Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Cannit believe Roger an’ Tom are late again, fucking sick of this.”

You know what they say about curiosity and cats, but you’re human, much bigger than a cat. Surely you’d be able to survive something a cat might not. Besides, curiosity might’ve killed several cats in it’s time, but it hasn’t killed you yet.

Although, you are starting to wonder if it might get you this time.

It’s not your fault though, really, it’s isn’t. Your two employers had been very firm about never ever, under any circumstances going into the basement, and you didn’t really plan to, honest! But your stupid little brain had lit up and about a month after being hired here you are.

“I can keep watch? Just uh, until Roger and Tom get here… it’s usually only about 10 minutes right?”

Dale jumps slightly before brightening, “Christ lass, you scared me, and that’s mighty generous of you but are ya sure?”

“Yeah! Yeah, you guys shouldn’t have to wait around after your shift, besides, it’s just sitting and watching it right?”

Of course, you have no idea what it is.

Dale glances across to Madeline, who scrutinises you, and you try to give a reassuring smile but it probably comes across more as politely nervous, before she gives a little shrug and turns towards the door.

“Cheers pet, you’re a lifesaver.”

And then they’re both gone.

You glance warily up to the top of the grand staircase, concerned you’d find Alex or Paul watching you disappointedly and shaking their head like you’d failed a test of some sort. It’s a relief to find the halls empty.

It’s 08:03am and you’re likely the only person in the house who’s awake, and yet you have the overwhelming need to go about unheard. Even the slight sound of your socked feet crossing the hallway is too loud in the tense atmosphere. The air is weighed down with anticipation, like the entire universe is holding its breath, waiting for you to open the door in front of you.

Cautiously, you push the old wooden door open. The hinges are silent and yet still give the impression of a loud creak. It’s heavy, the door that is, although even now it feels as though something is pressing down on you, urging you forwards, to descend the well lit stairs.

There’s something about the brightness that is... wrong. Fundamentally. Stairs into basements behind forbidden doors should be dark, dim and perhaps lit only with candles. Not these fluorescent lights that bathe everything in a sickly yellow-white glow.

There’s no railing on the stairs either. The wrongness thickens.

An iron gate awaits you at the bottom and you’re so focused on the rust that covers it you almost disregard the room beyond it. Almost.

The gate is heavy and half way open when you notice it. The glass and metal sphere suspended in the middle of the damp stone room, the odd pale shape inside of it, the- the man inside of it.

“Oh god,” the words are barely more than a breath, much quieter than your clumsy attempts to drag open the gate and yet it seems to be your speech that draws the man’s attention. You abandon your quest to open the gate fully and slide yourself through the gap you’d already made.

One dark eye watches you from where his face is buried in a too skinny arm, and if not for his gaze you’d think him dead. He doesn’t move, not to sit up, not to blink, not even to breathe, no rhythmic up and down to his shoulders, no inflating of his chest.

Fuck, is there even air in there?

“Fuck, fuck. Shit, oh my god what the fuck.”

You don’t notice the trembling hand you’ve pressed to your mouth until the litany of swears come out muffled. You also don’t notice you’ve been steadily getting closer to the entrapped man until your foot slips over the edge of the actual godamn fucking moat surrounding his prison.

“Motherfu-“ you somehow remain standing despite having nearly broken your ankles and step carefully over the dark water.

You look up, nearly jump backwards in fright, and take a very small, very careful step back. You’re face to face with the being - this can’t be a man, no man could survive this, surely - and are suddenly struck with the wondering of how long he has been here.

“Are you…” you trail off, glad you hadn’t managed to ask your stupid question, considering he is quite obviously not alright.

“Gods, how long have you been here?”

Dale had once told you he’d had this job for 12 years, that someone who retired on his 3rd year had had the job for almost 40. Fuck, 50 years, locked in a godamn cage.

“This is wrong, this is- ha, this is so unbelieving wrong. How have none of them..? Have they really all just left you here? Not a single person’s let you out? Shit. Shit is there a lock on this thing? I can’t fucking beli-“

He’s moved. In your outraged rambling and frantic searching for a way to open the- the bubble, you missed it. He’s moved his entire head to face you, brought his arm down, sat up a little straighter. You can see his ribs. Hell, you could count his ribs.

You want to cry, can feel the tears building behind your eyes and the tension in your forehead as your brows pinch together. You can’t cry, you can’t. There’s shit to do, so you scrunch your eyes closed and wipe at them with the heels of your palms, take a deep breath, and forcefully relax your —well— everything.

“How do I get you out?”

The being looks somewhat surprised, even if he does manage to mostly contain his reaction, before eyeing you somewhat suspiciously. And shit, if your heart wasn’t tearing itself apart already that would’ve done the job.

“Break the circle.”

His voice is deep and soft, more soft than you think any human deserves from him after putting him through this. Even with that softness though, it sends shivers and a tingle of fear racing down your spine. There’s something ancient and unnatural in the tone of it; the prey parts of your brain practically light up. If you’d suspected before, you’re sure now, this being is not human.

Your eyes flicker between his, hummingbird fast, searching for any hint of malevolence but all that tentatively shines in those star filled eyes is- hope. Decision made, your gaze snaps to the circle of golden symbols at your feet.

But, opposite to where you stand there’s a dark stain, streaked across the stone, it catches your attention unexpectedly. The morbidity of it strikes something behind your sternum. Your entire self aches for whoever it was that bled there as you notice the scratches and tiny chips in the glass directly above the mark. It takes a few seconds to blink away the prickling behind your eyelids again.

“And I just….?” You scuff your foot against the outer layer of the circle and watch as it smears and distorts. The feeling in the room changes, it’s difficult to tell whether you feel lighter or more weighed down, the atmosphere is simply, different. It’s so incomprehensibly wrong that something which has helped to contain this being for at least 50 years should be so easy to remove, and yet, it is. Each layer of old paint flakes away under your ministrations until you break all the way through.

When you look back up again the being has moved to sit straight backed with his legs crossed at the ankles, too dignified to ever be described as pressing his knees to his chest, and yet that’s exactly what he’s doing. For some stupid, stupid, inconceivable reason you reach up to tentatively press your hand to the glass. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, only your overwhelming sorrow that anyone has had to suffer this way.

Your other hand clenches into a fist by your side, insurmountable anger coursing through you at the thought that anyone could do this to someone, questionably human or otherwise. The bite of your nails into your palms brings a familiar grounding sensation as you scrunch your eyes closed and take a deep breath before reopening them.

His head tilts to the side, gaze contemplating as his spine curves forwards and his arm begins to raise. You hold your breath as his fingertips press to the other side of the glass, but before his palm presses down his eyes flick to the side of you and all the stars in them wink out.

At the other end of his scrutiny stands Paul Burgess pushing Alex Burgess in his wheelchair with Tom and Roger on either side of them. All four of them are staring at where your hand is pressed to the glass cage. It feels like hours before anyone moves, when in reality it must only be seconds, the flurry of motion is triggered by you snapping your hand down to your side and sidestepping to block their view of the being in the cage.

Both Mr Burgesses have retreated back to outside the iron gate. Roger is front and centre, his gun out and pointing unwaveringly at you. Tom waits slightly back and to the side, gun half drawn from his holster. You swallow and take a deep breath but remain steadfastly blocking their view.

“Come on girl, step away.” Roger’s condescending tone matched with his grating voice causes your entire face to twitch.

Narrowing your eyes slightly as you give him your best glare you reply with no hesitation.

“No.”

Your eyes track him as Tom shifts slightly, uncomfortable in the face of Roger’s unfaltering aim as he continues to point his weapon at you.

And God, isn’t that a thought? There’s a gun pointed at you. One twitch of a finger and you’re dead, and the being in the cage stays trapped. He stays trapped and no one ever helps him.

Everything blurs slightly as your eyes unfocus before you tighten your fists as realisation strikes you. Your mouth twitches slightly before the corners tilt up into a considering smile.

“You can’t shoot me, can you? You can’t shoot me because I have parents and friends and classes and people who’ll notice if i’m not there. Because how would you justify it? If I go missing they’ll come here, the police I mean, they’ll know this is where I work and they’ll come here and they’ll find your prisoner and that wouldn’t be very good would it? And if I lived? If you shoot me and I live? Then you’ll never fucking get away with this.”

By the end of your tirade you’re verging on hysterical, breathing harshly, and you can feel your cheeks begin to ache with the somewhat frenzied grin splitting your face. It widens further as Roger’s arm quivers, sinking down and then drawing back up. But you can tell you’ve got him thinking, there’s a furrow in his brow as he tries to decide what to do. Tom hasn’t moved an inch apart from to let his hands dangle loosely by his sides.

The room spins slightly as you clench and unclench your hands rapidly but you do your best to ignore it.

Almost imperceptibly, Roger’s aim drops to the floor, but you only notice when the gun points more towards your legs than your chest. Your attention is more focused on the way his eyes have glazed over and how he’s staring more through you than at you.

Your eyes slip closed for a fraction too long and you bring a relaxed hand up to your face. When did you stop balling your hands into fists? You rub tiredly at one eye and across the bridge of your nose, your cheek cupped by your palm and little finger resting against your parted lips.

All at once your knees buckle and your head becomes too heavy for your neck. You go from standing to splayed on your side in a matter of seconds and yet your body registers no pain, only the insignificant feeling of the cold and damp stone you rest on.

You’re deeply asleep before you even realise you were tired.

Not even two gunshots and the shattering of glass wakes you from your slumber. Nor the sensation of being lifted into the air and arranged comfortably on an old couch. In fact, it’s hours before you awaken, more well rested than you’ve ever been in your life.

You grab your bag and rush off, nervous about being late for class but ecstatic about the first dream you’ve ever had, or at least remembered having. You don’t think to check the basement. So you don’t find the four men dozing fitfully exactly in the places you dreamt them. You don’t find a smeared circle of flaking yellow paint, and you definitely don’t find a glass and iron cage with a shattered panel, nor the being that was kept in it.

You never go back to the Burgess house. You don’t remember why you quit your job there. The only reason it holds any significance in your mind is because it is where you had your first dream.

The first, but not the last.