The Body Shop

by Cherrehc

Summary:

John and Arthur have tracked their quarry so far, only to be caught. Faced with death as their only alternative, they are forced to enact their dubious plans to re-home John in a new body, though no ritual ever comes without its complications. Can their friendship survive their separation?

Notes:

This is a fic about John getting himself a body. It begins in media res. I hope to examine some of the moral agonizing they used to get to this point, as well as the emotional agonizing over what it means to be separate, together. There ought to be quite a lot of violence, so grab a bag of popcorn and pop open your folding chair, take a seat for this train wreck.

Chapter 1: The Body Shop

The vast, empty warehouse had a damp stink that seeped in from the river, a smell that permeated the moil of ancient dust. Overhead, the sharp flare of a naked light blinded John as Arthur's head was freed from the bag that had been so unceremoniously thrown over him a short time ago. 

More importantly, though, was the sense of consciousness that flooded back to them. Well, to Arthur. John had been seethingly silent as his friend had been knocked unconscious from behind and hooded like an animal, hefted into the back of a car and driven down here where the sounds of the city were far, and where the Miskatonic eagerly lapped at pier posts, impatient.

Though Arthur's head hung to his chest, John made a quick count of the thugs standing watch behind the body that paced in front of them. He felt Arthur's hand twitch against his, where they had both been hastily bound to their chair. He cautioned Arthur with a touch as he felt him tense, aware that, as his friend awoke, he was probably suffering shock and pain. He was quick to catch him up. It was vital, now that things had gone so terribly wrong.

Arthur, we've been taken hostage. We're in his lair. He must have realized we were trailing him.

Arthur groaned and shifted a little. "Well... that can't be good."

He's here, now. He's still in uniform. The people with him are not.

A new voice intruded on them, one with which both of them had become quite familiar. Not by dint of friendship, though, no. "Mister Lester," the body said, voice soothing and patronizing as he crouched to Arthur's level. His gaze was icy, but ultimately human. 

Though Arthur lifted his head minutely at the surprise of being recognized, it was John who met the body's eyes, and he liked to think that the body was taken a little aback because of it. He wasn't Arthur, but he'd long since learned to use the rest of his friend's face to best effect, and he by no means minded challenging this creature. The body thought that it was in control, that its entire life should be handed to it on a platter. John remembered that feeling. It was part of why he wanted it. The moment passed, and the body leaned back on his heel, some of the patronizing tone frosting over as John refused to lower his gaze. He said, "How did you put it together, I wonder?"

He's scared, John responded, derisive. We need to keep him talking, or he's going to end us.

"Would you believe me if I said I had no idea what you're talking about, Marshal Corse?" John could feel the crinkle of a charming grin on Arthur's gaunt face, and he played to it with an aggrieved glance, but he could see that the play wasn't going to work.

We need to do it now, he urged. We won't have long.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't," the body drawled. "You're the rogue P.I. You've been wanted for murder for the last year and a half, and you've been damned difficult to land a hand on. What I want to know is how you found out that I was behind her death?"

Arthur... John could feel the tension behind that request. Once he figured out where his loose ends lay, the body would make a corpse out of them, and that would be it.

Arthur gave a weary 'wumph' as he leaned back in the seat, canting his head just a little. John felt his hand plucking at their bindings, and nudged back with a closed fist. He'd learned after all this time that sometimes, speaking openly could be the last thing Arthur needed. Now that they were seated back, facing the body more directly, it gave him space to observe their quarry properly.

"What's so hard to believe that a man like you was behind the murder of his own wife, even if he relied on people outside of the law to do it for him?" Arthur's tone was cold and dismissive, and John hissed a warning. "Frankly," he continued,  "I'm surprised that nobody else caught on to you sooner. Or... perhaps you paid them off, or dragged them down here just like you have with u— with me. You didn't deserve Deanna, Corse; you're a cheat, and a killer, and your dealings with the mob are not going to go without repercussions."

Arthur, wait. Wait. John nudged Arthur's hand more urgently now as he watched the body pull away as though ready to strike, and then, coldly glaring, decided to pace instead. Even his thugs seemed distracted by the unsettling fury of their boss's demeanor. If you wanted to put him off balance, you have. Taking their moment, he opened his fist a little, slipped the little metal case he'd been holding into Arthur's hand.. You have it? Good. Hurry, Arthur.

The body sneered. "We all have our means. If you're not going to give me your leads freely, there's ways of making you. What were you thinking, trailing me? You'd catch me and, what exactly? Turn me in?"

"Ah, not exactly." Arthur cleared his throat as he flicked the lighter open, and John thought for a moment that it would be enough to cover the sound, but the body narrowed his eyes just a little, darted a look to one of his thugs. 

Arthur, he heard. One of his men is approaching us. Please, Arthur. All of our hard work, all of the deals we had to make. The pain of reliving that, all of it, only to have it taken from them in the last hour... John had gotten used to the limited impact he could make without Arthur's explicit permission. But they were so close to ending that. The thug landed a hand on Arthur's shoulder, intent on spinning him around to reveal whatever mischief he was up to. John, beginning to feel desperate, said, Coming to terms with all of the grey-fucking-areas of what deciding to do this means; we are on the edge of losing all of that. Arthur, start the invocation. Please. 

 "Or, we could go with a distraction," Arthur replied. "This isn't going to work ," he added, as though John needed reminding. Though John had intended to light the rope to free them, Arthur instead used the momentum of their spun chair to bull forward, heaving with all his might into the thug, toppling them to the ground. "Ah! Fuck—" Arthur yelped, then grunted as the man he'd caught cuffed him in the side of the head, as the other ripped him off his target and, then, as the pair of them landed unforgiving blows over him wherever boots and fists could find purchase.

"Enough," the body said, voice sadistic, easily authoritative. "Take that off him. You really are stupid, aren't you? Burn the ropes?" The body scoffed, disgusted. "I've got cuffs here. You really want to play?"

John despaired. Their hands were pried apart, the lighter prized from them. We are going to die, Arthur, he said, Please!

Arthur snarled wordlessly. They'd talked about what John wanted at length, every outcome debated into the ground. John thought they had decided that whatever it took, the body had demonstrated he was not fit for anything more than what they were about to do. John thought they had worked out the snarls. He could use it better. He would do better. He had to.

Yet here Arthur was, resisting him on the final strand. They had been through so much, and now this.

Why, Arthur?

"You told me," Arthur said, voice grave with pain and shaky restraint, "that anybody could be redeemed. Anybody."

Not when they're about to kill us. Jesus! John was snapping terrified. The body loomed over them, and Arthur was now bound and on his side on the floor, beaten and staring down a predator in his own lair. From here, John could see blood stains both old and new upon the weathered floorboards. They wouldn't be the first people to die like this. They wouldn't be the last. Arthur, please. Repeat after me.

The body glowered over them, holding the lighter loosely in his hand as he tugged his slacks to lower into a loose squat. "Is that it? Take one bastard cop out to balance your own conscience?" Arthur grunted again as the body backhanded him, enough force behind it to push them back, to leave John's vision blurring. "I'll tell you something, Lester. There is no redemption. People like you wind up fish food. People like me, we keep one step ahead of the game. That's all there is to this world. There's no here-after to tally up your rights and wrongs."

"E... exactly," Arthur gritted out.

John watched the flame wavering to life before them as the body played with their light. He watched it snuff out, the cap of the lighter loudly coming down. He said, 

 

Croceus regem, cuius auctoritate facimus,

And his voice dipped low, a snarl behind it, a reverberation. It called on powers he had grown to loathe, that he had not used since... since he'd murdered an innocent child. The stormhead gathered, and he could feel it even in Arthur's voice. The blood in his mouth tainted the words, and John knew it was good. "Croceus regem," Arthur said, voice quiet and reserved in a way that John was not going to analyze in this moment, "cuius auctoritate facimus."

 

Sine nomine praeter, sed ferus amentia,

"Sine nomine praeter... sed ferus amentia,"

"What do you think this is, time for last rites?" the body asked, disgust clear. He rose, and John continued without preamble,

 

Vitalis veritatis, praecipio tibi ut discedas.

"Vitalis veritatis," Arthur said, and found himself suddenly quite unable to speak. The body's booted foot had collided with his stomach, forcing all the air out of the man with a wheeze.

Arthur, John bellowed, fear like a maddened beast clawing at him, clawing its way out. More than fear, more than anger, it was the bridge, but a bridge half built was as good as a bridge burnt. Arthur!

"Praecipio... tibi ut discedas," he wheezed, words barely a whisper.

John looked up and saw the body bringing a toe under their side, gesturing for his men to hoist Arthur around. He yelled, as though his voice might be heard through Arthur's lips, the resonance of his immaterial shadow powering that free-flowing blood.

 

Excipio te! Animus errantis, discede!

"Hhh... shit," Arthur was still winded, but he carried on, "Excipio te—" and now the body's snarl turned hazy with confusion, and John felt it. Its confusion confused its men, who stood looking on at the entire show with some trepidation. Arthur, teeth clenched, said, "Animus errantis, discede!"

John saw the world spin, saw Arthur a pathetic mess on the floor, bound and bloodied. He saw the body sway, all faculty curdling and muddling its expression. He couldn't afford to lose it all now. He— they were almost free.

 

Relinquere corpus meum!

"Relinquere corpus... corpus meum," Arthur said, voice choked in a way that John, similarly, was in no state to analyze. 

 

The entire world shifted. The world went small, and cramped, and corporeal. The world felt, so much, and John said with utter conviction,

"Quaerite flumen. Quaerite mundum tenebrarum." His voice sounded different, different from his voice. His voice through the palpating vibrations of vocal chords hard used by decadence and by violence. Yet it was his voice, now. All his, save for the remnants. 

When he heard Arthur speak, it was from such a distance that he was startled back into sharp, stark focus. "Quaerite flumen. Quaerite mundum tenebrarum." He was focused on John in a way that seemed lost, hazy and horrible.

John, eyes locked on the pathetic excuse of a bound prisoner, said, "somnia quaere mundum."

"John..." Arthur's brows were drawn, and he inhaled, ragged as though to recover his voice, or perhaps to cover a sob. "Somnia. Quaere mundum."

 

The results of their recitation were far from explosive, but they didn't need to be. There was a sigh of something, almost mistakable for the wind but for its own somnolent moan, as the light in the warehouse flickered for a moment.

John's world came back into focus around him, separate from Arthur for the first time that he could remember all the way back to when he, too, had been wandering in eternal darkness. There were two men before him with their weapons raised, one with a gun and another with a knife. He said to the latter, "cut the ropes." And, when the man hesitated, he said, "now. "

There was no doubt that they disbelieved what they had seen, but he was coursing on the adrenaline of his body's transitory, supernal dementia, and in it, a sense of invincibility could be said that he had not felt before. It wasn't the self-assured hubris of a god. The cocksure immortality of a mortal man with a gun on his hip and an overflowing sense of victory, maybe. Or it could also be the sight of his friend in such a state, when he was now in a position to do something about it. Whatever it was, he snarled and settled his thumb on his holster's strap. "Now, damnit!"

He listened to Arthur's bindings being sawed through, the rough fray of snapping rope the only sense that his work was being done. Bile fought at the back of his throat as he parsed what being apart from Arthur meant. He was giddy. He was nauseous. He was free, and it felt horrible and incomprehensible.

Arthur folded his arms around himself the moment he was given leeway to do so, and he curled in on himself. Useless and pathetic, vulnerable and hopelessly free. It had not escaped him how reticent Arthur had been about their separation.

One of the men began to stutter, looking for direction. John considered: his choice to make for once, his alone. The first he'd had to make since he'd fucked up so long ago. He'd killed an innocent child in cold blood, then. He could be better now. He could choose to be better. "Go," he told them both. "Corse isn't coming back. Tell whoever you need to. If you ever touch Arthur again, you're dead."

The one with the gun, the stammerer, he lowered his weapon and turned to go. John flicked the holster strap open, considered the butt of the revolver on his hip. He could be better...

Two enormously loud reports echoed around the silent warehouse. He could choose when to be better. This was not one of those times. If Arthur had to berate him, he would endure it for the sake of keeping their success a secret.

Thinking of Arthur, John dropped back into a kneel, drunkenly uncoordinated with all the overwhelming sensation of being bodied. "Arthur," he said, voice dropping to a strange, not-quite-his gravel of intense feeling. "Arthur, we did it." He dropped suddenly into a sit, overwrought. He laughed.

His enthusiasm, it seemed, wasn't shared.

He pushed sweat-plastered hair from his forehead and leaned forward, and he could see that his friend was suffering. He looked stricken. He looked maimed. "Oh... Arthur," John said.

"You're not here," Arthur's voice was light, disbelieving. Lost. "You're not here anymore."

"I'm right here, Arthur," John said, sagging a little, crestfallen. "Here. This belongs... to you." He leaned forward a little further, gently taking Arthur's fist in his. He slipped the warm, familiar clip of a little metal canister into his hand.

"Ah..." Arthur did not seem wholly... whole. He did, however, take his lighter, and clutched it back to himself. John looked upon him and despaired. "John," Arthur finally said, "did it work?"

"...Yes," he said, but he tempered his enthusiasm a great deal. There was a querulous tone to Arthur's voice that he had only ever heard very rarely. It spoke of a great loss... in someone who had known so much of it already. John rested a calloused hand on Arthur's cheek and, thinking of it a moment later, rooted for the handkerchief in Arthur's jacket pocket. He dabbed at his friend's face, staunching a split lip. "It worked. I'm still here."

Arthur had slackened somewhat, but he was obviously still greatly affected. He refused the attention, pushing John's hand away as he rolled a little forward. "If you're here," he said, "why do I feel so... alone?"

He couldn't help it. He chuckled. The physical effort of it startled him, and John apologized. "We're still together. You're still my friend. We can figure the rest out... later. Now, though. We have the rest of our deal to finish; this isn't over yet. Can you stand?"

"Give me a fucking minute," Arthur said, exhaustion of such a deep reach colouring his voice that John couldn't help but sympathize. "You're the one wearing the... the... the brick shithouse?" He snorted. When Arthur said it, it sounded obscene. John laughed again, surprised all over by the real infectiousness of laughter. He heard a responding chuckle from his friend, pained though it was, and it incited him to more, and worse.

It was longer than he'd like to admit that he was finally able to bring Arthur's handkerchief to his own eyes to wipe them of streaming tears. His ribs hurt. His face hurt. His laughter died away and Arthur's, too.

The man that they both had been pushed himself into a defeated seat, arms supporting him, legs thrown out across the rough floor. "What we've done is wrong," he said, his mania cresting as reality flooded back to them both. "John, this wasn't how it should have gone."

John felt a stab of pique, and he shot a glance at his friend. "How exactly were you planning on changing things? Arthur, we planned this out down to the letter and... yes, it didn't go according to plan. But it worked. I'm... I'm me."

"You're mortal," Arthur said, tone clipped. "You're... someone. I don't mean that part. I mean... the price has been so high, and when you and I believe we've finished paying it, that price will only have metastasized. John... you know I don't say this lightly, but what we've committed was a stain. I hesitate to say it..."

"Don't," John said. He brought one knee up, cast his arm over it as he frowned darkly. He turned away. "You don't want to say it. I don't want to hear it."

They had spoken at length about every aspect of what freeing John could mean. They had debated over their eventual path, the only one that could possibly be seen to fruition, at the price that Arthur set as an indelible sin. And so they had hunted, and hunted, for someone who truly deserved the kind of fate that John, who had been the Unnamed Prince, the aspect of the King in Yellow, would provide. They had enlisted help that had dug them this deep and Arthur, Arthur of the tender soul, had begged they turn around and find another way.

But if John had to pay the price, at least it would not condemn them both. And so, so far invested, he had urged them on.

They remained in strained silence, then, finding that with space apart, they could freeze one another out with shocking ease. It was the steady dripping from beyond them that finally roused John to action. One of the men had fallen forward not to the ground, but had splayed forward onto an empty shelf. His blood was pooling, dripping to the floor. He sighed and felt himself instinctually bringing thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, unaware of the why until he realized it seemed to help him focus.

"We can keep talking about this," he allowed, "later. Arthur, I need your help now."

He pushed himself to his feet and offered the man a hand, and waited. Arthur, it seemed, was unresponsive to the gesture. Though he sighed and began to say, "alright... alright. Fine," as John offered his hand again, Arthur did not take it. With phenomenal effort, he was pushing himself to his feet, but John was unconvinced of that bravado.

He waved his hand in front of Arthur's face, pale brows knitting into a frown that was very comfortably familiar on this face. Arthur was saying, "alright, what's the damage?" as John held up four fingers before him.

"How many fingers do you see?"

"Three," Arthur said, no hesitation.

John looked upon his friend, and he despaired. "Why are you lying?"

"About what?" Arthur asked. But his voice was high and impetuous, and he broke into something that hinted acerbic. "Yes, I still can't see , John. You expected to move out and take all of your things? And before you ask, I still can't feel my hand, either." True enough, he had favoured his right side as he stood, hadn't he?

"Arthur..."

"Oh, I'll be fine. I still have you to see by, don't I?" Now all hints were gone, he was absolutely sounding bitter.

"Arthur," John tried again, frustrated and also ashamed. It frayed at his patience. "We need to move the bodies."

"Not a problem!" Arthur's hands were out, and he moved slowly, as though they were back to those very first days where he'd lost all sense of his surroundings. John sighed and, thinking better of cursing, he approached his friend and took one hand. He clung fast as Arthur flinched. "Jesus, tell me when you're going to—"

"You're going the wrong way. I... I'm sorry. I can do this myself. Wait here, okay?"

Arthur gave a petty chuckle. "No, John, you're going to have to chase me through hell and back."

"Don't even joke," he said darkly. "Just wait."

He squeezed that hard-done-by hand and felt the faintest squeeze back, and felt reluctant to go. But he did; he released their grasp and he backed up a step or two, and he watched Arthur as though the other man would make to bolt. "For God's sake, John, I was joking," Arthur said. "I can feel you hovering. I can wait."

"...Okay."

"Okay." Arthur flicked his lighter open, passing a hand over it, shaking his head as though frustrated. He flicked it closed again and John backed another step away, then... more or less satisfied that he would stay put, he got to the hard work of hoisting dead weight to the pier's edge.

The calm slop and echo of water at the pier beams was eerie in the dark of the night, and John felt his ears straining like some prey animal as he dragged the bodies out and over to the edge. The first, he rolled with an overloud crash into the water. The second, he could have sworn he did the same. It, however, did not splash. He stood at the railing for a moment, hairs on the back of his neck raising in the cold fog of the night. Silence.

Silence, and then something that he could not place, save that it was strange enough he didn't want to try. He had seen so much already. Teeth clenched, heart rabbiting, he wished then that he had not given Arthur the lighter. He backed away from the railing's edge, hands brought up the way he'd seen Arthur do. His body (his body!) was still a suit that he was getting used to. He didn't want to know if he had full command of it the hard way.

The single light of the warehouse limned Arthur starkly, and John stalked toward him deliberately. "We're going," he said, but he kept his voice low.

"Oh, good. The dirty work's done?" Arthur had a way of making John feel wretched without dipping out of a lighthearted tone. He was berating him, and John knew it, but he wouldn't put up with it.

"Yes, for now. Come on." Without thinking, he took Arthur's hand again, and was surprised when Arthur violently pulled his hand away.

"Don't , John."

"...What? We need to go."

"I know. But... but you can't just maneuver me around. The situation has changed, but we agreed."

"Arthur," John snapped, "we're not out of the woods yet. Take my hand. I can't guide you like before—"

"I'm my own person now, aren't I? I need to start acting like it."

"Of course, after we find the fucker's car and get out of here."

"No, now, John."

"Arthur."

The sound rolled up around them like fog, like the damp sick of something from a demented nightmare. Thoroughly interrupted, John cursed, and so did Arthur.

"What the fuck was that?" Arthur's voice dropped to a whisper. For once, John felt compelled to follow suit.

"Something came from the river. The bodies... I thought I heard something."

"Keep your voice down," Arthur hissed.

John had never wanted to kick someone before, and yet... He resisted, because there was worse to worry about in the moment than being chastized. He took Arthur by the shoulders and forced them back behind one of the shelves. "Crouch," he ordered, and at least Arthur crouched. John turned to peek around the shelving, saw something foul pulling itself forward on rows of gummy, boneless arms. Bloated and slick, it slurped its way into the doorway, and the cilia waving, silk thin, around its unhinged jaw seemed to scent at the air. John felt his stomach turning, his mind lurching. "Jesus," he said, and his gorge rose so violently that he had to swallow back any further words lest he lose more than his composure.

"What is it?" Arthur asked, but it wasn't perhaps the creature he was asking about.

"It's foul," John managed, but only after a moment, and even then with great effort.

Something gave a faint, high scream, and the single light in the warehouse jittered and gave a final pop before plunging them both into darkness. The... the thing simpered, a sound both nasal and guttural both. "What was that? " Arthur asked, real worry creeping in.

John couldn't help it. He pinched the bridge of his nose again. "It killed the light."

"Ah," Arthur said. John was nearly sent through the roof with shock when he felt a heavy weight come down on his shoulder, until he realized it was Arthur's hand. He was close enough not to speak above a whisper and still be heard, then. "Well, being in the dark never stopped us before, did it?"

Bitterness had crystalized into a familiar kind of resolve, and John felt a hot rush of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding back on hoping for. He clapped a hand over the one on his shoulder. "You're right, we've seen worse."

"I'm certain of it." Arthur squeezed. He didn't pull back. "Alright. Just one more elephant."

They both went silent when they heard the same simpering chuckle, could feel the floorboards vibrating as the thing pulled itself into the warehouse. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. "Do we fight it, or do we try to run?"

Chapter 2: I've Been a Fool To Run Away

Summary:

Arthur and John choose to run to fight another day. However, it turns out that they have no need to wait another day: they can always fight with one another.

Notes:

Though this series is a CYOA (choose your own adventure) themed fic, I choose not to adhere too closely to the shtick of a malevolent entity in the preface that patreon fans of Malevolent have come to dearly adore. Instead, you have my full-hearted endorsement to choose what you think is best, and I'm here to give you plenty of warning should some choice be more dangerous than another. I too, after all, want the best for John and Arthur as they enter new and uncharted territory.

It is therefore important to warn you now: the very action of John possessing a new body for himself will have consequences. There is no escaping what is to come next. Beware the easiest path, and think through what it is that John and Arthur want, versus what they might need. They will still make their own choices. Sometimes, even with best intentions, there is little that we can do to guide the perennially itinerant safely home.

In any event, you have largely chosen to urge John and Arthur to run, not to stand and fight. Let's see how well they manage.

The air was balmy and Arthur was sweating, even though the sun had set some time ago. John raised his hand and swiped Arthur's brow clear, annoyed by the heat, but not for his own discomfort. It might not be a record-breaking summer, but the last few days had been giving that heatwave a run for its money.

And oh, how the irony bit at them both. When it rained, it poured.

For the last three months, they had been living on the provenance of Ms. Barret's charity, promising money for Arthur's flat and beguiling their eccentric landlady with a kind of charm whose pretense had grown thin as vellum, whose crisp British edges had grown phlegmatic between the two of them as the summer dug its claws into Arkham for another round.

Then they'd had not one bite, but two. One, a case the likes of which they'd cut their teeth on when John and Arthur had slunk back into the city, wanted and wanting the comparative peace of fixing human problems, not those of the cosmos. The other, a personal lead into a payoff that could mean the world to John... to them both. Only one of those paid in bills, however, and Ms. Barret was liable to wake her eerie bear rug just to take a bite out of Arthur if he didn't at least begin to back-pay their rent. Human problems.

Arthur. John had long since abandoned the newspaper that Arthur had been using as cover. As well he should: the familiar form of the witness came up the walk across from them, just like clockwork. She's entered the optometrist's front door. Oh... the thin, dark face of the doctor has appeared at the window. Don't move— good. She hasn't spotted us. She's disappeared again. Arthur, the sanguine glow of the neon sign has spluttered out. I would not be surprised if she's locked the door.

"I have to wonder what an occult optometrist needs with after-hour visits? Surely she gets her income from her day practice. Well, we've proven Ms. Chainhurst is a regular client of Dr. Iyengar. Which means that, what, she doesn't trust her eyes?"

It would appear so, John said. He could hear the deepest irony tainting Arthur's voice, but he'd long since grown to appreciate the even deeper sentiment of unshakable trust that made that dig clawless. Still, he was eager to prove their competence after a dry spell, so he did not needle the man in return. I think that we should pay the good doctor a visit, don't you?

"Providing that the good doctor is available for new patients... but John, I have some concerns."

You don't really believe she'll detect anything amiss, do you?

"That, I'm not sure. A year ago, I'd have dismissed the idea out of hand... but if she does, it's more her connection to Vargas than anything that worries me." John remained silent. There were many reasons for Arthur's worries to creep these weary, familiar paths. What worried John in this moment was that Arthur was about ready for another case of doubt. And, yes, here it came.

"Are you utterly sure that you want to push the idea of... of taking over somebody else? There are..." Arthur laughed, voice low as it was when they were in public. "There are so many people who aren't using theirs anymore."

Arthur, I'm not bent on puppeting a corpse. If I plan on living, I want to live.

"I... I know. But Vargas..."

We don't even know if he is the one, John replied. And if he were, gathering intelligence on those who consider him a patron is wise; we need to know what a man who considers himself a kingpin in Arkham is doing with a woman like Dr. Iyengar. And why.

"And if she recognizes us and brings us to Vargas' attention?" There was the crux, John thought. I'm not ready to reveal our hand, he admitted. But unless the doctor knows less than the witness let on, she would be a valuable next step.

"There are other ways we could dig deeper, John." Arthur, misgivings plain to see, took his moment.

John said nothing, pensive. Too, he had been watching the brickwork facade of the business block across from them. The lights of the little office had gone out, but the dull glow caught the orange gauze in the windows above, as though candles lit one by one had begun to push back the oppressive darkness of the doctor's home. He said nothing when that thin, dark face came to the gauze and twitched it open. The doctor was a hard looking woman, angles and points. She looked down upon them from across the street for a moment, and a moment longer after that. Arthur had his head canted down to the paper, and people passed on the street; it was a normal Arkham night. Yet John, locking eyes with those from such a distance, knew. The curtain twitched closed.

Arthur, he murmured, tone uncharacteristically low. I think we should leave.

 

---

 

"Are you mad?" Arthur said, but he didn't just say it. He smacked the back of John's shoulder. It wasn't painful, but it was still a shock. "We get out of here. Now, preferably."

He could ignore it; he could be the better person. "I didn't see another exit, and that thing was right in the doorway."

"Well, that means we need a distraction." Arthur parted from John, and a moment later he heard him fumbling around with something nearby, something heavy. John followed after him, preferring blind contact to the spine-tickling dread of isolation in the dark. He felt forward until he bumped into Arthur, then braced himself on the nearby shelf. "Help me find something," Arthur whispered, feeling their knees touch, perhaps, using a tone that was only faintly exasperated.

John realized he was waiting for Arthur to do something, had been waiting this entire time. Without anything to see, he felt useless. Yet... that was the kind of habit that would get them killed. "What exactly is it that you hope to achieve, Arthur?"

"A distraction, John, and a better one than earlier, if all goes well. Aha... help me with this. Hurry."

John heard a scrape and felt what Arthur was pulling from the shelf. It felt as heavy as it sounded, but not overly so, and the moment that he leant his strength to Arthur's, the big, strange bobbin made of rough, splintering wood came down with a quiet thump between them on the floor.

They both froze as they heard another chuckle, a coarse bray that dipped into a deep, languid snarl. It was closer... which meant, hopefully, that it had passed through the door. John hissed, "what do we do with this?"

"I was thinking of throwing a tablecloth over it, digging up some china and serving it tea—"

"Wh—"

"We're going to roll it. That way. A distraction, John." Now the exasperation was wholly unsheltered, and John felt a hot flush surge through his neck, made the stiff collar feel more like a band around his neck. The inward response to his anger was wholly distracting, in and of itself. Having feelings, being angry, it had all been so much more manageable when he hadn't had to deal with the hot flush of shame and fury suffusing his adrenaline-addled core. "On its side. We roll it."

"Of course," John huffed, ready to pretend he'd been thinking the same thing all along. The weight of the empty coil-bearer was only awkward, after all, and John had no problem tilting the two wheel-like ends over on its central axis. The problem next became apparent when they heard the floorboards creaking ominously close, and not in the form of footsteps. The warehouse groaned with the strain of something dragging itself, and the wet slap of dozens of boneless limbs put the creature's image right back in John's mind. He felt uneasy. He felt unwell.

This close, the smell of it rolled over them in waves. A thick, sludgy taint rose from its heavy, laboured breaths. How had it crossed all that space so quickly?

John gave a short hiss and didn't wait for any further confirmation. At least he and Arthur were on the same page enough that when Arthur wheezed an affirmative, John was already rolling their loud, clattering decoy at the thing, and a moment later was grabbing for Arthur's hand. He missed, grabbed an elbow, and then they were running for the exit.

The clatter of the rolling decoy was nothing compared to the sudden splintering crunch of something being crushed with violent abandon. "Jesus—" John could see the faint, diffuse light of the boardwalk, and he could feel Arthur stumbling to reach a lockstep with him as the pair of them stumbled over themselves. "This way!" he barked, tugging leftward. On their arrival, Arthur had been unconscious. John had been counting steps with a fucking burlap sack over his head.

"You're sure?!"

"Yes!"

They stumbled and slipped and found an alley between huge, uninviting facades of night-black brick. John did some quick math, frustrated by the pulse surging in his temples, by his gorge in his throat. Distractions, far too many of them, but this had to be right. He dragged them both into the alley and nearly stumbled into the sleek swoop of an unmarked cruiser, and John gave a half-disbelieving laugh. He grabbed for the door handle, felt it resist him soundly. "Fuck. Fuck, it's locked!"

Arthur was lurking near him, his breath wheezing with a painful reminder of his recent encounter with violence. "Keys—" and then he stopped, because the thing that had been stalking them wasn't chuckling anymore, but it was absolutely trailing them. It gave an otherworldly shriek, slow and sonorous, gargled near the end like it was slowly suffocating under its own fetid weight. "John, there's got to be keys! Tell me you searched the bodies?!"

"I'm not a fucking idiot, Arthur!" He had kept what bits he deemed useful, of course, but digging around in his pockets meant wasted moments. A jingle, then; the keyring. Good! It was dark as... dark as hell. He unlocked the driver's-side door by feel, yelled, "get to the other door!" and was aggrieved and relieved both to hear Arthur retort that he very well was already.

John dove into the driver's seat and threw his whole body over to the other door, pushing it open from the inside. He skittered his key over the ignition as Arthur threw himself into the passenger's seat, heart in his throat as something slammed into them, made the entire car shudder. Someone was uttering an unbroken litany of curses, but John couldn't waste the mental focus on who. He cranked the headlights on, full blast, and was treated by the sight of something stretched wide and gelatinous and thickly hideous, trying to ensconce their get-away vehicle, whole hog.

"Fuck that," he snarled. The cruiser roared to life. He rode the pedal into the ground, the wheels shrieked their own unholy howls before they found purchase on damp cement. The thing trying to eat them found itself getting much more than it bargained for, and as John spun the wheel hand-over-hand to keep them from driving straight into the soup, he had the unfortunate vision of one of the men's full shoes thudding against the windscreen before they were well and truly through it.

"Did we make it?" John glanced over and caught Arthur clutching at the front dash and the pull strap, but he didn't spare his friend a long look. The night was a thick swill of swirling fog this close to the river. He was going to have to find a way off the rattling wood of the boardwalk and back into the city. He was going to have to calm his hammering heart; he'd never had one before...

He'd never had one before, but now he did, and it was his. He let out a gusty sigh, clenched his jaw just to remind himself he could grin with his whole heart. "Yes, Arthur, we made it."

"Thank God. Oh," Arthur slumped back in his seat, giving himself over to trust. John felt... good about that. It was a feeling that didn't exist without some complication, however.

He waited until they had found their way onto a service road, and then he tentatively poked at the growing sour note that clipped around in his mind, its urgency currently only tempered by their recent bout with something far more immediately dangerous. Then, he took a deep breath in. "Arthur..."

He was met with silence, and he nearly fumbled the follow-through. Everything felt so new that he hated to return to bickering. But... this wasn't exactly bickering. This was important. He tried again.

"Arthur, back in the warehouse, you were willing to get us both killed, rather than go through with the invocation. You had to know we wouldn't get another chance..." he waited for a moment, almost hoping that his friend would have something to rebut with, some stunning, cunning reason to put them both in danger.

For a moment longer, Arthur said nothing. John risked another glance. In the backlight of their headlights, Arthur looked every inch as beaten as he must have felt, and John would not have been surprised if he had passed out. But no, Arthur flicked his hands in his lap, a gesture that John had seen from a different perspective enough times to know it came with a thought process that would reveal itself in words. He caught a hold of the tremulous thing in his chest and focused on just... driving.

"Well... you know this entire thing hadn't been sitting well with me, John." Arthur sounded exhausted. His voice was low, quiet. There was an uncomfortable layering of defeat to it that John did not like, that put his back up. He breathed, and drove, but he could feel his very own knuckles tightening over the steering wheel. "And Corse. By God, I know we were looking to rid the world of a monster, and he's made Arkham a hotbed of just... just shit."

"We agreed he needed to be stopped," John said. He said it about the body he wore, like he'd stolen the property of some petty thief. Like he'd shrugged on the jacket of a dead man. He felt his jaw clench again. It wasn't a grin anymore.

"Yes, we did..."

"And he's not Vargas. There's always going to be crime where any number of humans gather." John paused both to consider their destination, and to get ahold of his raising voice. They needed to stay on backroads wherever possible, but there were only so many of those between the fucking murder district and Arthur's little apartment. "We agreed, Arthur. Corse was the better option."

"There's having better options," Arthur said, "and then there's having two bad options." He turned his head towards John, then, and when John met his eyes, he was aggrieved to see that same hazy look he'd got in the mirror so many times before. A part of him broke to know that he'd left Arthur scarred. It hurt him worse when Arthur, frowning, said, "they weren't even our only options, John. They were only the most convenient ones."

"I wasn't going to pilot around a cadaver," John said. "And the other options were worse. I don't..." He shifted uncomfortably. Saying this all again across from Arthur felt both infuriating and deflating, and he was struggling to find the words. "Arthur, you know I wanted this. This is the only way we could have stayed..." he trailed off, trying to purchase descriptors for their complicated history, let alone their future. "...On the same page."

He caught sight of Arthur's knuckles clenching by his knees, didn't linger to see how his face must be. The man practically radiated unspoken pain and grief, and John was loath to lance whatever it was that was holding the words back. On the other hand, they had nearly been murdered, and for no reason other than nerves. It was unlike him. Unlike the impetuous, hot-headed recovering idealist that was his friend.

"Arthur," he said, forcing his voice softer than he felt. "If you don't talk to me, I can't read your mind."

That earned him a stifled laugh, bit back short. "That's just it, John," he finally said. "You can't, and you won't, and you never will again. You're out there," he gestured towards the windshield, to the world at large. "You're... you're out. And you picked him and I can't keep you safe. Not like this."

Silence dragged between them, the rumble of the engine suffusing the space with a kind of accusation.

John struggled. He could feel the collar at his neck again, stiff and too tight, temple pulsing. Despite that, knuckles white, he said, "you have always wanted control, Arthur. I have had to watch you, over and over and over again, risk your fucking fragile human body. I have had to bite my tongue—" he stumbled over that, realizing what the turn of phrase really meant, now. He discarded the notion promptly. "You have had all of the control, and you've thrown us both to the wolves on your hunches and your sense of luck. I fucking can't do that forever, Arthur. You fucking knew that."

"You've been my conscience for so long," Arthur said. The way he said it felt like being raked over hot coals, and John snarled. He turned them around a corner a little too sharply, wanting to be a little reckless. It didn't stop Arthur, though, "we have relied on one another for so fucking long. You're all I have left... John. I know. I know it's petty. I... I know it's cruel. But I came to rely on you. And now that you're on the outside, I'm useless to you. And... you've wanted to go. I wasn't ready for it. I'm not ready for it."

Conflicting emotions warred inside the body, and John savagely tried to suppress them all. Petty, vindictive little shit. Impossibly tender, broken man. And then there was the guilt. Arthur was by no means his whole self, and that was aside from what they had considered life as normal prior to tonight. John pulled over, but he didn't take his hands off the wheel.

He took one, slow drag of a breath in, and let it out as a careful sigh. "The ritual wasn't meant to leave you blind, Arthur. And, even though it has, you are not useless. You will never be useless. I..." he thought very carefully about what he wanted to say. His friend was so incredibly prickly, and he was hurting. John didn't think he was imagining it when he'd felt a tear forming between them. He unwrapped his hands from the wheel and folded them in his lap, and looked Arthur in the face. "This world is a beautiful, horrible place. In it... things change. In it, things also stay the same. In it, we get to choose some of the good we can do, to do better. You taught me that. And..." he was furrowing his brow, looking out the side window rather than meet Arthur's face dead on. "I would like our friendship to remain. Even though I want to experience life... I would like it to be 'with', not 'instead of'." When he said it out loud, really, truly coming out of vocal chords he was desperately attempting to use with some semblance of familiarity, it sounded both meandering and mawkish.

Arthur's face did something strange, something that John hadn't ever witnessed properly. He sighed, and fished around for his handkerchief, and he sat in heavy silence as Arthur turned away and blew his nose and pretended not to wipe his eyes. "...Thank you," Arthur eventually said. "I... suppose I needed that. There's so much left to do, though, so many loose ends..."

"Yes, but it's getting late, Arthur." Something in John resisted the idea of throwing themselves immediately into the clean-up of taking over the body. "And... you are badly hurt. We should take you home." His guilt was speaking for him, however, and he added, "or..."

"Or?"

"Well. You were never meant to retain your blindness, Arthur. We should look into that sooner than later."

Notes:

Arthur is badly hurt, and John is not fully accustomed to living. However, there are resources they may yet have at hand to better understand why the splitting of their binding did not go entirely according to plan. Considering that they may very well have little unscrutinized time remaining, there is a chance that finding a cure for Arthur's mind may be limited. Leave his body unattended, however, and there may not be a mind left to cure. You know. Human problems.

Notes:

Please feel free to participate! This is a CYOA (a 'choose your own adventure') in honour of Malevolent's canon interaction with its fanbase. Not all chapters will require a decision, but some will. They might be important.