the coffin, and they wonder if it would spill dirt on the floor if it was destroyed.
They’ve never liked the Buried. Too crushing
too suffocating
too familiar
Gerard would prefer to fall for eternity. Better than being dragged into Choke.
They pity the poor bastards in the coffin, but they can’t help but be glad that it’s going to be taken away from the shop. The further from them, the better.
Mum’s oblivious to their unease. She crosses her arms, and tells the pair, “I’m sure we can work something else out.”
“We can’t take it—”
“—while it’s still hungry.”
She tilts her head. Slow. Deliberate. “Then feed it.”
They don’t look at each other, which makes it all the more unsettling when they say in unison, “Your child.”
“Hell no,” Gerard blurts out.
All three not-people swivel to look at them, and their heart leaps into their throat.
Mum doesn’t look impressed, but she turns to the delivery men and shakes her head. “There are plenty of people on the street. Gerard can take someone less useful.”
The one on the right smiles.
It’s not a comforting smile.
It’s not a smile at all.
“The coffin likes that one.”
“Them—”
“—or no deal.”
Gerard’s heart skips a beat. They look at their mum—surely she’ll say no. They’re her precious heir. She can find someone else to throw to the Buried.
But Mum pauses.
Considers it.
And nods.
Gerard takes off. They don’t bother trying to get past the Strangers—there’s no way they can win in a physical confrontation. There’s a back door, and if they can just get out of here then maybe by the time Mum catches them the coffin will already be gone, moving on to its next victim. They’re not selfless enough or stupid enough to take someone else’s place in that hell.
They can see the exit—
They’re so close—
Please—
A hand closes around their shoulder in a vice grip, hard enough to bruise. Gerard struggles, but the hand may as well be iron for all the good it does. They slash at the delivery man with their pocket knife, but all they receive for their efforts is a blow to the stomach that knocks the air out of their lungs.
Whichever one this is—Breekon or Hope, they don’t care—drags them back into the front room. Their mum’s wearing her usual disapproving expression, and Gerard’s heart sinks.
“Mum, please,” they try. They keep their panic shoved down—if she thinks they’re being useless, it’s . . . They know panicking won’t help. “We can find something else to help you.”
The coffin is humming now, a low drone that makes them feel like they’re drowning.
“You’re the one who ruined the ritual,” Her voice is almost gentle, and her words bury themselves in Gerard’s chest like a knife. “This is one thing you can do for me. Don’t you want to save your mother?”
They do and they don’t.
They’ve never been able to leave her.
They want nothing more than to finally be free of her.
“Not like this,” Gerard croaks desperately. The coffin is pulling at them. Beckoning. Singing. “Don’t do this.”
Her expression sharpens. “You’ve always been a disappointment.”
“No!”
The delivery man that isn’t holding them presses a key into their hand, and then there's nothing touching them except the eerie pull of the artefact. They can feel the coffin tugging them forward, like walking down a too-steep hill, but they grit their teeth and stand their ground. “No! I won’t, I—”
“Shut up,” one says gruffly.
A hand that isn’t a hand shoves them. They stumble two steps towards the coffin and stop, looking wildly at the woman damning them to an eternity. “Mum—”
“Enough, Gerard,” she says sharply. She waves the delivery men aside and for one moment they dare to hope that she’s changed her mind.
Maybe she won’t send them into the Buried.
Maybe she’ll save them.
Maybe she cares.
She takes the key, their hand going numb where her icy fingers brushed against it, and their heart soars. Maybe . . .
It shatters when her hand closes around their arm and yanks them forward.
“No, don’t, please—”
There’s nothing Gerard can do.
They’re trapped. They’re caught like a fox in a snare, utterly powerless in the face of their mum’s single-mindedness.
She drags them to the coffin.
Its song resonates in their bones.
They have to escape.
They can’t escape.
She turns the key, metal scraping against metal as the chains fall away.
Gerard’s eyes are dry, but they want to sob. This isn’t fair.
It’s not fair.
Mum opens the coffin lid.
There are steps leading down into the depths.
They make one last attempt to break free of their mum’s cruel grip.
They fail.
She pushes them. Her hands are so cold they burn, leaving the imprint of her goodbye on their back. Gerard tumbles down the stairs, the hard stone bruising with every thud, but as soon as they hit the dirt-packed ground they scramble to their feet and up the stairs.
Mum looks down at them.
There’s no trace of love in her expression.
No grief.
No regret.
She shuts the door with a resounding creak, and then Gerard’s alone in the darkness.
They hammer on the door. They try to pry it open, wedging their knife in what they think is the seam.
They give up.
They rest their forehead against the warm wood.
They know there’s no escape from the Buried.
Even if they had an anchor—
They try to picture their mum, but the already-tenuous tether is shattered.
There’s nothing for them out there.
When Gerard turns around, the stairs are gone, and they know they’ll just sink deeper
and deeper
and deeper
until
they’re
gone
In a dusty old bookshop, utterly devoid of life, a woman paces.
The coffin is gone.
Its bearers are gone.
Her child is gone.
She rests the pen against her page and carefully inscribes the words that will save her.
and
nothing
happens.
Mary Keay screeches with a wordless rage.
She lost.
(“You will never be able to win!” her child says, exhaustion in their voice. “There’s no winning with the Fourteen. There’s just staying out of the fucking way.”)
No.
She will find her immortality.
Across the city, an old woman Knows.
Gerard Keay is in the Buried, entombed where no one will find them. She sighs, resigned. She played too long a game, four years patiently waiting for the right time to step in, and now Eric’s child is off the board. She allows herself a moment of disappointment over the loss. Just one moment to consider another person lost to the Coffin. A shame, really, this one had much more potential than Fiona, but both are on her conscience.
(There is so much on her conscience, and she has too much responsibility to let it weigh her down. She has no use for what ifs.)
Gertrude grieves, but only for a moment.
She has other pieces to push into place, after all.
A page to burn.
An assistant to recruit.
The Rituals wait for no one.
The Buried is unbearable, and yet he knows he must bear it.
He has no other choice.
She’s here somewhere, it’s—
It’s his fault
It’s always his fault
He has to find her
He can do one thing
Just one thing right
He knows this is right
He’s saving someone
No risk to anyone else
He can do this
He has to
He—
The tape recorder in his hand cracks, creaking under pressure, but still it whirs, eager to capture his voice as he croaks a few desperate words.
He doesn’t want to be a mystery.
There is someone—
“Please,” they gasp.
Jon is not here for them.
But—
But this coffin is too much for anyone.
He has to try.
He is not a monster.
(He knows that’s a lie.)
“I—I can hear you!”
He can’t feel Daisy. Where is she?
His throat hurts.
Is it the crushing weight
the Too Close I Cannot Breathe
or is it a too-vivid memory of choking on blood?
“I’m here,” Jon whispers.
The other person
(are there people down here? Or are they all just nothing, crushed and desperate?)
The other person reaches out and
and Jon is losing hope
and he has to save someone, anyone, and Daisy is nowhere
He reaches out.
Their fingers brush, and the Coffin retaliates, but Jon drops the recorder to claw blindly at the dirt and muck and rock.
They’re here—
He clutches them—
The Buried cannot take this away if he holds on tight. The other person curls around him just as desperately. Their fingers dig into his shoulder, his bones press into theirs, and the creaking pressure of the world hangs above them both.
“Thank you,” the other person says. It’s barely audible above the furious grinding of rock.
“I—I’m Jon,” he manages to get out. The Coffin crushes his ribs, as if angry that he’s found someone.
The tape recorder (didn’t he drop it?) is pressed between their bodies, leaving indents in Jon’s not-whole ribcage and held tight by the other person’s presence.
“Gerard.”
Jon’s body is heavy and hurting, but his mind is still mostly clear.
He Knows his Statements. He Knows the names, the dates, the artefacts and encounters and tragedy after tragedy after tragedy.
He’s felt them all
He’s Known them all
And he knows that no one in the Archives ever found out what happened to Gerard Keay after they helped Lesere Seraki.
“Gerard Keay?”
They go stiff
Still
They—
They start to pull away, and Jon panics.
“No, please don’t—”
“How do you know my name?” they say. Their voice is hollow and hoarse.
Jon hesitates, but Gerard’s hand tightens painfully around his arm. He blurts out, “You help people. L-Lesere Seraki, a-and, ah—”
He groans as another wave of pressure slams down on him, drowning him, choking him.
It lets up eventually. Minutes. Years. Doesn’t matter anymore. “You saved a woman in Genoa,” he continues.
They’re quiet for a long time.
It’s loud in the Coffin, the hum and groan and push and pull and constant rumbling press.
But it’s too silent.
“I was hoping—”
“Shut up.”
Jon shuts up.
They rest their forehead against his. “I . . . I don’t want Keay.”
Jon thinks of the Archivist
of Nikola
and Elias
and Prentiss
and
and
and
He’s never just Jon anymore. He’s always The Archivist.
He understands part of it, he thinks, so he asks, “Just Gerard?”
“Y-yes.” They hesitate, and add, “How do you know?”
“Know what?” They’ll have to be more specific, he thinks wildly, and chokes on dirt instead of a laugh. He Knows too much these days.
“My name.”
“Read about you.”
“How?”
“I’m—” The words are stuck in his throat, a glob of mud that is not new. It tastes like responsibility, and being a monster, and terror and pain and fear. “I’m the Archivist.”
“Oh.”
For a moment, the only sound that fills the tiny space is a pair of shuddering, ragged breaths.
“Just Jon?”
He thinks for a moment he might cry. “Yeah,” he manages. “Just Jon.”
“Well, Just Jon,” Gerard says dryly, “how’d y-you end up in—in the Coffin?”
“Came l-looking for someone.”
“Idiot.”
“I know.”
“Selfless or—or stupid?”
“B-both?”
He still doesn’t know where Daisy is.
Another wave, another moment of agony. He can feel his ribs shifting and bending to the point of almost-but-not-quite breaking.
When it subsides, they gasp, “Did you have a plan?”
“A tether. It—it didn’t work.”
“Who was it?”
“Er.”
Jon never thought he’d be glad for the pitch darkness.
“Jon.”
“My rib.”
Gerard is silent, but he has a feeling they’re swearing mentally. “Th-that’s not an anchor. They’re people.”
“What do you—”
“Who would you miss?” They squeeze his arm. “Who makes you want to go back?”
Oh.
He thinks of the only people he knows.
Basira hates him for surviving.
Melanie hates him for . . . well, everything.
Georgie hates him because he failed.
(because he keeps failing)
She hates him because he’s a monster.
Martin hates him because—
He doesn’t even know why Martin hates him.
(Tim hated him, too. Would Sasha have grown to despise him if she’d lived?)
“I don’t—it won’t work. None of them want me there,” he croaks. “They’d be better off if I stayed gone.”
Gerard somehow pulls him closer, and breathes out their words like they’re sharing their beating heart. “Mine didn’t want me either.”
“I’m sor—”
“What year was it?” they ask, cutting off his apology. “Out—out there?”
Jon winces. “2018.”
“Six years,” they croak. “I’ve been trying to care for—for six years. I love her, and I hate her, but neither was enough.”
If his rib isn’t an anchor—
And he can’t pull himself closer to the Assistants—
“I’m sorry, Jon.”
He’s trapped here.
The Forever Deep Below Creation.
Too Close I Cannot Breathe.
The Buried.
Choke.
He’s stuck
and he
he can’t get out
he’s failed again
but—
But he’s failed, and Gerard is still here.
Arms around each other.
Foreheads pressed together.
“Thank you f-for being here.”
Gerard shifts, just enough to let Jon know that they’re here. They’re real, they’re alive, they’re not going to leave. “We’re together in this. I’m here, I promise.”
“I-I’m here.” I won’t leave you either.
Time passes.
There’s no way of marking it or understanding it, but it does.
“Do you—do you love the Eye?” they ask, between rounds of the Buried’s wrath.
Jon shakes his head.
Gerry—because they’re Gerry, now, a bond forged somewhere in the mud and dirt and silt layers trying to wrench them apart—hums. It’s broken, clogged by soil, but clear. “If you’re looking for something to tether you—”
The Buried roars. The breath is crushed out of them, and Jon groans.
“You could lean on that,” they eventually finish. “The Archivist connection.”
“I-I don’t love it. I don’t want to go back to that.”
(But he does, doesn’t he? He’s always needed to Know.)
“It wants you,” Gerry says.
As much as it can want anything, he supposes.
He’s certainly afraid enough to make a tasty meal for it.
They tap his wrist. “Try it.”
“No.”
“Wh-what’s the worst that could happen?”
“I don’t want to be a monster.”
monster monster he’s a monster he got his friends killed and hurts people and takes Statements and Knows what he shouldn’t and—
“Is it worse than this?” they say wearily.
It’s going to kill him someday.
(someday soon, he thinks)
But Gerry—
This won’t kill them.
They’ll just suffer
forever
They don’t deserve that.
He—
He has to try.
He can’t fail. Not again.
Jon opens his eyes, ignoring the dirt that attacks them.
he sees
he Sees—
He can’t find Daisy—
But he can’t risk losing Gerry.
“I Know how to get out.”
Their grip tightens around his wrist.
“I’m here,” Jon repeats. He’s not leaving them.
Gerry’s voice is a beacon in the dark. “I’m here.”
When Gerry emerges from the Coffin, trailing behind Jon, the light is blinding. They slam their eyes and the Coffin lid shut, and clutch their one lifeline.
Jon returns their desperate grasp. “I’m h—” Halfway through the word, his words shatter, and he starts hacking.
Gerry takes too deep a breath, and immediately follows suit, falling to their knees and coughing. They still can’t breathe, and for a moment they’re back in the Buried with the Coffin threatening to tear them apart. Their chest wants to seize, they want to scream, but their hand is still in Jon’s.
They’re safe.
“What the hell, Jon,” someone spits.
They wince at the noise. The Coffin was loud, but it was dull. The new person is sharp and angry and resentful. Their voice sounds like Mum—lower, different accent, but that same disappointed fury.
“Who is that? Where—where’s Daisy?”
This person hates Jon. They’d felt Jon’s scars in the Buried. They’d traced the line across his throat and the pockmarks along his arms and the starburst stab wounds. (He’d felt their own scars in return.) They don’t know who the shouting person is, but they know that they don’t care about Jon, or he would’ve been able to use them as an anchor. They know this person didn’t bother to try to save Jon from being hurt.
And that makes them a threat.
Gerry blindly reaches out for Jon and shoves him behind them. It’s a clumsy manoeuvre, since both of them are still collapsed on the floor and Gerry’s muscles feel like crumpled paper, but they manage it.
Behind them, Jon whispers hoarsely, “What are you doing?”
They ignore him. Instead, they look up at where they think the speaker might be and spit, “If you care about Daisy, get her yourself. Leave Jon alone.”
“You can’t talk to me like that,” the stranger growls. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Instead of answering, Gerry retches up a little more mud.
“C-can we do this later?” Jon croaks. “We—Basira, we were in th-the Buried.”
“Fine,” Basira bites. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
There’s the sound of retreating footsteps, and then blessed silence. Except—
The Coffin’s hum is rising again.
Gerry flinches away from it. The movement sends them shuddering into Jon, bowling him over. They both go sprawling, and Gerry coughs out a bitter laugh. “Sorry,” they manage to say through the dirt. “The song . . .”
“Oh.” There’s rustling from Jon, and then he says, “We’re in the Archives. I don’t—I’m sorry, I don’t have a flat anymore.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a shower in here?”
They hear an amused huff. “There’s one up on the ground floor. Something about encouraging bicycle use?”
“Handy.”
“Can you make it?”
“Not much choice.” Gerry hacks up a few more globs of dirt and wipes their mouth. Unfortunately, their hand is equally filthy, and they can feel the mud smearing on their skin. They shed the remains of their leather coat—it’s too heavy for them, drenched in mud, and the weight that used to be comforting now makes his heart beat faster—and rise carefully, holding Jon’s hand the whole time. If they lost him—
They can’t see right now. They’d be lost.
They can feel their heartbeat speed up, and they call a little too quickly, “Jon?”
He taps their hand and reassures them, “I’m here.”
“I’m here,” Gerry repeats instinctively. They let the words sink into their chest and take a step forward.
Their knee gives out almost immediately, and they drag Jon down with them.
“S-sorry,” they gasp.
“It’s fine. Crawling?”
“Probably safer.”
It takes forever, but Jon says quietly that there’s no soil in his eyes (Gerry doesn’t think too hard about how he can see so easily) and he guides them up the stairs. It must be the middle of the night, because no one screeches at the sight of two indistinct, lurching figures creeping through the hallways.
In the bathroom, there’s cold tile under Gerry’s hands. Jon murmurs, “Can we . . . I don’t want to let go.”
They don’t either. They can’t imagine losing their sole tether right now. Gerry nods, and together they manage to drag themselves into one of the two shower stalls. The water is frigid when it first hits Gerry’s skin, and they flinch.
It’s too much like the floods of icy rain, and the smothering mud that followed. Their breathing speeds up, but before they can lose themself in memories, Jon wraps his arms around them. “It’s fine. We’re out. I’m here.”
“I’m here.” Gerry takes a deep breath—there’s nothing stopping him, no rock preventing his chest from expanding—and nods. “It’s just the shower. I’m fine.”
Jon doesn’t argue. After a few moments, the water warms, and it loosens something knotted tight. Soothing their muscles, maybe, or perhaps they’ve just missed proper showers.
It takes a long time to work all the mud out of their tangled hair. Longer to scrape it out from under their fingernails, their ears, nostrils, every crevice they can think of. Even on flat skin, it clings to them like it doesn’t want to leave. The Coffin has a hold on them still, they think.
The entire time, they keep in contact with Jon. Their backs pressed together, or hands tangled together, or knees woven together. As the water beats down, they realise tiredly that their clothes are torn and ragged. Six years of constant wear and tear were not kind to fabric, and it seems like the dirt and pressure was the only thing sticking the shirt to their body.
There’s still dirt under the fabric.
“Can I take these off?” they ask. They can hear the desperation in their voice, but they’re too tired to do anything about it.
“Of course. And, ah, Would you mind if I did too?” Jon asks. He sounds awkward at the question, and Gerry wonders if he’s turning red.
(They still don’t know what he looks like. Only that he’s small, and far too thin, and covered in scars that make Gerry’s heart ache.)
“I don’t care,” they say honestly. They weren’t interested in sex before the Coffin, let alone now, when they’re filthy and aching and exhausted. It’s just a body.
Peeling off their clothes is a relief—though when they yank their sports bra over their head, Jon makes a quiet noise of surprise. They tense, and their mind goes blank with dread, but he reaches out and guides their hand to trace two scars that curve gently around the sides of his chest. For the first time in a long time, they almost laugh.
When the rest of their clothes are off, they momentarily feel weightless as the water cascades down their skin. They lean their head back against the shower wall and sigh. They’re out. This is real.
They’re going to be clean.
But they still feel the dirt.
Is it—
Gerry’s eyes are still closed. They can’t see if the water is running clear.
They have to know the dirt is gone, or they’ll never stop feeling it.
“Is it dark in here?” they ask.
“Er, yes,” Jon says slowly. He hesitates, as if he’s on the verge of asking a question, but thankfully doesn’t prod at why they’re asking.
Gerry carefully rinses their eyes and cracks them open.
It’s not quite pitch dark in the room. There’s a dim trickle of light from the street lamps filtering in through the window, and in the darkness, they can make out hazy silhouettes without being overwhelmed.
It’s not enough light to see if they’re clean. The water looks dark and muddy, even the clean water falling from the showerhead.
Is it clean? No, it must be, it doesn’t have the thick, sluggish weight of the Buried mud. But Gerry’s hand tightens around Jon’s, and their heartbeat starts to speed up.
They see him lean forwards, and when he speaks, concern laces his voice. “Gerry?”
They look away. “I can’t tell if there’s still dirt on me.”
“Oh.”
The word is loaded with understanding and sympathy and worry, and it makes Gerry’s stomach twist. “Being back is going to take some adjustment, I guess,” they croak. Understatement of the century.
“Do you trust me?”
Yes, but—
That’s it.
Yes, but.
Gerry can’t look Jon in the eyes. Yes, they trust him. But. They don’t know how to convince their mind of that. They want to believe him when he says he’ll stay. They want to believe him when he says he cares.
They trust him, but the only other time they trusted anyone, she threw them into the Coffin to rot.
“I’m sorry, that was the wrong question,” Jon says quietly. He chuckles bitterly and adds, “It’s a skill of mine.”
They squeeze his hand and ask, “What’s the right question?”
“Do you trust me to tell you if you miss any dirt?”
Oh, that’s—
He’s right. That’s a different question entirely.
“Yeah,” they say truthfully. “Please.”
“There’s still some in your hair.” Jon reaches out, guides their hand to where it is, and waits patiently for them to scrub it away. “You got it.”
Gerry’s too bone-tired to worry about anything as ridiculous as embarrassment. That was smothered in the Coffin a long time ago. They don’t care if Jon sees their body or their scars.
Besides, it’s hard to be more embarrassed than he is. Gerry’s working their way methodically down their body, scraping away muck with a vengeance, and Jon starts stuttering as soon as they dip below their shoulders.
No, the part of this that makes them tense with guilt and nerves is needing help.
Showing weakness makes all of their instincts scream. They’re supposed to seem tough, knowledgeable—if anyone sees a vulnerability, they’ll exploit it. They know it’s something that gets people killed.
They trust Jon, but.
And the more time passes, the more their skin prickles with guilt. Jon could be doing anything, and instead he’s sitting here helping them. They should be able to do this. They should just turn on a light and squint through the tears and the pain or they should shut up and tolerate the feeling of mud on their body.
They should be stronger, but they’re not. They sit on the floor, weak and cowardly and selfish, and they let Jon point out mud spots they missed.
They hate themself for it, but by the end, they feel almost human again.
“You’re clean,” Jon says quietly, and they believe him.
Gerry’s joints and bones hurt, but they’re feeling slightly steadier—and famished. They drag themself upright after the shower and keep one hand braced against a wall. Despite a worried noise from Jon, they manage to stumble forward without falling.
Jon retrieves a few towels from the nearby cabinet and promises, “I have more clothes down in the Archives.”
“Are any going to fit me?” Gerry asks dubiously. They’re thin and bony after their time in the Buried, but they’re still far taller than Jon.
He shrugs. “You’re only a little taller than Basira. I’m sure there’s something.”
Outside the bathroom, in the dark hallways of the Institute, there’s a trail of dirt that Gerry and Jon have to pick their way around. It only grows wider and denser as they approach the Archives. Their stomach turns.
“The cleaners are going to hate this,” they mutter in an attempt to lighten the mood.
It doesn’t work; Jon winces. “They’ve, ah. They’ve cleaned far worse in the past few years.”
Gerry knows not to ask. The last thing they want to do is remind Jon of bad memories.
By the time they make it to the Archives, Gerry’s limbs are trembling. They haven’t moved this much in years, and it aches. They collapse into the nearest chair as soon as they’re inside, and Jon glances at them worriedly.
“I’ll bring you something to wear.”
The towel wrapped around their body is coarse and rough, but it’s still better than the idea of getting up. Gerry nods gratefully and tries not to feel anxious about letting Jon help.
And then he lets go and steps away, and Gerry’s heart skips a beat.
No, they can’t be alone again—
They inhale raggedy. Their mind distantly registers that if their mum saw them breaking down like this over a near-stranger stepping into the next room for a moment, she would be furious, but the rest of his mind drowns it out. They can’t lose Jon, they can’t go back to having nothing but the expanding and contracting of the Buried, they can’t they can’t they can’t
“Gerry? Gerry, I’m here, listen to me—”
Jon?
There’s a hand on theirs, another hand curled around the back of their neck. Jon. Gerry gasps for breath, their whole body shuddering, and leans forward. “I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” he says miserably. “I shouldn’t have let go.”
No, that’s not—
They shake their head. “It’s not your fault. Neither of us knew.”
“Will you be able to climb into the tunnels?” Jon asks, their voice tinted with trepidation.
“You can go,” Gerry says as firmly as they can manage. “I know what to expect now.”
“But—”
“We can’t hold hands forever,” they point out.
Jon’s expression slips towards stubbornness, as if he thinks that yes, they could go the rest of their lives arm-in-arm, but he sighs and concedes, “Alright. I’ll be right back.”
Gerry keeps their eyes wide open and focuses on the file folders in front of them as Jon lets go.
They’re alone, but they’re not in the Coffin. They take measured breaths and remind themself that if they can breathe, they’re not still in there. Their hands are resting on a smooth table, not clawing at dirt.
They’re free.
They’re safe.
Gerry manages to keep themself steady for the time it takes Jon to retrieve clothes, and the moment he returns, they hold out a shaking hand.
He takes it immediately. “Are you alright?”
“I will be.”
Getting dressed while staying in contact takes some manoeuvring, but eventually they manage it. Jon found a pair of sweatpants and a slightly baggy hoodie for them, and they’re silently grateful for the soft cotton and loose fit—they shudder at the idea of a band around their chest, restricting their breathing.
There looks to be a break room nearby, and they tug on Jon’s hand to get his attention. “Is there any food?”
“Oh, yes, there should be something,” he answers.
Getting up is a nearly insurmountable task, but the lure of food is even stronger. True to Jon’s word, there’s a fridge in the little break room, and they triumphantly retrieve some leftover takeout. The container of curry smells fine (it smells amazing) so they chuck it in the microwave.
Their first bite nearly brings tears to their eyes, and they blink furiously. This is absurd, it’s just a bog standard yellow curry, but they haven’t tasted anything but dirt in years.
“Is it good?”
“Yeah,” they mumble around the rice.
Gerry devours the whole container quickly. The Coffin had kept them hungry-but-not-starving the whole time, just like it had kept them thirsty-but-not-dying. They’d never thought that they’d get a chance to eat real food again.
Once the sides of the container are scraped clean of the last few grains, they glance up to see how Jon’s faring, but—
He hasn’t gotten himself any food.
“Why aren’t you eating?” they ask, worry writhing in their chest like something alive.
Jon looks away. “I, ah, I’m fine.”
Something’s wrong.
“What’s going on?” They squeeze his hand, and remind him, “I’m here.”
“I—I know. I just . . . I don’t eat anymore. I need statements,” he admits.
Oh. Well, that’s easy.
“Do you need me to write it down, or should I just tell you what happened?”
Jon recoils, nearly letting go entirely. “I’m not taking your statement!”
“Why?” Gerry frowns. “If giving a statement killed someone, I would’ve heard about it.”
He looks miserable and guilty and beneath all of it, he looks tempted . But he shakes his head and answers, “The statement givers have nightmares of what happened. They—I hurt them, a-and they’re never going to be able to move on. They relive it every night and I can’t help them. I’m not going to do that to you too.”
They wince. They can’t—they won’t relive the Buried, not even for Jon. If they had to go back there every night—
Oh.
“Can I pick the encounter?” they check.
“Er. Yes?” Jon asks, suspicion creeping into their voice.
That settles it. “Take my statement, then. If I have nightmares about you and a past encounter, I won’t be having nightmares about the Buried.”
Jon looks utterly out of his depth. “I don’t—I don’t know? That might not be how it works—”
“I’ll take that chance.” If they go to sleep tonight and dream of dirt and mud, they’ll never sleep again.
“If I take your statement, you’ll never be able to move on from it. Maybe someday the Buried won’t be in your nightmares.”
Gerry shakes their head. “In this world, do you really think I'm going to get a someday?” Their voice is barely audible, but the rest of the Archives are utterly silent, save for the sound of two people breathing.
Jon’s expression spasms, and he finally looks at them. “Fine,” he whispers. “Just . . . please don’t hate me.”
“I won’t.”
A tape recorder clicks on, filling the break room with a rhythmic hum.
“Statement of Gerard Keay, regarding . . .”
“The time I got thrown into a Vast domain.”
“Statement taken direct from subject. Statement begins.”
Gerry can feel the electric hum of power in the millisecond before their mouth opens, and they listen with a strange sense of distant curiosity as words tumble out of their mouth.
They tell the story of the first time they’d bumped into Mike Crew. They were hunting down a Leitner and got to it as the same time as that bastard. He threw them into his Domain, and then let them go as soon as he’d gotten the book under lock and key.
He’d said that they weren’t scared enough. Gerry had nodded, considered their options, and punched him.
“Fair enough,” Mike had said dispassionately. The only part of him that didn’t look washed-out and pale was the blood dripping from his nose.
Gerry beat him to the next book, and he had glared at them like a storm on the horizon promising violence.
“But that’s a different statement,” they finish, and smile at Jon. The weight of being Watched slips away.
Jon exhales with relief and looks away.
Hm. It was sort of relaxing, they decide, but their throat feels rough from speaking. They steal Jon’s glass of water and down half of it in one go. “Did that help?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good. You’re way too thin.” They push the glass back across the table and contemplate the distance to the cabinets. Their mouth still feels dry.
“You don’t—you’re not angry?”
“Of course not,” they say. But Jon looks like he’s on the verge of tears, so they squeeze his hand and say, “I promise, Jon. I’m here.”
“I . . .” He trails off miserably.
His arm moves slightly, an aborted motion, but Gerry sees his silhouette shift and holds out their free arm.
Jon is caught between hesitancy and eagerness. “Is this alright?” they ask hesitantly.
Gerry answers by tugging him into their lap, and they relish the contact. Jon practically melts in their arms. They hug him closer and murmur, “I’m here.”
“I-I’m here,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”
They’re both together. They’re alive, and they’re out of the Coffin.
Gerry stares at a normal wall, not pitch–dark rock. They feel clean, and they can breathe, and they hold their anchor in their arms. The embers of hope that they’d thought were long snuffed out glow warm in their chest.