#elsewhere au

The town Michael Crew lived in did not get a lot of visits. Sure, people would move in occasionally, retired couples or families that were simply too tired of the bigger cities and wanted something smaller. There had been moments when Mike was younger when he wanted to move to somewhere bigger. He had asked his dad once. ”There’s pollution out there. You won’t be able to see the stars. I thought you liked the stars?” Had been the response. By now Mike knew there was more than just stars keeping them from moving. Family, friends, traditions and memories. Memories had been a reason Mike once begged for them to move. For nearly an entire week after being struck by lightning. He had cried and begged to move, to never face Dominic again, to never see the field again, to never see the faces of those who knew what happened to that poor little eight year old. In the end it did not work. 

His parents' refusal to leave had also been a cause of why he never visited the train station. Most of the time the train would simply go past the station and town, letting the people inside see part of it for a moment while kids would sometimes gather close to a fence or the station to watch it pass. This day was different. 

It was a rather cold autumn afternoon. Mike stood alone on the platform, watching the sky go from blue to pink as he waited for the train. Wishing for the train to arrive quicker with each passing minute as his hands started to feel like ice. Eventually it did arrive. Letting one single person out before continuing its way to the next town. 

The man was pretty much the opposite of Mike. Taller, not like it was much of a surprise, most of the other students in his class were taller than him by now. Hair black and tied into a bun, dressed pretty much only in black, tie, jacket, vest, shoes - did his trousers have a hole by the knee? The only exception was he white shirt and brown messenger bag. 

”Hello." Gerard looked him up and down for a quick moment. "You haven’t changed much Michael.” 

”Mike. As I’ve told you the last times we’ve spoken.” Gerard just hummed. 

”Right, right.” He got out a pack of cigarettes, looking around for a moment. ”This had best be important, kid.” He continued. Putting one into his mouth. For a moment Mike considered making a comment about it, how it was bad for people around him having to breath in the smoke, not to mention the smell. But he held back. Not like they were in a crowd and Mike had gotten used to the smell thanks to his friend.

”I’m not a kid.” Gerard raised an eyebrow. 

”What? You’re 18 yet?”

”Well… no-”

”There you have it, kid.” Alright, Gerard was really getting on his nerves now. He watched as Gerard lit his cigarette. 

”Fine.” He sighed. ”Can we please just leave? I’m getting cold.”

”Sure, lead the way.”

“You said you used to do tattoo work?”

Champagne Pailyu looked up from the files she was reading over and raised a brow at the disheveled man leaning against the doorway. He wore a comfortable sweater vest over a button up shirt that he rolled the sleeves up on and kept unbuttoned. Somewhere in the Archives she was sure was his jacket. Poorly dyed black hair revealed that his natural hair color was blond. He had it haphazardly pulled back. Champagne wondered if he would ever let anyone else dye his hair or if he did it himself to make a point.

“‘Hello, Champagne. How are you doing, Champagne? Has anything tried to eat your face off lately?” She responded blandly as she pulled a small page marker post-it and tacked it along the side of the paper she was reading.

The woman in question had long sunset and copper hair that was currently braided back. With the colder damp weather, she was comfortable being cozied up in a thick oversized pink sweater pulled over her own white button up shirt. 

Gerry rolled his eyes at her, he would never admit the small huff was a laugh. The woman was the most polite person he had ever met, but she could be just as blunt as he was.

“Has anything tried since I last saw you?” Gerry asked as he walked into the office.

Filing cabinets filled the room along the walls, some old and overstuffed. Filing boxes filled the rest of the room. Each one was labeled in bright neat letters. Flesh. Dark. Eyes. Web. There were more lurking about and some had combinations. There were other things drawn onto the boxes and filing cabinets. Wards to keep things in… or out. Knowledge was just as dangerous as the things they tangled with.

Champagne snorted and waved her hand in the air. There were bandages wrapping her fingers, slightly stained, “Yes, actually. I shoved it back where it belonged so my face is whole.”

“Your face might be, but your hands don’t look like it.” He wasn’t worried. Gerry Delano could not afford to be worried. It would just be a terrible thing to lose a valuable resource like the woman who looked up at him with eyes that nearly matched the old amber colored light bulbs in the archive. Champagne looked at her hand and wiggled the fingers, “Eh, it is fine. Just some nasty little Flesh monster. Blood often reinforces my work anyway. I cleaned it thoroughly and will heal. At the most slightly marked, but not enough to become a big problem. Just another scar for the collection.”

Two of the most notable ones that she didn’t bother to hide were the large claw marks across her throat and the curious hand shaped burn on her wrist. Gerry didn’t ask how she earned them, even if part of him nagged to do so. He couldn’t tell how much was the Eye or was his own morbid curiosity.

Asking would mean he cared.

He didn’t care.

“Right. So, back to my first question.” Gerry pushed forward and he leaned his hip against her desk, arms crossed over his chest.

Champagne leaned back in her chair and looked up at him, “Yes, I used to be a professional tattoo artist. Shop and everything. Technically still am. Why?”

“I realized I can’t rely on you to bind things and seal them away all of the time.” Gerry responded and he watched her brow raise silently and a flicker of annoyance in her features before she smoothed them over. He wouldn’t admit to the pang of guilt he had as he quickly added, “We’re not always in the same place and you are dealing with plenty here, Archivist.”

“Champagne.” She sighed at him, “I keep telling you to use my name, Gerry.”

He wouldn’t do that. Archivists were a dime a dozen. Why bother learning a new name when another one would soon take their place?

When she noticed he wasn’t contributing more or bothering to correct himself, she sighed and studied him, “You want a tattoo, I take it, to enable you to bind the fears? You realize it took me years to learn how to do this? To learn what my gifts were meant for?”

“Sure, but I don’t have years. I’ve seen you do it. I have a basic idea. I need to be on the same level they are.” He told her, studying her features as she carefully schooled most of hers, only allowing bits and pieces out. It was something he appreciated, the professional distance between them. She had been integral in taking down the head of the institute, but there was a cost to such a thing. A tangled web woven by more than one. A ritual interrupted and the place of power claimed in such a way so the burden was shared. Neither losing their humanity as a whole, but he was certain his upbringing gave him a head start. Yet she took the position that risked so much more. Gerry was not sure how much was happenstance or choice, if he just happened to hand the Eye a more suitable vessel than himself.

Champagne pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something quietly under her breath. She must have been really annoyed to be showing this much to him.

“Quick and dirty will hurt. It will take a piece of you with it every time you use it. The only way to be on the same level to be able to tie them down is going to be… the cost is too high, Gerry. Working for me… being here already marked you. You are going to have to reach for that part of yourself and risk your humanity every time.”

“Whatever it takes.” Gerry told her firmly, even if his heart had begun to pound harder and his palms started to sweat. He understood what she was telling him. That this was just another way to go about shaving off bits and pieces of himself. Yet, if it got the job done and there was one less monster in the world, then he supposed it would be worth it.

“Guess you will just need to outlive me to deal with me when the time comes.”

There was a sudden quiet after Champagne took a sharp inhale and she seemed to be mentally counting down. Eyes closed as she did so and Gerry watched her go incredibly still. There were so many unspoken reasons for why that upset her. Her hands curled into fists for a moment and then relaxed. She wasn’t even entirely sure how she got wrapped up in this in the first place, just coming across a strange man in America. Yet here she was, in London.

“Fine.” She broke the silence with a single word. It was sharp like glass.

Then her tone softened with resignation, “Let me finish what I am doing and we can do it tonight if you would like.”

Guilt again that Gerry was determined to ignore. He didn’t care. He couldn’t risk that. Maybe she was stronger than them both. Maybe she would keep her humanity longer where he would lose his own, and it was her who would have to learn a new name.

Then again, maybe someone else would one day need to bind her and replace her and the cycle would continue forevermore.

Part of him hoped not.

The awkward silence was made worse when Champagne simply picked up her file and started reading again where she left off. The room felt colder, though he was certain that was just his emotions betraying him before he could squash them. “Right. Tonight then, Archivist.” He turned away and left the office.

He didn’t hear when she softly whispered her name.

+~+~+

Gerry was startled out of his reading when he heard sharp knocks on his door, nearly upending his chair at the sound. A grimace and he snapped.

“What do you want?”

When the door opened the familiar tinge of guilt returned and he smothered it quickly.

The prickly attitude was something Champagne was used to. She was also used to sneaking up on someone easily. It wasn’t a function she could turn off. Though Gerry normally wasn’t so skittish. Probably running from his own thoughts again. It was something she could empathize with. Gods knew she spent a lot of time running.

“I’m done with work. Rest went home.” She held up a worn leather messenger bag as she stepped in further and closed the door. It was something she always had with her. Gerry had always figured it simply held whatever people normally carried back and forth. Except now he was really looking at how the leather strained.

“Oh.” He looked at the time and then was aware of how his eyes ached and the body’s need to stand up.

Awkward silence stretched once again and Champagne took it upon herself to break it, “We have the Archives to ourselves. Where do you want to do this?”

“Here is fine.” It was as even as he could make his voice when it sunk in that they were doing this. Part of him wished she would have said no, but he knew that if he asked anyone else or he tried to figure it out himself, it could go badly very quickly. He already had too many close calls. He didn’t want this, but he had to do something.

“Alright. Let’s clear your desk off.” Champagne set the bag down by the desk and started to scoop up one of the stacks of files.

Gerry hesitated before he got up and grabbed another stack, something to ignore the tension between them. He could tell that she didn’t want to be there either. Didn’t want to permanently mark him with fears and have them woven into his skin.

Where he treated the files callously, Champagne handled them carefully. The desk was cleared quickly and he watched her set the bag on his desk and start to pull out bottles of ink, inspecting each one. Then it was a tattoo gun. Sealed needles. A variety of other tools laid out over a silicone mat she rolled out and disinfected first. It was neat and organized and clean.

“Do you really carry that everywhere with you?” Gerry found himself asking. An old itch that begged to be scratched. He suddenly wanted to pick up and look over every tool and ink. Tools that were meant to create and were not tainted by Fear.

Champagne nodded without looking at him as she prepped her gun and pulled on gloves. There was tension still there and the fact she wasn’t talking to him nor looking at him dug at the guilt he wanted to ignore.

“Why?” He couldn’t sit with the silence. Couldn’t sit with the fear gnawing at him. Needed something else to focus on.

For a moment Gerry thought Champagne had not heard him, or she just refused to answer. Definitely the silent treatment as she continued to look over everything and check that it was all working.

“Sit down and take your shirt off.” Champagne said finally.

The unexpected order startled him out of his thoughts and it took a moment for him to process, “What?”

“Sit down and take your shirt off.” She repeated firmly, “Or at least enough to expose the non-dominant arm. I am thinking shoulder down. Enough to hide it if needed.”

There was a snappy response he wanted to give to her. A million other responses to the order to remove his clothes came to mind and then died when he met her amber eyes. They were unreadable and her expression carefully blank. He could tell she was upset.

“Sure.” He finally said, pulling off the sweater vest and tossing it onto the chair. He  knocked his hair askew in the process. Gerry didn’t try to fix it as he started to unbutton his shirt. It was something for him to focus on. Instead he tried ignoring the way his fingers almost fumbled with every button. It was hard. The way that he still felt fear even when he desperately didn’t want to. Fear that made him nearly jump out of his skin when gloved hands gently rested on top of his, stilling his movements.

He looked up enough to look down at Champagne. There was concern there, a look he had seen countless times before from her. He always forgot that she was that much shorter than him. Sometimes she felt like she should have been taller. He hardly ever saw her outside of this place and he couldn’t tell if her eyes just gave the illusion of glowing or if they actually were that bright.

“You don’t have to do this.” Champagne told him softly, “I am alright being the one to bind things. It doesn’t make me lose parts of myself to do so. I am just naturally weird.”

Her silence was as intense as the emotions she openly displayed in that moment. Gerry realized that it scared him just as much as the fears. That she could See him in a way that had nothing to do with the Watcher. It made part of him want to run and curl up in a corner. It was a part of himself that he argued with often. That he made him regularly decide that Fears would be faced out of spite, even when everything made him want to flee. The fear he felt now had nothing to do with the Fears, at least that was what he told himself, but he still wanted to run. Maybe he could face this head on out of spite too.

“I do, Archivist.” Gerry told her, voice trembled slightly. He supposed he could not hide everything.

Champagne rolled her eyes and sighed at the continued insistence to call her Archivist. The stubbornly placed wall between them. The instinctual response of correcting him died at her lips, however. After all, she was going to mark him with something that would be a tool that tore away at him piece by piece. That risked losing someone that she might care about. It was so easy to care.

Easy to care without committing entirely. Without letting them know. Sure the actions bled through, but it never was voiced. Perhaps in agreeing to this, she had no right to demand she be addressed by name.

“You asked me to trust you enough to get rid of the last head of the institute. I did and I am here. Trust me to take care of binding. Of pushing back the fears so you do not have to.” She had tied herself there. He did too, to a degree. He could go out further than she could. Gerry was still more Web than Eye. Less about seeing and more about feeling and following the tugs where they took him. Instinct.

She would be hurt if he didn’t come back from those ventures.

Not that she could just say that. Not to him. Not when he kept himself so distant.

Guilt clawed at him a little harder. She could leave, in theory, provided she continued to feed the Eye. It was easier here, closer to the Institute. Where he could keep watch. He could bring her back stories of places further away… if he ever told her any. Gerry realized he didn’t tell her very much either. Didn’t feed the very thing that tied her there.

That she willingly tied herself to for the sake of others.

Champagne trusted him enough to follow through on his plan. She now was just asking for one thing: to trust her to do the hard part so he could keep his humanity a little longer. Something forfeit as soon as his mother saw fit. He stood in the legacy handed down to him.

A legacy he did not want, and yet here he was, partly bound to this place.

“I can’t trust you. I need to do this.” He said quietly, taking a deep breath and shaking off her hands, forcing them to be steady even when he did not feel it. He resumed unbuttoning his shirt and didn’t look too closely at the regret of lost touch.

“Stubborn ass.” Champagne muttered, taking a step back and sighing as she returned to preparing. It didn’t surprise her that he voiced his distrust, but oh did it hurt.

That earned her a soft scoff as he got far enough down to pull his arm out from the sleeve and he shivered at the feeling of the cool air on his skin. He looked over to see what Champagne was doing. Mostly it seemed to just consist of her fidgeting with the tools on the table. As if making them all just right one last time would make it better. He sat down and cleared his throat, getting her attention.

Champagne looked over at him and opened her mouth to say something before quickly looking away and grabbing one of the markers she needed. It took a few breaths to fight off the warmth on her cheeks, but she managed it and cleared her own throat.

“Right. Alright then. I don’t have all of the tools for designing it and making a transfer, so I'm going to freehand it. Doesn’t need to be complicated, and I have an idea in mind.”

Champagne looked him in the eyes, “And seeing as we are integrating this into Fear. I need you to give me a Statement.”

Gerry scowled, “A Statement? Really. You can’t just do it without?”

“You said you needed to be on the same level they are. You want it to be effective? Then  you need it to be your tool to work with. So it needs to be your Statement. Your Fear is what I will weave into this.” She explained.

In the end, he was going to have to trust her. In hindsight, he should have expected that. He was the one demanding a tattoo after all. Demanding an ability that took her years to learn. Having the skill to do so was perhaps an entirely different matter.

“Fine, do you want a tape recorder too while you’re at it? So you can transcribe it?”

Champagne shook her head and she seated herself on the edge of his desk and reached for his wrist, “No, I won’t need that. I’ll be transcribing it onto your skin, in a fashion.”

“Have you done this before?” Gerry asked warily, yet he still gave his arm to her easily enough. It was the most physical contact he had allowed with anyone. It surprised him to see how much he did trust her.

“Not with Fears.” Champagne admitted, “But same concept. Impressions have always told a story, but the story means the most to the one telling it rather than the listener.”

“Impressions?” There was that damn genuine curiosity that creeped out.

The woman tilted her head as she started to gently draw lines from his shoulder down the arm, “Ever since I was young, I have always gotten… strong imagery off of others. Something significant and important to them that is always close to the surface. As soon as I could hold a pencil, I would draw them. I thought I just was hit with inspiration, but I always felt those pieces would belong to someone. The reactions to their owners have been mixed.”

Gerry studied her bitter smile and then craned his neck to study the lines she was drawing, “No wonder the Eye took to you.”

“Yeah, I suppose it was either that or the Lonely.” She said and hummed, “I suppose the End was an option, but I am ambivalent about my mortality. I think the patron needs you to be afraid of it.”

“Fancy way of saying you have zero self preservation.”

“Like you are any better.” She then tapped his nose with the end of her marker, “So, Statement. How about… what led you to getting tangled up in the Web.”

Nose scrunched up at the act and he rolled his eyes at her choice of words, “Alright. Fine. Suppose I owe you anyway given you helped overthrow my Mum. I should start with that.”

Champagne nodded and she took a deep steadying breath, “Statement of Gerry Delano, Archival Assistant, taken from source and committed to flesh and ink by the Archivist and Head of the Keay Institute Archives, London. At your leisure.”

Gerry watched her as best as he could while he started to tell Champagne about Mary Keay, his mother. It was something he had not told anyone, and as soon as he started with his childhood he found it hard to stop. He thought he knew what it was, but she had not needed compulsion to get him to speak. One of the few damn people who had dealt directly with the wretched woman, he supposed, deserved to know.

It would be a hefty meal for the Eye. A little less humanity for the both of them, he supposed.

The lines she drew were careful and stretched from the boney joint and down to just a few inches above his elbow. Varying lengths of straight lines that even crossed over his collarbone and towards his heart. Then she began to make graceful arcs. He was admittedly impressed by how easily she created the design. It made him wonder what her first Impression of him was.

The design was quickly evident that it was a web. A fitting thing for him, but he noticed that some of the arcs began to form eyes. Little dashes for the pupils in the form of thin slits. Whatever words were falling from his lips were ignored now as he recounted his childhood growing up roaming the halls of the Institute. It was like his body went on autopilot while he stared at her work in morbid fascination.

He was still talking when she stopped and inspected her work, pulling his limb this way and that to watch how the muscles shifted the temporary purple linework. Now he was certain her eyes were glowing as pieces of her hair fell forward, shrouding her face in shadows to contrast luminescent amber eyes that seemed to almost contain a soft halo of an eerie green.

When she let go of his arm and met his eyes, there was a mix of terror and a strange thrill that ran through him. He was sure he stumbled over his words, and part of his mind felt like it suddenly had cobwebs as he tried to focus hard to pinpoint what he was actually saying. Was he still talking about his childhood? About the number of assistants and archivists that had fallen in his mother’s efforts to build her legacy? Gerry was not sure anymore as his lips moved and words just kept spilling out like water. Everything was automatic, things pulling on his mind like he was a puppet and his chest aching with every voiced pain and fear he had thought he buried.

A thread of panic coursed through him and he started to try and move, trying to push away the cobwebs that prevented any clear thought outside of his story. Tried to get himself to stop speaking. Instinct screamed at him to stop. Stop before she committed it all to Flesh. To stop spilling his life story to the Archivist with glowing eyes. To stop telling her all of his secrets and reveal the large gaping wounds that she could dig her needle into.

He blinked when she touched over his racing heart so gently and he felt his vision blur. Eyes burned as tears formed and began to fall. It was such a kind gesture in contrast to an act as cruel as making him relive that story.

Gerry was sure he saw sympathy on her features, but he could not make out the apology she murmured over the sound of his own voice. Despite tear blurred vision and a fuzzy mind, he was aware of every single thing she was doing. He could somehow still see her face as she chose the color of ink. A small blend of two colors, a little amber orange and the deep blue based black, but still as dark as he often tried to make his hair as the darker hue drowned out the lighter.

Gerry watched her adjust her grip on the tattoo gun through persistent tears. Listened to its loud buzzing sound and the Fear in him spiked with Knowing. His vision blurred more, and yet he was aware of her coming closer. Every second of the gun nearing was excruciating. He wanted to change his mind so badly, but he no longer had control.

It was a familiar feeling, a terrible one. It became worse as he felt the stinging of needles hitting his skin. Did he make a sound of surprise? The needles hurt, a rhythmic relentless burn that did not seem to numb itself as she worked. Yet her touch was so gentle, so careful, it was almost enough of an anchor despite the loss of control and Fear. Was that why she incorporated the eyes? To weave her influence into his? To give him a fighting chance?

Would the use of that ability shred her humanity as much as his own with every use?

He supposed that was appropriate, he was her assistant after all. They shared the burden of that terrible place, now dedicating themselves to gaining control over such forces to keep them in line. Try to reduce the number of victims. Sacrifice their humanity to save the humanity of others.

Though Gerry always heard Champagne say it was simply a matter of maintaining the “ecosystem”. Whatever that meant.

Gerry did not want to sacrifice his humanity any longer, but it was too late. Had this even been his idea? Was it ever his choice or was the Web just pulling him into spilling his guts out as distinct symbolism of that fear marked his skin? Burning wretched lines with blood oozing out with every prick of the needle. Even if he wanted to, he could not will himself to pull his arm away. Instead his arm was stretched across Champagne’s lap and cradled there as she studiously traced over her guide while he spoke through barely restrained whimpers about lost control.

He just wanted to have control over himself again.

Soon enough something soft was being dabbed against his face and he startled. Eyes blinked to finally clear away tears and he saw the apologetic face of Champagne. Eyes no longer glowed as she carefully wiped away his tears. He suddenly felt exhausted, pressure in his head no doubt from crying and he could do nothing but slump forward and rest his head against her lap.

“I’m done.” She said softly as she wiped carefully at his face. Gerry had no idea when she had finished. Apparently she had time to clean his arm. It still stung horribly, but it was eased by whatever cooling ointment she had spread over it, “I’m sorry.”

Gerry made a sound of dismissal at her apology and he tried to push himself into a sitting up, but a wave of vertigo hit him and he grumbled incoherently.

“I thought your name was Champagne.” He mumbled into her skirt.

“Excuse me?”

“Champagne… sham pain… that felt pretty damn real to me.” He slowly enunciated each word through his exhaustion. His entire body started to tremble from the effort.

A loud groan and she actually laughed. It wasn’t a cruel sound. It was… nice.

“That was terrible. Look, let’s get you into that spare room I know you pass out in when you work too much. If you are feeling up to it later, I owe you a drink. For now, water and painkillers and at least one meal bar.”

Gerry made a noncommittal sound and he let her ease him upright into the chair. He looked over at the swollen red of pale skin with stark lines of black sprawled across his skin. It shined with the ointment she put on it.

The rest was a hazy blur as he found himself led off to the quiet room that always seemed to always be clean. He swore he saw her stuff something discreetly under the pillow as she went through the effort to make him comfortable. He was too tired to argue with her, to tell her to bugger off. Gerry did not want to admit that it was nice to have something so gentle after facing painful memories.

It felt grounding to have a bottle of water pressed into his hands as well as some pills he didn’t immediately recognize. A meal bar was also pressed into his hands and somehow he was able to eat it without fail. Maybe it was the Web again, or it was just the gentle insistence of the Archivist.

The Archivist. She was a terrifying force. He helped make her that way. He was too tired to regret that now. Too tired and numb to feel any more fear as he was pressed down into the bed and covered with a blanket. Her cool hands smoothed his hair from his face.

The room became dark, but not uncomfortably so, a dim lamp left on at the desk in the room and light refracted by several water bottles left behind and several more meal bars that tasted neither bad or notably good.

Gerry slept off and on for days, and for the first time he did not dream.