Chapter Text
Year 0
A sharp jab to Tim’s side wrenched him out of the world of centuries-old architectural styles, and by some miracle, he managed not to drop his book directly into his salad.
“Sasha, this is a library book, do you want Diana to have me assassinated—”
“Serves you right for bringing it to lunch.” She wasn’t even looking at him, too focused on something or someone on the other side of the canteen. “Look.”
With a sigh, Tim set his book down a safe distance from his food and followed her gaze. In a matter of moments, the institute library’s opinion of him was the last thing on his mind. “Ohh, shit. That’s them, isn’t it.”
Sasha’s eyes gleamed with interest. “That’s them.”
Tim tracked the pair as they made their way from the doors to the service area. “I thought they’d be taller.”
From the back, they could have been twins: both of them skinny and angular, with the same unimpressive height, dark hair, and pointed ears that suggested elven ancestry. But then they turned toward the tables, and Tim got his first good look at Jonathan Sims and Gerard Keay.
Sims was straight-backed and severe, with polished glasses balanced on an aristocratic nose, and the expression of someone with something disgusting smeared on his upper lip. His hair was neatly groomed, not a single strand out of place. In a sea of rumpled business casual, he stood out with his waistcoat and tie and pressed slacks. And Keay… well. Keay looked like every bad stereotype of a dark wizard, the darkest nightmare of every pearl-clutcher who’d never actually met a real dark wizard in their lives. His skin was pale, made paler by the fact that everything else about him was black, from his hair to his clothes to the ink on his throat and hands. He stuck to Sims’ side like a shadow, while Sims glared imperiously at anyone bold enough to stare—which, at this point, was most of the people in the room. When the forbidding stare turned to Tim, he had to look away.
“Pretty sure the coat and the spikes aren’t in the institute’s approved dress code,” Tim murmured.
Sasha was still openly watching them, not cowed by Jonathan’s silent challenge. “Considering the deal they cut with the board, I’m pretty sure they’re allowed to wear whatever the hell they want.”
She didn’t say anything more; Tim knew he was being baited to ask, and he was too curious to leave her hanging. “I’ll bite—what deal?”
Sasha left off gawking and turned fully to Tim with a conspiratorial smile. “I mean, you know who they are, right?”
“You’re asking me if I know who Jonathan Sims and Gerard bloody Keay are.”
“So it all goes back to politics, right,” Sasha went on. “The Sims name is—well. It’s a big name in arcane academia. And the Magnus Institute’s done some great things, but what we don’t have is star power. Look at the Icarus Consortium—they’ve got Maxwell Rayner, the Lukas family, and the Fairchilds. Meanwhile we’ve got Jonah Magnus’s name on the building, but he’s been dead for two hundred years.”
Tim’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, so Jonny-boy over there got hired for his name? ”
“I mean, he’s probably no slouch himself, but basically, yes.” Sasha grinned. “He could get into any institution he wanted—for his name, for his scholarly accolades, whatever. The Consortium rolled out the red carpet for him, too. But apparently, he gave an ultimatum—he wasn’t joining any of them unless Gerard Keay was invited too.”
“And the institute went for it? ”
“ Elias went for it,” Sasha told him. “The rest of the board dragged its feet, but eventually they went, too. Not like they had much choice. He’s an only child, his only living relations are already established elsewhere. Hiring Jonathan was the only way to get the Sims name attached.”
“Alright, yeah, but now we’ve got the Keay name attached. Between the prestigious family of magical researchers and the serial-killing dark sorceress, I’d say that leaves us at a net zero .”
Tim shot another glance at the pair; they had tucked themselves into a corner and were conversing quietly. He couldn’t see Gerard’s face from this distance. Jonathan’s had lost the haughty glare; he now wore a grin that took up his entire face, and his body was turned toward Gerard as much as their seats allowed. As Tim watched, Gerard casually stole a chip from Jonathan’s plate.
“Maybe he’s not like his mum?” he said thoughtfully. “I mean, for a guy like Jonathan to put his career and his family name on the line… it’s gotta be worth it, right?”
“There are rumors Gerard was the one who did his mum in,” said Sasha.
“Well, there you go. Could be a crusading warrior for justice, or something. Just ‘cos his mum’s a nightmare incarnate doesn’t mean he likes it. I mean look at me—my mum and I hate each other.”
Sasha looked thoughtful as she opened his packet of crisps and ate one before passing it back. Her contemplative expression turned toward the table in the corner.
“One way to find out,” she said, before grabbing her half-eaten sandwich and standing up.
“Oh, are we doing this?” Tim picked up his salad and crisps and followed.
“We won’t learn anything new by watching them eat, now will we?”
It felt like being back in school again, sliding in to sit with the new kids. Sasha claimed the seat across from Gerard—because of course she did—leaving Tim to offer a smile and a wink to the once-more frowning Jonathan.
“Hi. Sasha James.” Bold and unashamed as ever, Sasha stuck out a hand to Gerard. “You’re Gerard, right? I hear you’ll be joining us in Artifact Storage.”
Gerard stared at her blankly as he shook the offered hand. “...Right.”
“I’m Tim, from Research,” Tim added, electing to ignore Jonathan's sour expression. “My focus is on arcane architecture, but Research takes me all over the place. Sasha says that’s where you’ll be?”
“Strange,” Jonathan replied warily. “I don’t recall seeing her face on the hiring committee.”
Sasha waggled her eyebrows at him. “You’d be surprised,” she said, before transforming into a perfect twin of Tim. Jonathan started, nearly knocking over his thermos before she reached out to steady it. “I’m joking, of course. I wasn’t there—but I could’ve been, if I wanted.” Her form rippled, settling back into her usual tanned and freckled complexion and gentle waves of smoky dark hair.
“She’s the person to know when it comes to hot office gossip,” Tim explained.
Jonathan shared a split-second glance with Gerard. “A worthwhile and productive use of your time, I’m sure.”
“Hasn’t failed me yet,” Sasha said cheerfully. “We can’t all enrich our lives with the dry scribblings of architects who’ve been dead for centuries.”
Tim put his hand to his chest, wounded. “Hey, Robert Smirke had some interesting things to say for a centuries-old dead guy.”
Jonathan snorted. “Smirke’s ideas on the balance of energies were narrow-minded and pedestrian.”
Tim stared at him, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Oh boy,” Sasha murmured. Across the table, Gerard let his forehead drop into his palm.
“You’ve read Smirke’s work?” Tim asked.
“I didn’t care for it.” That was not a no.
“Okay, so narrow-minded I get,” said Tim, turning fully toward his new friend. “But you have to admit his designs got results. Every single one of his buildings still standing have well-documented arcane properties.”
“I’m not saying he couldn’t design a decent place of power.” Jonathan pushed his plate of chips in front of Gerard as if it was an obstacle to arguing. “But his ideas were wholly constructed from his culture of origin and allowed for no concepts beyond his own narrow education—”
“Okay, not to defend a dead racist or anything, but that was the framework he had to work with, so it makes sense that it would inform most of his work. And it’s not like he never stepped outside of it.”
“And on the rare occasion he did, it was by claiming credit for the ‘discovery’ when the designs or practices had been in use for centuries on another continent!”
It devolved into a lively academic discussion from there. Tim might have worried about starting an argument with a coworker on their first day, if the look on Gerard’s face as he ate the rest of the chips hadn’t told him loud and clear that this happened often with Jonathan.
“Well that went well,” Sasha told him later, before she abandoned him to play with the toys upstairs.
“It did! I like him.”
“I could tell. The whole canteen could tell, I think.”
Tim threw an arm about her shoulders and aimed a lazy grin at Mark from Filing, who was shooting him a pinched glare as he passed. “You know what this means, right?”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The two of us, associating with the most scandalous new members of the Magnus Institute. All that scandal’s gonna rub right off on us, you know.”
Sasha beamed at him. “You know I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Well that wasn’t so bad, was it,” Gerry remarked. “No shouted threats, hardly any dirty looks. Mostly a lot of staring. Not to speak too soon, but some of them were downright friendly.”
Jon’s posture had remained stiff as a board, back straight, steps smooth, as if he was balancing a stack of books on his head, until some arbitrary number of steps put them far enough from the institute’s walls to let himself slouch again. “ Two of them were downright friendly,” he corrected.
“Two friendly people on the first day is a record for us,” Gerry reminded him. “Well, me. You’re a charmer when I’m not around.”
“There’s a fine line between friendly and meddlesome.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Gerry swerved to the side to affectionately crash into him. “Relax, will you? The hard bit’s over. We’re in.”
“I know, I know, I just…” Jon wrung his hands agitatedly. “I can’t help feeling like we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don’t quite trust these people not to yank the rug from under our feet.”
Gerry snorted. “ My feet, you mean. It’s your name they want, remember?”
“My gran’s name, more like. And you know there’s no difference—if they toss you out, you know I’m right behind you whether they like it or not.”
Gerry’s answering silence could not have been louder.
Jon glared at him. “Don’t you start.”
“I just think it wouldn’t kill you to stop sabotaging yourself for me,” Gerry said in a rush. “I mean I’m grateful, don’t think I’m not, but—you could have anything you want if you just—”
“I have what I want,” Jon cut him off.
“Bullshit, the Icarus Consortium is out there exploring the stars—don’t think I didn’t see your eyes light up at celestial travel. You could fly off and see the far reaches of the planar system if you wanted.”
Jon stared at him, wondering how an idea like that had gotten into Gerry’s head, how he’d missed that Gerry was carrying it in the first place. “Why would I want to see it without you?”
Gerry stared back, apparently speechless.
“I don’t just say these things to shut you up or make myself feel better,” Jon went on. “I mean them. If we went back to wandering from one odd job to the next, living hand to mouth for the rest of our lives, I’d still have everything I want.” He squared his shoulders, forcing his tone light again. “This is just a stroke of unusually good fortune. It’s not the end of the world if it goes away.”
Gerry put his hand to Jon’s head and shoved him gently. “Alright, you sap, I get it. Now let’s see what institute-sponsored housing looks like.”
As a matter of fact, institute-sponsored housing looked like a furnished two-bedroom flat. It was a little plain—walls blank, cupboards empty, basic furniture in gray and beige—but Jon doubted that would last long. He could already see Gerry giving the bare walls a thoughtful look, as if already painting mental murals on them.
“Not so bad at all,” Jon murmured, half to himself.
Gerry snorted. “Compared to your dorm room, it’s downright palatial.”
“A room for each of us, even.”
“A key for each of us,” Gerry pointed out. “No more sneaking in through a third-floor window and cramming myself under the bed with the dust bunnies.”
“Or cramming yourself into the bed and hogging the blankets.”
“That was one time!”
“That was every winter. ”
“You’ll miss it,” Gerry vowed cheekily. “Just watch, you won’t be able to sleep without my cold-arse feet—oh, someone left takeaway menus in the kitchen!”
They ordered in for dinner, and Jon gently bullied Gerry into having the first pick of the bedrooms. They hadn’t brought much in the way of linens, but they had enough blankets and pillows to last them until they could do some shopping tomorrow. That night, Jon stretched himself out like a starfish over the largest bed he’d ever called his own, and stared up at the ceiling with a satisfied smile. In spite of all his worries and misgivings and forebodings… things really were looking up for them, and not just for the flat.
He’d meant it, earlier. He’d been happy already. He could claw happiness from anything, from odd jobs and cramped flats and broken plumbing and mice, from dodging suspicion and disapproval on the way to the next meal ticket, from burning every shaming letter from whatever distant relation hadn’t written him off yet—as long as Gerry stayed by his side.
But this! Research, learning, delving deep into the secrets of the arcane—that was what he loved, what Gerry loved, what they could do forever and never work a day in their lives. And they had that, now.
Jon squirmed with delight, wriggling deeper beneath his well-worn blanket, into a mattress that didn’t squeak or jab him in the back. Yes, things were going to be different now.
He must have dropped off to sleep, because when he opened his eyes again, his clock showed that several hours had passed, and the mattress was dipping as Gerry crawled under the blanket with him.
Groggily, Jon shifted over for him—though there wasn’t much shifting necessary on a double bed—and adjusted the pillow so there was room for Gerry’s head alongside his own. In spite of the space available, Gerry pressed close and tucked his head against the crook of Jon’s shoulder. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Jon mumbled back. “Alright?”
“Yeah, fine.”
Every blink brought Jon further awake. “Sure about that?”
Gerry grumbled softly into his shoulder. “Guess you weren’t the one who couldn’t sleep.”
“We don’t have to have separate rooms,” Jon told him. “We can use the other one for something else if you—”
“No no, I want to. It was good for the first couple of hours, but then I—” Gerry hesitated. “I dunno. I woke up and it got a little weird in my head.”
Jon hummed sympathetically, shifting again so Gerry could settle more comfortably against his side. “Want to talk about it?”
“‘S a bit stupid.”
“Doesn’t answer my question.”
“Just…” Gerry fidgeted. “Just new people, I guess. And it sounds like we’ll be working separately.”
Jon heaved a sigh. “I did try to argue against that, but it was the one concession Mr. Bouchard wouldn’t budge on,” he said. “You said you were alright with it—”
“And I am, alright? I am. I’m alright with us being separate, I’m alright with people staring and people talking to you and I’m alright with you getting on with whats-his-name who likes architecture, he seemed to like you and I can tell you like him and that’s good. All of this is good. Or at least it’s not bad. But it’s new and weird and…” Gerry paused as if for breath. “I dunno. Told you it was stupid.”
Jon sighed. “Is this the part where I tell you once again that I haven’t been secretly waiting all these years for my chance to abandon you for academic prestige and the approval of strangers and distant relations I either hate or have never met?”
“I know that, Jon.” Gerry sounded guilty, which was even worse. “Like I said. I woke up and it was a weird place in my head. ‘M hoping it goes away when the sun comes up.”
“I had friends in university, too,” Jon reminded him. “This isn’t going to be any different. You’re—you’re important to me. The most important person in my life. One man I met yesterday and argued with about Robert Smirke isn’t going to change that.”
“I know that,” Gerry repeated. “I do know that. And—and you should keep talking to him. He seems nice—his shapeshifting friend, too. You deserve all the nice people.”
“Damned right I do,” Jon snorted. “But at the end of the day, there’s only one nice person I really need.”
He heard Gerry’s breath hitch, second before Gerry gathered him into his arms and gave him a nearly-painful squeeze.
“Just watch,” Jon went on with a sleepy smile. “In a few months, they’ll be sick of me, and it’ll be us against the world again.”
Year 1
Jon forces his breathing steady. He hurts , all over, and the hard, shining floor of the ship isn’t helping. He knows it can’t be helping Gerry, and Gerry’s the one who’s bleeding, God he’s still bleeding, and it’s from his throat too, what if it doesn’t stop—
“Jon.” Tim’s hands grip his shoulders briefly. “You need to calm down. He’s alright, I know it looks bad, but it didn’t reach anything important—Gerry, tell him.”
“Windpipe and jugular are fine,” Gerry rasps. “Ow.”
Jon is about to snap that things are not fine, they haven’t been fine for a while and they’re never going to be fine again, when a second pair of hands gently maneuvers him away from Tim.
“Take care of Gerry,” Adelard says quietly. “I’ve got him.”
Healing magic washes over him like cool water, sponging away his hurts. All minor things, but that doesn’t matter in the face of everything. Jon blinks, and the room with all its polished metallic surfaces and blinking lights collapses into a swimming blur. He spends a second worrying that he’s fainting again before he realizes he’s crying instead.
“I won’t tell you it’ll be alright,” Adelard murmurs to him. “It isn’t now, and I don’t know that it will be. But you are alive. We are alive. As long as that is true, there is still more we can do.”
Jon wipes his eyes and nods shakily. Something hovers at the corner of his eye, silver-gray and far too thin to be one of his own hairs. He swats at it, then claws at it, pulling it loose easily, though it takes him a minute more to dislodge it from his fingertips. No sooner is it gone than he notices three more on his sleeve. He removes those, and finds another on his shoulder, and on and on it goes, until all he can do is feverishly claw at himself.
“Adelard,” Gertrude calls from… somewhere.
“In a moment, Gertrude.”
“I need you up here.”
With a sigh, Adelard gently feels Jon’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Any injuries I’ve missed?”
Jon shakes his head, and Adelard gives his shoulder one last squeeze before rising to follow Gertrude. Jon looks over to Gerry, and finds Tim gently wiping the blood from his neck with a damp rag. Gerry catches his eye and smiles.
“Not dead yet,” he announces. “Thanks, Tim.”
Tim grunts, then rises to his feet. “I’m gonna go check on the others,” he says, and leaves in the same direction as Adelard. The moment he’s gone, Jon is gathering Gerry into his arms, reassuring himself that he’s still warm and alive and present.
“We should go too,” Gerry tells him hoarsely. “See the rest of this place.”
“I know,” Jon replies. “I know. I just—”
His voice catches. His vision blurs again.
“I’m sorry. Gerry, I’m so sorry—”
“It’s not your fault,” Gerry says tightly. “None of this was your fault.”
“I made you—we knew we shouldn’t, we both knew, and because of me—”
“I’d have done it again,” Gerry cuts him off. “Same as you. When it’s a question of us against the world—that’s not a question. That’s not a choice.”
Jon swallows hard. The words sink in, and in spite of himself, he chokes out a whisper of a laugh.
“What’s so funny.”
“Just—us against the world.” Jon’s voice wobbles. “Never thought it would be so literal.”
Gerry is silent for a moment.
“Gerry?”
“Sometimes I wonder.” Gerry’s tone was odd, as if he were speaking more to himself than to Jon. “My mum would’ve burned the world down for what she wanted. And I guess…”
Jon squeezes him tighter.
Gerry seems to shake himself. “It’s not your fault,” he repeats. “And you know what? It’s not mine, either. Or Gertrude’s, or—it’s not any of us. There’s one person behind all this. Let’s focus the blame where it belongs, shall we?”
Eventually one of them pulls the other up, or they pull each other up, and they leave the room and the entrance hatch behind. The ship is no bigger on the inside, and it doesn’t take them long to find their way past bunks and storage and galley to the bridge at the front, where everyone is gathered before the controls, and the sprawling windows.
Jon stares. Everyone stares. The universe stares back.
Martin sits awkwardly in the pilot’s seat. The ship flies steadily beneath his hands, in spite of the way Gertrude hovers sharp-eyed over him like a vulture.
Sasha and Tim stand together at one of the windows. The bridge sits high enough on the ship to allow a 360-degree view of the vastness of space. Sasha and Tim stand opposite the pilot’s seat, watching the rear. Tim’s hands are still bloodstained. Sasha’s hair is shimmering in different colors, betraying her nervousness.
“Is it chasing us?” Gerry asks as they join them. Sasha startles, and Tim grips her hand tighter.
“We haven’t seen it,” he says. “We’ve been watching.”
Jon watches too, and sees nothing but the twinkle of distant stars and blurred galaxies. No sign of unnatural darkness or wriggling movement passes before the endless wash of light. He searches every cluster and constellation, but—
But—
Jon steps closer to the window, until his hands are pressed to the thick, powerful glass. He stares, blinking as much as he can, as if he’ll open his eyes and see what he wants to.
“Jon?” Gerry calls to him. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s—it’s gone,” Jon stammers out.
“Yeah, Jon, we figured it would be,” Tim says tightly.
“No, not just—just look. ” Jon raises his head, craning his neck as he looks not just at their rear, but above them, ahead of them, around them. “Look at the stars, at—at everything. ”
They look. He can hear when they realize what he means.
“They’re all…” Sasha whispers.
“Wrong,” Gerry finishes grimly. “Infinite stars in infinite space, and they’re all wrong.”
A signal chimes through the ship, bringing their attention forward again. Martin sits up straighter, pointing to various buttons and switches on the control panel as Adelard murmurs something to him. As if sensing the extra eyes on him, Martin glances back at the rest of them.
“That was a proximity alert,” he says. “There’s a planet ahead.”