Chapter Text
Georgie had made Jon promise to at least try reaching out to the others, so here he was, awkwardly making conversation with Tim on the sidewalk as they walked towards Tim’s chosen restaurant. Tim had grudgingly agreed to a proper chat with Jon – he suspected Martin might have had something to do with that – on the condition that it take place in “neutral territory.” Jon had briefly considered bringing a tape recorder along, just in case, but he knew better than to really entertain the thought. Tim had the right to his own boundaries, even if they did seem more counterproductive than anything.
“So,” Jon said stiffly. “How has it been operating under Elias’ new management system?”
Tim snorted. “Hell,” he clipped. “Not that you’d know, would you, boss?”
Jon tried to resist the urge to rub his forehead. Why did Georgie think this was a good idea, again? “Yes, funnily enough, being falsely accused of murder wreaks havoc with one’s schedule,” he muttered. Tim had the decency to look vaguely ashamed. “I’m… hoping to be in the office more often from now on, though,” Jon offered after a moment. “If you’re so inclined, I wouldn’t mind a bit of a heads up about whatever the situation may be.”
Tim cracked a grin. It looked almost real. “Not a chance,” he drawled.
Jon sighed. “I don’t know what I expected.”
“’Scuse us,” rumbled a voice from behind them.
“Are either of you Jonathan Sims?”
Jon and Tim turned together, and saw two enormous figures looming far too close at their backs. They were thick and tall, dressed like deliverymen, and they both looked exactly like you’d expect. Jon abruptly realized that there was a white van parked directly beside them.
“Oh, sh – run,” Jon breathed. “Tim, run!”
Tim’s eyes widened with the same realization, too late.
“Just grab both of ’em,” one of the figures decided. Somehow, though Jon could swear they’d been walking on a crowded city street moments ago, there was no one near them – no one around to witness the fight that ensued. It wasn’t much of one, in Jon’s case. Tim put up a bit more of a struggle, he thought, though it was hard to tell once Jon got his head knocked against the van’s door. Everything was a bit blurry for a while after that.
When his vision cleared, Tim was across from him, bruises already beginning to bloom across his cheekbone in the dingy light of the delivery van. Like Jon, his arms had been roughly bound behind his back with what seemed to be strips of dirty linen. He didn’t look half as scared as Jon felt. Tim looked furious. He was still shouting as the engine started up and they began to move.
Between Jon and Tim lay a coffin, bound up with chains. Jon couldn’t see the lid from where he sat, but he had a feeling he knew what words were scratched into it with a desperate hand. He drew his knees up closer to his chest, trying as hard as he could not to touch it as the van bounced them all on its way.
Breekon and Hope didn’t seem at all bothered by Tim’s continued noisemaking, and after a while, his voice started to grow raw and he fell silent. The rattle of the van’s motion almost drowned out the faint, eerie humming that seemed to rise from the depths to replace Tim’s shouts. Almost, but not quite.
Finally, for the first time since the very beginning of the evening, Tim met Jon’s eyes. Jon saw his own fear reflected there.
Tim looked away. “Did you hear what they said?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
Jon tried to concentrate, but as far as he knew the only thing they’d said aloud was his name. He shook his head.
“They said ‘Miss Orsinov wants to see you,’” Tim informed him. “They said she’d ‘changed her mind.’ What the hell does that mean?”
Jon’s breath caught. No, no, not yet, he thought. Not now, it’s too soon, I just need a little more time –
“Jon!” Tim hissed.
“It means they’re,” Jon swallowed. “They’re here for my skin.”
Like a switch flipping, Tim’s face went grey.
“I’m so sorry,” Jon whispered. “Oh, God. Tim, I’m so sorry. I should never have – you shouldn’t be here.” His breath was coming faster. Think. “I can – next time the car stops, I’ll distract them and you run, there’s only the two of them right now, it should be safe enough if – ”
“Shut up, Jon,” Tim interrupted, eyes distant. “You know that won’t work. This is just how it’s going to go.” He broke off, muttering something too quiet for Jon to catch. “How long has the Circus been after you?”
“Nikola paid me a visit at Georgie’s, er,” Jon counted it out, “four days ago. That was largely why I moved out, it wasn’t safe for her, but then I promised to at least try and keep in touch with other people and now – ”
“Yeah, the one time your stupid lone hero complex could’ve actually come in handy,” Tim agreed. Jon was too tired to argue. “Hey,” Tim added, tone shifting towards something that almost bordered on gentle. “Look, it’s… it’s gonna be fine. Your evil eye god won’t let the Stranger get you, right? You’re safe. Or, like, as safe as soul-sucking magic powers can make anyone.”
Jon flexed his burned hand, still tender to the touch. His experiences seemed to point in the opposite direction, but he wasn’t about to argue. “Which is why you should – ”
“It won’t work, Jon,” Tim cut him off. “Drop it.”
Jon dropped it.
Thanks to the blow to his head, Jon didn’t have much of an idea of how long they went on driving. Eventually, though, the van pulled to a stop. Jon tensed, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Tim do the same.
The door slid open, and Jon caught a glimpse of moonlight. He didn’t get the chance to take in much beyond that, though. Rough hands grabbed him, throwing him over a shoulder hard enough to steal his breath. By the time he got his bearings again they were inside a dimly-lit building, strange shapes with features Jon couldn’t quite make out standing along the walls, with a single chair propped up in the middle of the room. Moments later, Tim appeared beside him, spitting curses and sporting a fresh welt on his forehead.
“What’s this?” Jon went cold at the sound of the voice drifting across the room. He stared, trying to figure out which of the oddly human figures that crowded in the corners was Nikola. “Really, you two are too generous! I wasn’t expecting a matched pair!”
“Weren’t sure which was the Archivist,” Breekon said, setting down his end of the coffin.
“Grabbed both of ’em, to be safe,” Hope finished.
“How thoughtful,” Nikola purred, and stepped forward. Her featureless face grew clearer as she drew close. She flicked a finger at Jon. “This one’s my Archivist. Now. What shall we do with the spare?”
Hope (if it was Hope; Jon had been rather arbitrarily assuming which was which based on whoever spoke first) shrugged, nudging the casket with his foot. “Coffin’s always hungry.”
Jon sucked in a breath, but before he could say anything Nikola made a disapproving noise. “You know how I feel about that thing,” she said, a hint of real animosity leaking into her tone. “I don’t want it in my home. It’s not nice.”
It was Breekon’s turn to shrug. “Sorry, Miss Orsinov.”
She sighed irritably. Then, abruptly, her entire torso swivelled forward – almost like a dancer dipping into a bow, almost graceful, but not quite, so very wrong – and she bent until her face was inches away from Tim’s. “He does have nice skin, I suppose,” she hummed. “Such a shame about the scars – ” she poked one on Tim’s jaw, and he made an inarticulate sound of fury “ – but on him they almost look fashionable, don’t you think? Like wearing some nice ripped jeans. He’ll do, I suppose.”
“No!” Jon burst out. He couldn’t think. Everything was happening too fast, he had to get out of this, had to get Tim out of this, think, Sims. “Let – let him go, and I’ll cooperate. I’ll tell you where to find your skin – ”
Nikola swerved to look at him, and he stuttered to a halt. “Oh, you silly,” she crooned. “I don’t care about my lovely relic anymore. You see, originally, I was just planning to have you followed in case you found it, and if you didn’t come through, well, then I’d just take you instead! After all, you’re quite powerful yourself, and more than that, you’re, well, symbolically appropriate, don’t you think? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized… you know, have you ever had one of those backup plans that are just more fun?” She chuckled. “So, I thought, out with the old, in with… well, in with the you!”
Jon tamped down on his terror. He knew this, he’d known this, he didn’t have time to panic about it now. “Fine,” he gasped out. “Fine, then I’ll – I’ll cooperate with whatever you have planned,” Tim started to protest, but Jon steamrolled over him, “just let him go. You won’t need to – skin him, after the Unknowing you’ll have everything anyway, right? Let him go, and I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Oh, Archivist.” Nikola’s voice was dripping with pity, poorly layered over her amusement. “You talk like you have any choice in the matter at all.”
No no no no, oh, God, if there was ever a time for the Eye to do what Elias said it could – “What do I need to say to make you let him – ”
The static on Jon’s tongue cut out sharply as a thick hand clamped over his mouth.
“My goodness, you’re a rude little thing,” Nikola exclaimed. Tim snorted. Jon jerked his head over as far as he could with Breekon-or-Hope’s arm around his neck, glaring. Tim looked ghostly pale in the dim light, but he met Jon’s gaze and snorted again when he saw the look he was getting.
Jon would have felt more betrayed if he couldn’t see how hard Tim was shaking.
“Thank you,” Nikola said, and Jon snapped his attention back to her. She was accepting a length of dirty fabric from whichever deliveryman wasn’t gripping Jon’s head, and shook it out like an acrobat starting a ribbon routine. Then she lunged forward, and before Jon could register more than terror at the feeling of cold plastic hands touching his face, she’d shoved part of it in his mouth and wrapped the rest twice around his head, tying it in the back with a flourish. “There! No more nasty questions from you.”
The fabric covered Jon’s nose as well as his mouth. He thrashed, trying and failing to inhale.
“Hey!” Tim shouted. “He can’t breathe!”
“Hm?” Nikola looked at him for a long moment before turning her attention back to Jon. “Oh, I suppose you’re right.” With careless leisure, she reached forward, and Jon was too desperate not to go still at her touch. He let her run her finger down the bridge of his nose until finally, finally it caught the fabric where it folded and tugged it down far enough for him to suck in a breath. Immediately, he jerked backwards, doing his best to growl through the gag.
Nikola ignored him, looking at Tim again consideringly. “I suppose that is a point, though, isn’t it? This,” she tapped Jon’s face through the cloth, and he pulled further back, “is going to have to come off sometimes. I don’t really need another costume yet, and it might be good to have a backup. Alright, Archivist! You can keep your assistant for now. Ask a single question more, and we’ll skin him straight away and then I’ll wear him in front of you. Ooh, now there’s an idea…”
“What, you think that would upset Jon?” Tim scoffed, voice shaking slightly. “Nah. We’ve hated each other’s guts for ages, now. Only reason he wants to keep me alive is because he thinks it’d look bad for him to kill off another assistant. D’you know how many times Jon’s been accused of murder in the past six months alone?”
“Oh,” Nikola said, sounding disappointed. “Fine, then. You play nice, and I won’t kill your assistant. Now – oh!” She stopped as her foot sent something clattering along the floor. “What’s this?”
It was a tape recorder.
“What the hell, Jon,” Tim muttered. Jon stared. He hadn’t brought one along, though. He’d specifically decided it was a bad idea. How was it here?
“Does it work?” Nikola asked. She pressed “play” a few times, to no avail, before hitting “record.” “Oh!” She giggled. “It does work! How fun! Who’s on the other end, Archivist? Is it your Elias who listens?”
“If that isn’t the six-dollar question,” Tim griped quietly. It was Jon’s turn to snort.
“Hello, Elias!” Nikola chirped. “Can I call you Elias? Now, I know you can’t actually see this. What’s the point of having a secret place of power if it’s not perfectly hidden from a big, stupid eye? So, let me paint you a picture. I have your Archivist – well, not yours. He’s mine now, and you can’t have him back! He’s here with his assistant. I was going to tie him to a chair, but now that there’s two of them it doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it? That’s all right, I’ll just ask Sarah to bring in some of those nails she was so excited to use.” She laughed at the looks on their faces. “I’m just joking, sillies. Well, maybe. Anyway, they’re here in a room that’s just filled with waxworks. Not good waxworks, though. Weird ones. Those are the best kind, aren’t they? Where you can almost recognize who it’s supposed to be, but there’s something just a bit off! Oh, it’s downright uncanny!”
“There’s also a giant coffin in the middle of the floor,” Tim put in dryly. Nikola huffed.
“Yes, that,” she agreed reluctantly. “It shouldn’t be there, though. Would you two please move it somewhere – just, very far away from here!”
“Can’t, really,” Breekon answered.
“Needs to be near us,” Hope explained.
“Well,” Nikola snapped, “then move yourselves far away!”
“Right you are.” The deliverymen hoisted it up and filed out the door at the back of the room, which fell closed behind them with a final-sounding snick.
“Now, where was I?”
“About to let us go?” Tim suggested.
“No…” Nikola sang. “Oh! That’s right, your skins! Now, this one – ” she squished Tim’s cheeks, eliciting an extremely indignant noise from him “ – has lovely skin, apart from the spots. Very well taken care of! You understand the importance of a good skin routine, don’t you?” She shook Tim’s face gently before letting go. He worked his jaw, glaring at her in silence.
She shrugged, turning to Jon. “You, on the other hand…” She shook her head, clicking her tongue – or making the sound of it, at least. As far as Jon could see, she didn’t have a tongue to click. “Just awful. We’re going to have to do a lot of work before you’re in any condition to be peeled. Do you have a preferred brand of lotion?”
Jon attempted to convey his strenuous objections through the gag.
“Alright, I’ll just tell them to pick up a selection,” Nikola concluded. She flung the tape recorder at the ground, and Jon flinched at the clatter. One of the batteries rolled out the back.
“Oh, but before I go…” Nikola clapped twice, and a host of – of things that looked like people (almost like people) streamed into the room, though Jon couldn’t see where they’d come from. Maybe they’d been there the whole time, hiding behind the shadowed waxworks. “You’ll find a way to keep these two tied up nice and snug, won’t you all? I don’t care how you do it, just so long as it doesn’t damage the skin!”
With that, she sailed out, disappearing into the confusion of animate mannequins and loosely-hung faces over figures that trailed sawdust and straw.
The ensuing disaster wasn’t exactly more horrible than Jon was expecting, but it was certainly more humiliating. At one point he was situated directly on Tim’s lap as they were both crammed into the single chair, before the horde decided that would probably cause too much chafing against both of their skins and pulled them back out. That was around when Tim started laughing. He didn’t stop until long after they were left alone, tied back-to-back by the linens that had been wrapped around their wrists again and anchored to a pike driven into the floor.
Jon couldn’t speak, but he tried humming as comfortingly as he could manage, and suppressed the urge to flinch when Tim finally slumped back against him, silent.
“Oh, God,” Tim whispered finally, voice cracking into the dark. “Oh, God. We really are fucked.”
Even if Jon could speak, he didn’t think there was anything left to say.