#corrupted fic

“Soooo... dreaming?” Tim suggests.

No. The… he’s connected to the people he's seeing. I don't understand. This isn't a power he should possess.

Tim tries to parse that. “So should I try to see what he's seeing?”

No. That’s too big a spell for our first practice.

“Fine. Jon. Come on, mate. You can do it.”

“Nng?” Jon says, and cracks his eyes open. “Tim?”

“Yeah. You okay?”

Jon’s eyes fill.

Oh, no, thinks Tim. "You good, bud?"

“Can I… tell you something?” says Jon, slowly sitting up. “And I mean that phrasing, though may I is also included, but I’m not sure I can. Oh. Also, good morning."

Hastur huffs.

Tim ignores both grammatical tomfoolery and jealous cattery. “Morning. So yeah, try. Take as long as you need.”

Jon swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubs his cheek, and makes a face at whatever he finds there. “I’m really… I’m struggling with all this.”

Tim nods. “I get that. A few days ago, I would have sworn to you in front of a judge, a priest, and a virgin that there was no such thing as magic or souls or whatever. And here we are.”

Jon's lips quirk. "Well, you've got one of those here, should you feel inclined to try. So. Here we are,” he says, and seems to come to a decision.

Did I hear you say you're a virgin?

Right, Tim's ignoring that. "I'm all ears."

Jon swallows. “When I was eight years old, I had a particular bully. He was about… I don’t know, eighteen or so? Big enough to cause problems, and old enough that his word was taken over mine.”

Tim knew it. This guy has been bullied his whole life. Still is, and thinks it is normal. It occurs to Tim that Jon would not know if Elias ("if," that’s really funny) has been crossing lines he shouldn’t. It would fall too neatly into Jon’s ouvre, just with a little extra supernatural spice.

Tim is completely sure Elias is aware of this. Tim is completely sure Elias has blown past those lines for years now.

Tim is angry enough he almost misses when Jon starts talking again. “When I was young, I was a deeply annoying child.” And Jon does a laugh he clearly feels is expected at the expense of his younger self. “So it wasn’t that surprising. The thing is, I… I found a Leitner.”

Tim stiffens. “The fuck? You were eight!”

“Yes,” says Jon, like leftover coffee grinds. “I don’t want to go into all of it right now, but… this book almost got me eaten by a giant spider that lived in a house.” He swallowed. “Instead, my bully came along. He knocked the book out of my hands, knocked me down, then picked it up to use its contents to mock me.”

Tim knows. “And he got eaten instead.”

“Yes.” Jon covers his face.

"Jon, this... this wasn't your fault. Any of it. There's no such thing as a kid who deserves to be bullied."

“I know that," Jon says into his hands, "but I still feel like it was.”

Perhaps his fate was justice, Hastur says.

“For just shoving another kid on the playground?” Jon bursts, and laughs weakly. “No. No. It should’ve been me. It wasn’t, and I’ve spent my whole life trying to disprove what happened. To prove it couldn’t happen, because statistically, something like that cannot possibly be a one-off, and it was real, it did happen, and now so much more is real than I imagined, and this isn’t… this isn’t how I wanted it to go. That’s all.” He rubs his eyes. “I sound pathetic.”

You do, says Hastur before Tim can stop him, but that's not a terrible thing in this circumstance.

“Hastur,” Tim warns.

No, says Hastur. He should hear this. Sometimes, the universe produces justice. More often, it doesn't; but I find the fact that a near-adult felt it fine to harm a true child, and his doing so led to his death, directly, as a consequence of his own actions, absolves that child from any ill.

Jon looks up.

You are not guilty, Jonathan Sims, says Hastur with what sounds like all the authority he believes he once had, with the power of the pope, with a fucking god-like surety that sounds like he actually has the power to forgive sins.

Briefly, Tim is gripped with the mad urge to laugh, but he does not. Jon is staring, wide-eyed, and seems to be taking this very seriously. “You do?” whispers Jon.

Well, Tim can’t laugh now.

I do, confirms Hastur. And I think you know I’d hardly lie to you. I don’t even like you, particularly—but Tim does, so for his sake, I will speak. You did not do this. Let that shame go.

Jon stares. His eyes are wide, amazed, moved.

This, Tim suddenly realizes, is probably one of the ways Hastur manages to get cultists in this day and age: showing up, being all this, making them feel heard and special. Nope.

Cutting that off at the pass. “He’s a dick about it,” he says, keeping his tone light, “but I agree. There’s no excuse to bully someone less than half your age.”

Jon drops his gaze. “I suppose.”

“So do I.” Tim has no intention of letting Hastur bait that hook again, whatever hook it is. “So you’re having trouble with all of this because it’s happening so fast… and you have such a big reason to want it untrue. I get it.”

Jon rubs his eyes again like a tired child.

“Come on, man,” says Tim, helping him stand. “Get a shower.”

“I didn’t… my clothes,” says Jon pathetically.

“Your utterly gore-soaked clothes? Yeah, I’m calling a pass on that,” says Tim. “I’ll find you something. Just go get cleaned up, okay? Food, then, too.”

“And then?”

“Then… we might be going to Sheffield,” says Tim, hoping desperately that he is not, in fact, herding all three of them to their doom.

Jon obeys and goes to shower. He doesn’t even remember to close the door.

Tim sighs. “Yeah, we’re doing great.”

At least we feel less nauseated, says Hastur.

“You’ve really got a thing about throwing up, don’t you?” says Tim, checking drawers. As he thought, clothing of various sizes sits in these drawers, cleaned and pressed and waiting for whomever. “The fuck does he do here?” he mutters to himself.

I just don’t like it, says Hastur after a long moment.

“Throwing up?”

Who does?

“Nobody, but… oh, he’ll like this,” says Tim, and lifts out a simple green button-down, Oxford-collar and—as if planted—a nothing-brown sweater-vest with dark green chevron stripes.

He will, says Hastur. Also, did he say he was a virgin?

"That really isn't our business, Hastur?"

Of course, of course. I'm merely concerned for his welfare, both mentally and physically.

Tim cannot help his eye-roll. “Don’t think I trust this sudden opinion change of yours,” he says, laying the clothes on the bed next to some socks and boxers.

What? says Hastur, innocently. I am allowed to change my mind, Tim.

“Yeah, but you don’t go from not liking someone to liking them for no reason.”

Let’s just say… Hastur seems to consider his words. I like the sounds he makes when he is drunk.

"Okay, but that's worse? You see how that's worse, right?" Tim suggests politely, and heads for the stairs.

Oh, Tim, hums Hastur, you’re so suspicious.

“And that didn’t go very far in easing my suspicions,” Tim quips.

Hastur laughs at him.

Or maybe with him. It’s such a big, cruel sound that it’s hard to tell, and Tim’s imagination puts that sound in some interesting situations, and oh, it would work so well, and before he knows it, he finds himself asking— “Say,” he says. “Is that what you really sound like?”

My voice? Yes, says Hastur.

Tim decides he has no safe reply, and goes silent.

#

There are voices down there. One of them is Elias, and he’s… laughing? No, not quite laughing—it isn’t that evil as fuck sound he let loose earlier today. No, that’s… that’s…

“Is he fucking flirting?” mutters Tim.

He can feel Hastur startle. What? What makes you say that?

“Just listen.” Tim leans on the banister, doing just that. “The way he’s talking. It’s flirty as fuck.”

Hastur listens. It sounds aggressive to me, both passive and otherwise.

“Yeah, it’s that, too,” says Tim. “It’s the way he’s talking. Familiar. Definitely flirty. Distinctly rude. The fuck is down there, his ex-wife?”

Sounds male to me.

“Yeah,” says Tim, unsure if he wants to walk into whatever this is. He sighs. “Let’s get it done.”

With Elias, in the kitchen, is a man. A large man, beefy and broad, with white hair and beard, wearing a dark pea-coat and white captain's hat lined with gold leaves. And the man is already looking Tim’s way, as if he knew he was coming down before Tim did.

Elias turns in his chair and beams. “Tim! There you are. Come down here and meet your new business partner.”

So Elias is putting it on thick, and everything Tim thought upstairs is, he's sure, confirmed. The two are sitting an inch too close together with their hands too close on the table, yet the captain guy leans away from Elias like he’d rather be anywhere else, and Elias is utterly gleeful about the whole weird setup.

If this isn’t an ex, Tim will eat that captain’s hat. “Hi,” he says, and sits in a chair across from them. “So. Weird day, huh?”

The captain smiles. It’s a fantastic smile, friendly; the white beard and hair don’t match the youth of his face, and Tim has no idea how old this guy is. “So this is your mystery-sorcerer, is it? Nice to meet you, nice to meet you. Call me Peter.”

‘Peter’ doesn’t offer a hand to shake, so Tim doesn’t, either. “Tim. Business partner?”

“Peter Lukas is captain and owner of the Tundra, a large, seaworthy beast that can and has take you where you need to go,” says Elias.

“Part-owner,” says Peter so affably that Tim has no question Elias' comment was a stab.

Elias looks briefly shocked. “Part?”

Peter ignores him, confirming it. “I’m told you’re going to need some help reaching a few difficult places. Not to worry. I’ve got the resources to get you there, as long as the Institute fronts the funds.”

Tim looks at Elias.

“Oh, we’ll be paying, don’t worry,” Elias says brightly. “It all goes under the operating budget.”

“The hiring of random vessels to go someplace difficult,” says Tim as dryly as he can.

“Oh, I like this one, Elias,” says Peter. “He’s got a bit of bite to him, doesn’t he?”

“I was concerned you might,” says Elias.

“Well, not to worry. The issue at hand for me is impossible with this fellow,” says Peter as if that makes sense. “That’s all right. The money’s good, and it isn’t that long a trip.”

“Really?” says Elias sounding ridiculously amazed. “The Arctic is hardly right around the corner."

“The Arctic?” blurts Tim.

Peter waves his hand, affable and dismissive of all that Elias is. “Not to worry, Tim. It’s hardly time for your trip now, is it? I understand you’re going to Sheffield.”

Tim stares. “So… did you just tell him all the things, or is my National Insurance number still under wraps?”

Captain Peter laughs. It’s a great laugh. He’s absolutely delightful to hear, to watch, and yet it feels like the edge of an abandoned moor covered in mist and ready to swallow travelers.

The Lonely, whispers Hastur, and he feels afraid.

Well, that cinches it. “Thanks, but I think I have to decline?” says Tim, who will stand the fuck up for Hastur no matter if he’s a god.

Elias smiles.

Fuck, thinks Tim, because it’s clear Elias expected him to protest.

“Well, I can’t say that’s particularly wise,” says Elias, “but if you really want to abandon your passenger’s plans, that’s up to you.”

What? says Hastur, who perks up like a German Shorthaired Pointer. What? What about me?

“The item you need is in Sannikov Land,” says Elias mildly.

Oh, shit. The god-flesh. “The g… the thing is in the Arctic?” Tim squeaks.

Then we must go.

“Hold on,” says Tim.

Non-negotiable. If what I need is there…

“It is,” Elias says. “Anyway, all of this is moot. You’re going to Sheffield today, and assuming that goes as we all hope—”

“Wait, you said you were going to work on that,” Tim breaks in.

“Indeed. Chief Inspector Henderson has assigned some capable people to set up the sting. All you need to do is go.”

Tim can feel the incredulous face he’s making, but it goes beyond even the power of baby Merlin to stop it. “So,” he says, casually, “you ever have a moment when you realize your life has gone completely insane, and that maybe you’re just hallucinating, because what in actual hell is going on?”

Captain Peter smiles and laughs again, the perfect response, light and chipper. “Yes,” he says. “And I must say, Tim, you seem to be handling it admirably.”

But Tim knows how he feels, and knows his instinct is almost wrong, and he is absolutely certain that Peter is not moved by his charm. That Peter is repulsed by it. That Peter feels Tim’s amiability, and it disgusts him on some wild, deep level that Tim has never known. Hastur’s whispered words suddenly make sense. “The Lonely?” Tim says. “That’s one of these fear-gods? Loneliness?”

“You’ve known a bit of it yourself,” says Peter absolutely winningly. “I can see it on you—though with your partnership, you’ve certainly gone beyond its reach now, haven’t you? Ha-ha!”

While Tim has Hastur, he isn’t alone. “Yeeaah,” he says, drawing the word out. “Is being Lonely-core sort of inherently creepy, or is that just a quality of being Elias’s ex-whatever?”

They both look shocked.

(That may be the most satisfying thing that’s happened in days.)

Hastur laughs, low and wicked and eager.

Elias turns to Peter. “I did warn you.”

“Yes, well,” says Peter. “Well. Not to worry. I’ve handled rougher seas. And I'll be ferrying you toward an end-game, anyway.”

Was that a threat? Did this Peter have his sight set on them after they were separated? After, when Tim could be alone again? “Ratcheting up the creep factor a bit much, aren’t you?”

“Only in response to aggressive protective coloring,” beams Peter.

That was pretty good. Tim snorts. “I can't decide if I like you or want to set you on fire.”

“Prefer a bit more distance, if it’s all the same to you,” says Peter Lukas as if he’s flirting and not offering to stay far, far away.

“Wonderful! We're all getting along,” says Elias, and claps his hands. “The lieutenant is nearly here. I'll let you know when they're ready, Peter.”

Lukas stands. He’s tall. Large. Tree-like, and Tim has a wild image of this form against a backdrop of waves and moon and mist and mourn, somehow immaterial as if made of fog and sorrow, and it is terrifying. It is fear embodied of being abandoned, alone, in a world unseen of roaming eyes that see but never notice, laughter far away but never shared, homes and hearths so distant they did not even reflect on the water, and you will always be alone—

Whatever rises from Hastur now is rage-kissed, loud, shakes the table, rattles the china, and makes the lights flicker. Hands off. Do that again, avatar, and you will be alone in Hell.

“I'm not entirely sure if you’re actually trying to ward me off with a promise like that,” says Peter Lukas cheerfully. He taps his hat. “See you soon.” He leaves. He does not, Tim notes, require direction out, or lack knowledge on how to lock up.

Elias is smiling.

“Soooo,” says Tim. “That guy. You two?”

Elias waves the question away. “His family is one of the prime sources of funding for the Institute.”

Tim’s feeling spicy. “So you married in?”

“No, of course not,” says Elias. “We've merely known each other for a very long time.”

“If you haven't fucked, I'll eat his damn hat,” says Tim, which is, of course, when Jon arrives at the bottom of the stairs.

Jon stumbles. “What? Who?” he says.

Elias smiles. “If you’re ready, I'll call you a car.”

“We can take the train, and don’t think I missed you didn’t answer,” says Tim.

Elias tilts his head, looking up through his eyelashes, absolutely salacious. “Tim. Do we need to involve HR?”

"Oh, wow," says Tim.

“Is something happening here I should know about?” says Jon as primly as if he’d walked in on children drawing on the walls with Sharpies.

For absolutely no sane reason, Tim is struck with the giggles. “Could you two be more opposite?”

“We’re not opposite at all,” murmurs Elias. “Not at our core. In the end, we will both do whatever it takes… to see.”

Jon has gone still as a statue. He looks caught.

So that backfired. “Oh, good, the baiting started nice and early today,” says Tim. “Come on, Sims. I'll get you breakfast en route.”

“I—”

“Nope,” says Tim preemptively, and takes him by the arm. Then he hesitates. “You mind if I, ah. Touch you like this?”

Jon looks up. “Does it mean I’m going with you on whatever your next assignment is?”

Fuck, Tim thinks. “Yes.”

“Then you may do whatever you need,” says Jon in full Received Pronunciation, and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Not until—ah! He’s here,” says Elias, and goes to get the door before the bell rings.

“Freaky, that guy,” murmurs Tim.

“Who’s here?” says Jon.

“I’ll handle this,” says Elias over his shoulder. “Let yourselves out through the kitchen.”

Don't be seen, is what that means. “Servants’ entrance, it is,” Tim drawls, and steers Jon out that door.

#

Elias must have an app or something, because the car he called is already here. Tim slips into the back with Jon. As he guessed, the driver knows where they’re going.

The driver is… large? Very large. Uncomfortably large, slightly hunched to keep his head from hitting the ceiling, shoulders considerably wider than the seat. Something is really weird about this guy. Tim subtly makes sure the doors are not locked.

"Food in the bag there," says the driver, who has a thick accent, a thick voice, a meaty pronunciation. "Sandwich."

"Oh! Oh, thank you?" Jon stares at the driver. Obviously stares, which will not go well even if the guy is normal.

“So,” says Tim, pulling his attention away, and drops his voice. “Seems we’re gonna be doing a sting.”

“A… a sting?” whispers Jon.

“Yeah. Setting it up to take down some firebugs. That's who was at the door—a cop.”

Jon stares. “Since when are you working for the police?”

“I’m not?”

It’s the Desolation, Hastur says quietly.

Jon pales, going slightly green. “Oh,” he says.

Tim suspects Jon knows more about them than he does. He lacks the courage to follow that trail right now. “They… they want to talk to me,” says Tim. “They don’t know I've got… you know.” He points at himself, and Jon nods. “So, yeah, Elias seems to think we’re setting up a sting, or something. The idea is pulling that Hunt lady off our trail.”

“You don’t know many details for the bait being dangled,” Jon murmured.

“You don’t have to go with me,” says Tim. “You can get out. The guy can stop the car.”

“No.”

“Jon, this is a really bad idea.” He doesn’t want to be mean about it. “You’re just the type of person they’ll…”

“Want to hurt?” says Jon, who may be weirdly naive, but isn’t actually stupid. “I’ve no doubt.”

Tim sighs. “I don’t really like this, sempai.”

Jon looks so grim. “I'm not worried about me. The real harm they can do is lure you in, I reason. With your abilities, you could destroy the entire world.”

Tim dearly wishes Jon hadn’t said that.

He can feel it. The hunger for it. The anticipated joy of destroying everything that had ever hurt him, and he has to turn away and look out the window and remember why he wants to save the world and not damn it.

It takes a minute. It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. It’s a need so deep that it feels like an integral part of him. Tim wipes his eyes.

You’re all right, Hastur soothes. Breathe with me. In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four five…

“Fucking dom,” Tim whispers, managing a weak smile, and looks back at Jon.

Jon is watching him. Only watching him, and yet Tim can feel it. It’s the strangest thing. It is… not comfortable. In a flash of instinct, Tim knows something else is watching him through those brown eyes.

“Is that the Eye?” he blurts.

Yes, says Hastur.

“What?” says Jon, startling, fortunately falling out of it.

That felt awful. Tim sighs. "Bloody hell. We're a mess, you know?”

Jon nods. “I suppose.”

Tim settles back and pulls out his phone. “Oy, driver—any chance you got some kind of mobile plug situation?”

“Yeah,” says the guy in that big, meaty voice to go with his big, meaty self, and without looking, hands back two wires with different connectors.

“Baller,” says Tim, and offers one to Jon.

“Thanks,” says Jon, taking it, and then—still holding it as if he’d forgotten it existed—pulls statements from his bag to read.

Tim pops in his ear buds, cranks up some Clean Bandit, and tries to ignore that call to end the world.

#

Three hours in traffic aren’t too bad. They give Tim a chance to snooze while not inebriated, which is immediately more restful, and to calm himself down as much as he can.

He knows Jon is right. This could be a problem. A huge risk. It’s not dissimilar to waving a chunk of meat in front of the lioness he nearly let loose in fucking Chelsea. Tim sighs. What magic do you want to practice doing?

He can feel Hastur all but sit up with ears perked like a happy puppy. You’re willing?

Feel like it might be a good idea. Beside him, Jon still reads statements, hunched over, a gargoyle-monk-nerd combination (including brown skin, which Tim is certain has a lot to do with his targeting) that is either endearing or annoying, with no in-between.

Tim finds him endearing. Poor little guy.

Yes, yes, ignore him. Let’s focus on us.

“What?” says Jon.

“Nothing,” says Tim. “We’re planning. Go back to your scary bits.”

Jon gives him a scathing look Tim wishes he could bottle and goes back to the scary bits.

We will begin with something so very small. Your imagination is keen and clear; your power is wildly strong. Thus, we will start slowly, and I will help you.

You have the power to help me? I mean… you can interfere?

I don’t have your will or thoughts like I do your hand. Hastur is almost gentle saying that. But I can talk you through. Help keep you grounded. And I think, when we sync properly, I will be able to help throttle, as well.

Tim sighs, puffing out his cheeks. Swear to me on John’s grave this isn’t some scheme to take control.

There is a pause, and Tim realizes he’s caused hurt.

It is not a scheme to take control.

Hey. I’m sorry. Didn’t know that’d hurt you.

Another pause. It did not, Hastur lies like a chump.

Someday, he's going to have to get the details on this whole John and Arthur situation. Sure.

“About ‘ere,” says the driver, slowing down. “Sure about this place? Not a nice area.”

“Yeah,” says Tim. “Uh. This.” He holds out the letter, carefully folded to hide all but the address.

“Yeah, that’s it,” says the driver. “Dunno who sent you here, but they’re not your friend.” And he laughs, almost a wet sound, definitely a cruel one.

Who in fuck has Elias hired to do this? “So, uh,” says Tim. “Did he pay you, or…”

“I’m paid,” says the guy, and rolls down his window to spit out of it, and maybe so his left arm can finally move. “Be here when you get out. Don’t take too long. ‘S not fun defending the bloody car, innit?”

“Sure,” says Tim, and elbows Jon.

Jon, who was so absorbed in his statements that he didn’t even realize the car had stopped. Jon, who was so glued to the page that he blinks as if waking from a deep and druggy sleep. Jon, who… actually looks a hell of a lot better than he did three hours ago. There’s color in his cheeks; his eyes are less tired. “What?” he says.

“We’re here,” says Tim. “Just let me talk, okay? Please. And, uh… since the car’s staying, maybe leave all that inside? It’s flammable.”

Jon looks as though Tim suggested they hunt down any infant relatives he might have and feeding them to crocodiles. “Oh!” he says, and briefly clutches manila folders to his chest. “Oh. Yes, you’re right, of course. Very good suggestion.” He takes a moment to pack it all away.

Tim breathes slowly. “I can do this.”

Yes. You can do this.

Tim swallows around the lump in his throat. “I can do this. They won’t get me. Or you. Or anybody.”

Before you, I would have assumed no human could. But you… Tim, I believe you can.

Hastur might be lying. Tim is too upset to tell right now. “Thanks.”

“All right,” says Jon, who has tucked his bag against seat in front of him. “Let’s go.”

Tim takes another breath and opens the door. His heart is pounding.

“I’ll be here,” says the driver, sounding bored, his arm and shoulder fully out of the car.

That guy has got to be eight feel tall. And wide, Tim thinks.

Hastur chuckles softly. At least he might make a good shield, should we need to run.

"Rather not," Tim murmurs, and walks.

The building in front of them used to be office space. No one uses it now, nor most of this street; and for there to be such unused real estate is, Tim knows, definitely a sign of bad things.

I can do this, he tells himself, double-checking Jude Perry’s instructions as he heads around the side toward the alley-facing door. I can do this. Jon is on his heels, and breathing quickly (afraid), and Tim does not like how it makes him feel, how that appeals, how the same patient wickedness that wants to burn the world loves that fear. I can do this, he thinks, and does not believe, and opens the unlocked door. And there—

So it had to be a good dozen people once. Maybe. There are at least twelve heads, faces stretched in terror, lying at obscene angles all over the floor.

And it had to be a good dozen recent people, too, because the blood is still fresh, and the torn limbs are still oozing, and ruptured bowels are still leaking, and Tim gags even as the sound of messy, open-mouth chewing draws his eyes away from the discard pile and to the current smorgasbord.

Three mostly-whole dead people lie there, piled, their flesh sort of crushed together like fisted ground burger, their blood shockingly red, the odor of their offal thick and greasy and bad, and a man crouches over them like something out of a zombie game.

He wears ordinary clothes—a button-down white shirt, horrifically stained, and tan slacks, and polished brown Oxfords, and for no reason Tim spots the expensive FitBit, and the neat round glasses (wire-framed) which sit folded on the floor just out of the splatter zone, and the carefully combed blond hair, and the gore up to his elbows, and the man turns with fresh flesh dangling from his mouth and pupils that have completely overrun whatever color his irises used to be, and he smiles, and flesh falls with a splut from his mouth as he speaks with an American southern accent which makes it all seem more surreal.

“Well,” says the man, standing smoothly, nary a popping knee or hesitation to indicate any kind of stiffness or lack of ability to get them. “I do declare! I didn’t expect you to walk right into my lap.”

Jon gasps. “That’s him! The guy from the hospital!”

The man glances past Tim toward Jon. “Huh,” he says. “Tastier than you were, by golly… but I think I’ll let you marinate a bit more. Now, this, though.” He takes one step toward them, and viscera squishes under his shoe like jelly. “This is a fuckin’ proper feast.”

Run! Hastur bellows.

Tim does not need a second warning.

He does not question his reach for power.

Does not question his choice to grab Jon around the waist like a scared rabbit and bolt, and run, and tear down the alley.

His terror overwhelms any mad desire to stay and burn their enemy down because it didn't work for the others and definitely will not work for him.

Jon screams.

The guy is right behind them, and Tim thinks, briefly, I need to fly! which he does not know how to do, and in desperation and terror and fear, he leaps.

“Hey!” shouts the pupil-void man behind them, below them, and Tim already knows that he has no idea how to do this, and he is not flying, but he has leaped a tall building in a single bound and they are coming down hard a couple streets over, falling as the wind steals Jon’s screams, and he does the only thing he can think to do: he imagines-yearns-demands-commands a portal to the ocean, so they can land without breaking like dropped eggs.

Suddenly they are no longer in the city at all, and smack into the water hard enough to knock out his breath.

The cold salt is a shock, and he already knows Jon inhaled it, and Tim kicks as hard as he can, eyes burning, aiming toward the light because that’s the only way he knows which way is up.

They surface, gasping, coughing, choking, their clothing dragging them down, smacked in the face by careless waves.

There is no land in sight.

Tim is dizzy. Very dizzy. Badly dizzy. “Fuck!” he manages.

Steady! Steady! Whatever invectives or oaths Hastur might have to share, he’s holding them back for now. We work together. Another portal is too much. All we need is a boat. You can do a boat. Summon it, create it. Anything. Even a fucking log. You can do this, Tim! You can do this!

Jon chokes, goes under a grasping wave. Surfaces again, eyes red and streaming, coughing up water.

Tim tries to recall the yacht from the billionaire he slept with. A twinge in his head; no go.

Tim tries to imagine an ordinary sailboat, lovely and new. A twinge in his head; no go.

Fuck it. He imagines a raft from some kid’s book he read, logs strapped together with a truly useless sail. Of course, that works.

And it is any port in a gods-damned storm. Tim gets behind Jon by some miracle and swims backwards, pulling toward that raft, which he wills not to get away from them in spite of the waves that lift them and lift the raft and put it out of their view and dunk them under and—

Hastur’s hand grabs it.

Tim muscles Jon onto it enough for him to pull himself aboard, then manages to climb on after him, gasping. Shuddering. He can feel it coming: exhaustion. Unconsciousness. And yes… he’s probably going to lose another body-part.

He wants to cry. He doesn’t want to lose body-parts. He doesn’t want to be blind, or crippled. Or lost on a raft in rough seas who the fuck knows where.

I’ve got you, says Hastur, his left arm wrapped around Tim, secure and tight. I’ve got you. You saved us. Whatever comes of this, you saved us.

“What… what…” Jon is gasping, and throws up more water.

“Guy from…” Tim clings to consciousness. The sun is horrible. He hates the sun, he decides. “The hospital? The one you texted me about?”

“I forgot about him,” Jon manages, draped over his own waist. “I froze. I… thank you. I froze.” His voice breaks. “He would’ve gotten me, and I’d have stood there. You… you saved me. Again.”

You saved us all.

Tim turns so that awful horrible terrible sun (which he does not picture blowing up because who the fuck knows anymore) doesn’t destroy his remaining eye, and curls on his side. “I’m afraid.”

Jon doesn’t know the reason. He can’t. “We'll find land. We... where the blasted… where are we?”

I know, says Hastur, who does know, and even in this state, Tim can feel that he is not eager, that he is not demanding, that Hastur feels regret. I’ve got you. Whatever comes, I’ve got you.

Tim has to believe him. He can’t stay awake any longer.

He waited what felt like an age before he heard a familiar voice calling out his name. Looking up, he saw Flamey running up to him, a smile on her face. He grinned at her as she approached. As she got closer, however,her smile faded and she slowed down, stopping a distance from him and looking hesitant. His grin disappeared as he remembered everything that had happened previously.