And If Thou Wilt, Forget

The morning’s rain had stopped and the small amount of fog that had followed it had burned away, but the sky was still leaden grey, and there was just a bit of a nip in the air. It was honestly Gerry’s favorite kind of weather, especially now. He’d always been one for the dreary, gloomy days of late autumn and early winter—it suited his aesthetic and his personality alike—but this year he’d been particularly delighted when the weather started changing. And until today, he hadn’t understood why.

Whistling under his breath, he let himself into the flat and started to drop the keys into the bowl that sat on the table by the door, then stopped and stared at it for just a moment. There was nothing special about it, just a shallow wooden dish that didn’t really work well for eating or serving out of. When they’d moved Tim in, he’d set it on the little hall table right inside the door that had never served as anything but something for Gerry to catch his hip on when he tried to get through the door too quickly, and it was just where he dropped his keys and wallet when he came in the door. He’d never said a word to Gerry about it, but somewhere along the line, Gerry had started putting his own keys and wallet in there as soon as he got in, too.

There were a lot of little things like that around the flat, small, subtle marks they’d made on one another. The cookbooks on the shelf in the kitchen, the mingled clothes in the closet and dresser in the bedroom, the row of hooks behind the door where Tim’s heavy wool coat hung next to Rowlf’s lead. There were a few things out haphazardly, a couple disarranged throw blankets or half-finished projects, but the barely organized chaos from before was nowhere to be found…but then, neither was the rigid, almost antiseptic environment of the house Tim had lived in before he came here. Gerry had taught him to loosen his control, while Tim had taught Gerry to take a bit of pride in his appearance and surroundings. They were a good fit for one another.

A bumping noise from the back of the flat made him laugh. He tossed keys and wallet into the bowl, hung his coat on the hook, and headed back to the bedroom that had once been his mother’s. The second he opened the door, Rowlf burst out in a whirlwind of wagging tail and licking tongue. Gerry spent a few minutes fussing over him, took him out to do his business, then made sure there was water in his bowl before heading into the sitting room. Rowlf followed him and flopped down at his feet, head on his shoes. Gerry smiled down at him for a moment before reaching for the phone.

The phone rang three times before Tim’s voice came over the line, crisp and professional and just a hair distracted. “Good morning, Magnus Institute Archives, Tim Stoker speaking.”

Obviously he hadn’t looked at the caller ID before answering. Gerry thought about playing into it, but he was in too good a mood to stall the conversation much longer. “Did I call the trunk line instead of your personal one?”

“Hey, babe!” Tim’s voice instantly brightened. “Sorry, I was expecting a call back on a statement.”

“I can call back later,” Gerry said, knowing full well Tim wouldn’t agree to that.

“No, it’s good, I’m good…hang on.” Tim took the phone away from his mouth, but he was still clearly audible, so he’d dropped the phone but not muffled it against his shoulder. “Hey, if Jon asks, I’m just stepping out to take a call, okay?”

Someone in the room gave a quiet assent, and Gerry listened contentedly to the sounds of Tim getting up and making his way through the Archives. A door opened, a door shut, and then Tim’s voice came back more strongly. “I’m back. Sorry I didn’t wake you up before I left this morning, but you just looked so comfortable.”

“It’s okay. I probably needed the sleep.” Gerry drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You know what today is?”

“Fourth of November.”

“You know what’s significant about that?”

Tim hummed. “Grand opening of the first true Tube line?”

Gerry paused. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. 1890. King William Street to Stockwell. Prince Edward cut the ribbon, but it wasn’t actually open to the public until the eighteenth of December.”

“Do I even want to know how you know that?”

“Lou had one of those This Day In History calendars the year I started working for her. That one stuck out.” Tim laughed. “I doubt that’s what you had in mind, though. Tell me, what’s significant about the fourth of Nov—”

He stopped abruptly. Gerry could hear the wheels turning in his head and decided to preempt him. “Yeah. Twelve months since my surgery.”

“Fuck.” Tim exhaled hard. “Your follow-up appointment is today, isn’t it? What time? I can probably get Jon to let me out for the afternoon or—”

“Just got home, actually,” Gerry admitted. “I kind of forgot about it until yesterday and, well, I didn’t want you to fret about it. I know we haven’t…really talked about it, but…you know.”

“Gerry.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Gerry bit his lip for a moment. “I do actually wish you’d been there.”

Tim was quiet for several moments. Finally, he said softly, “Okay. I’m sitting down. Give it to me. What did they say?”

Gerry frowned, momentarily puzzled. Then he replayed the conversation they’d just had in his mind, and guilt stabbed through his gut. “Oh. Oh, shit, Tim, no. No, nothing like—I’m fine. All the tests came back clear. I am one hundred percent tumor free. The surgery worked, the treatment worked, it’s—I’m okay. I just wish you’d been there to hear it with me.”

“Jesus, Ger, you scared the hell out of me.” Tim let out a relieved-sounding laugh. “They don’t think it’s likely to come back?”

“It wasn’t cancer. Just a tumor. They said all the tests showed it was more or less benign, and it was an anomaly. So no, it’s not coming back.” Gerry ran his free hand over the spot they’d cut into to remove it. “Doc said if I made it to this point, I’ve got nothing left to worry about.”

“That’s wonderful. Seriously. You were probably right not to tell me about it, I’d have been stressing all morning if I couldn’t be there with you, but…I’m glad you’re okay.” Tim took a deep breath. “I’ve got to get back to work, but…I’ll see you when I get home, okay? I love you, Gerry.”

“I love you, too, Tim.”

They didn’t say it often. Or, well, they did, but in a casual way, as part of everyday conversation. Breakfast is on the table, can you pick up milk on the way home, did you walk the dog, love you. The words were little more than punctuation to the sentences of their daily lives. It was when they actually spoke the I that it was important, that it meant…no, it always meant something, but it meant more when they made it a full sentence. Or at least that was how it felt to Gerry. He still wasn’t one for romance—neither was Tim—and he hadn’t exactly had a lot of love growing up, but he sure knew what it was now. It was a hand under his elbow while they wobbled on razor blades across a slippery surface and a set of fingers around his during takeoff and landing. It was regular meals and a fully stocked pantry. It was a water bottle that never seemed to be empty while he was painting and a bed that was always made with clean sheets when he was tired. It was having his own space but knowing someone else was there if and when he wanted company. It was running to share a joy when something good happened and reaching out for comfort when trouble came his way. It was the way Tim just fit, effortlessly, into his life and didn’t so much make him feel like he’d found something he’d been missing as he gave a richer, fuller experience to what was already there.

Saying I love you took a lot less time than all of that.

Gerry slowly replaced the receiver on the cradle, then got to his feet. There were a lot of things he could probably be doing—more research into the Unknowing, hunting for signs of Gertrude, going over Leitner’s catalog and seeing if he could track down more books to destroy—but he decided, fuck it, he was entitled to a day off. Especially given the news he’d gotten. The world wasn’t ending today, in any sense of the phrase, so he was going to take time for himself.

He headed into the back room they had designated as his studio, another change Tim had made, albeit more blatantly. As a kid, the only space Gerry had been given for his own had been his bedroom, where he’d slept, hidden from his mother, listened to music, and worked on his art. Even after her death, he’d been quietly afraid to spread out. He’d started to pack his things away entirely when Tim moved in, but Tim had insisted he at least have somewhere he could use them if he wanted to. So after cleaning the hell out of the room she’d used as a workroom, they’d set it up for Gerry’s art.

He actually didn’t feel like working back there, though. Not today. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed the drawing board, a few sheets of paper, and his pencils, then went back into the sitting room. Turning on the stereo and letting the death metal fill the room—not too loud, he didn’t want to hurt Rowlf’s ears—he propped his feet up on an ottoman, balanced the board on his knees, and began sketching.

Time, presumably, passed. The music kept playing, and Gerry paused occasionally to contemplate his next action or shake out his fingers, but for the most part he was unaware of anything going on around him until he felt a sudden weight on the top of his head. “When’s the last time you moved your legs?”

Gerry tilted his his head back with a smile, dislodging Tim’s arms. “Hi, Tim.”

“Hi.” Tim smiled back. “Answer the question, Delano.”

“Well, you’re home, so…a few hours, I’m guessing.” Gerry straightened out his legs and bit back a gasp as awareness of how stiff and sore they were came rushing in. “I was going to say ‘unless you’re here on your lunch break’, but nope, definitely been sitting here for a while. What time is it?”

“Half-six. I could tell you were pretty involved in your work, since you didn’t notice me come in, take the dog for a walk, and come back.” Tim slid his fingers along the back of Gerry’s neck and along his shoulder. “Would you rather go out or eat in tonight?”

“On a Wednesday? What’s the occasion?” Gerry asked without thinking.

Tim bent down and kissed his cheek. “You’re alive. Feels like something we should celebrate.”

Gerry turned and caught Tim’s lips with his own, quickly, before he could move away. “I’m game. Give me a minute to clean up and change and we’ll go somewhere special.”

They wound up at a rather upscale French restaurant, one of the pretentious, old-fashioned ones that didn’t have a social media presence and still had blind menus for women. Gerry assumed, when the couple ahead of them was turned away almost immediately, that the restaurant was booked, but to his mild surprise they were shown to a table right away, far enough from the music that they could converse but not so close to the kitchen that they would be bothered.

“The guy didn’t have a tie on,” Tim pointed out when Gerry mentioned it, sotto voce, after they had been left with assurances that their waiter would be with them shortly. “It’s that kind of place. There aren’t many of them left and certainly not in London, or at least not ones you don’t need a reservation for. I think the only reason we’re getting into this one is because it’s a Wednesday. Like you said, not many people go out to dinner on a Wednesday, and certainly not to a place like this.”

“Well, we’re far from typical,” Gerry said, earning a laugh from Tim.

There was a four-course prix fixe menu with complementary wines listed, and honestly the price wasn’t outrageous for what it seemed to entail. Even if it had been, though, screw it, they were celebrating. The waiter bowed after taking their order and left them with the bread rolls while he went to—presumably—put their order in, or possibly get their starters.

“So, how was work?” Gerry prompted once they were alone. “Everything on the level?”

Tim’s smile faded. “I wish. They got hold of another real one without me noticing.”

Gerry winced. “That’s, what, six now?”

“That I know of. I’m still digging into the one with the…teeth. Martin’s got this one, though.” Tim was quiet for a moment. “Um, I wanted to ask you about that, actually.”

“About Martin?”

“Yeah. Kind of. It’s…” Tim took a deep breath. “You’re mentioned in it.”

Gerry’s stomach flipped. “In…what kind of detail?”

“Uh. More than you’d like. It’s the guy who had the copy of Ex Altiora you burned.”

“Oh. That guy.” Gerry sighed. “That was only like three years ago. It definitely mentions that I—” He checked himself. Weirdly, discussing the Fourteen in public rarely caused anyone around them to bat an eyelash, but if he said it definitely mentioned that I allegedly murdered my mum, no matter how quietly, they’d draw the attention of the whole restaurant.

Tim winced, but nodded. “Yep. I, uh—they all know I’m dating someone, and I’ve mentioned you as Gerry to Martin at least, but I doubt any of them have made the connection, or have any reason to suspect my Gerry is that Gerard.”

Gerry had to admit, if only to himself, that he liked the sound of my Gerry. “So I guess your question is whether you should clue him in that you know me or not.”

“Yeah. I’m honestly a little surprised neither Jon nor Sasha has said anything to me—I have your address listed as mine in the employment records, they have to know it’s the same as Pinhole Books.”

“Well, we did change the shop name, even if I do forget to answer correctly sometimes,” Gerry pointed out. “Why wouldn’t they assume it’s a new business?”

Tim shrugged. “Even if they do, I’d still think they would ask. Even just a casual ‘hey, Tim, found any weirdly shaped bird bones lying around the floor of the shop?”

Gerry shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I still don’t know what that one actually did other than…you know, leak.”

Tim reached over the table and squeezed Gerry’s hand once, lightly, in a comforting gesture. “So what do you want me to tell Martin? Jon’s interested in talking to you—”

“I’m not interested in talking to him.” From what Tim had said about Jonathan Sims, he seemed like an okay guy, and he was trying to be at least a little less of an outward prick, but between the fact that they were still expecting Gertrude Robinson to come back at some point and the fact that he didn’t really want the extra scrutiny, Gerry wasn’t keen to talk to him. “Not about that incident, anyway. I don’t know how to explain…” He paused and bit his lip. “Uh, I never told you about how I met Gertrude, did I?”

The waiter returned with their starters and the sommelier, who presented them with the bottle—Gerry didn’t really know wines, but Tim seemed impressed—and poured them each a glass. When they were alone again, Tim spoke in a calm, level voice. “Other than pretending you were her grandson when we first met—very badly, I must remind you—we never really talked about it. She gave me the impression she mostly brought you in to help with Leitners, at least at first, so I figured it had something to do with that. But from what I got from the statement, I’m guessing your mum had one. Or something like a Leitner that never had his name attached to it. And if I had to go out on a limb, I'd say it was that one you had in your luggage when we were on our trip, the one locked up with about ten belts that you never read and were pretty subtle about making sure I didn’t touch.”

Gerry flushed. “I didn’t think you noticed that.”

“Gerry.”

“Okay, okay! I know.” Gerry took a deep breath. “It’s—I don’t know if it has a name or not. Doesn’t have his label in it, and there’s nothing like it in the catalog. Mum always just called it the Book. It’s—well, you’ve seen it.”

“I’ve seen the outside, anyway,” Tim said with a shrug. “I’m guessing you haven’t seen the inside, since you’re still here.”

Gerry winced. “About that.”

Tim, who had been about to cut into his starter, laid his fork down sharply. “Don’t tell me. What’s it…hang on.”

He studied Gerry, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth. Gerry braced himself for condemnation, but to his surprise—and relief—he saw nothing but sympathy and concern and a bit of sadness. “The End. That much is obvious. It’s left its mark on you, that’s for sure, but…Jesus, is that what—what everything that happened was all about? Something she got out of her book?”

“Kind of. More something she wanted to put into it, I think. See, all of the pages in it are…people. Or used to be people,” Gerry confessed softly. “She’d kill them, and then…I don’t know. Skin them, write their deaths onto them with a special pen she had for the purpose—it wasn’t like I got to watch, I sure as hell don’t know how she did it and I don’t want to. But if she read what was on the pages, she could…summon them. Or an echo of them, anyway. She used to do it sometimes to scare me, warn me what would happen to me if I didn’t do what I was told.”

Tim reached for Gerry’s hand again, and this time he didn’t let go. “And she was trying to do it to herself? While she was still alive?”

“Something like that. I think. Some kind of ritual to bind herself to it, but…it didn’t work. Obviously. She wanted me to help her, but I wouldn’t.” Gerry turned his hand over and laced his fingers with Tim’s. “Whatever it did…she was waiting for me when I got home after the mistrial. It had gone wrong, and she was trapped in this…half existence, instead of the master of death like she’d wanted. She said it was my fault.”

“You know it wasn’t, right?”

“Logically, yeah, but at the time it was hard to believe that. Got trapped with her for a few years more. Eventually she would…fade, I guess, and I’d try to run, burn as many Leitners as I could, whatever, but I never got very far. I was almost at the end of my rope when I met Gertrude. She listened to the story, then said she could help.” Gerry huffed a tired laugh. “Not sure I believed her, but I wanted to. But then she brought it back to me, and Mum’s pages were burnt out.”

Tim nodded slowly. “And then you kept helping her out of gratitude? Or because you thought you were paying her back for services rendered?”

“Why do I feel like you just called me a whore?”

“No, I called Gertrude a whore. You were paying her, which makes you the john,” Tim shot back.

Gerry barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. “Wherever she is, she just got the crystal clear thought that she needs to kill you immediately.”

Tim scoffed. “Please. She’s been called way worse than that.”

Their starters were starting to cool, so they both dug in and managed to finish just before the waiter returned with their salads. Conversation drifted to other topics, and Gerry could almost have fooled himself that they were any other couple on a date. Almost. At least for a while.

But because they weren’t any other couple, when their entrées came out, Tim waited until he had swallowed his first bite before he asked quietly, “Why didn’t she burn the whole thing?”

Gerry paused, fork halfway through slicing off his next bite. “What?”

“Your mum’s book. I get why you didn’t leave it in London while you were going around the world, that’s not something you want to risk someone breaking in and finding, but why would Gertrude have left most of it intact in the first place?” Tim cocked his head at Gerry thoughtfully. “Why wouldn’t she want it fully destroyed? It’s at least as dangerous as anything else in that catalog.”

“I—I don’t know,” Gerry said slowly. “Shit, it wasn’t even my idea to bring it along in the first place. I didn’t have it with me when we met up at the Institute, remember? You and I had been out at the pub. I assumed we were heading straight for Heathrow, but we went in completely the wrong direction to the bookstore and she told me to make sure I brought the book when I got my bag. I didn’t even question it.” He blinked. “Damn. She compelled me. Must have.”

Tim sighed. “I wonder if she’ll tell me her reasoning if I ask her?”

“She might. Or she might lie.”

“Only one way to find out, I suppose.” Tim settled back into his seat. “She’d better come back soon, though, or Sasha is definitely going to reorganize the Archives into a ritual.”

“Ha.” Gerry took a sip of the wine that had been paired with their latest course. “Not Jon?”

“Maybe by accident, but if he does, it’s because Sasha pushed him to do it. There’s something about that lady worth keeping an eye on, I just don’t know what.” Tim sipped at his own wine. “Jon’s got enough knowledge to be dangerous, sure, but mostly to himself. If we’re lucky, he’s just going to get himself killed.”

Gerry raised an eyebrow. “And if you’re not lucky?”

“If we’re not lucky, he’s going to get Martin killed.” Tim met Gerry’s eyes, and despite the teasing smirk on his lips, his eyes were deadly serious, even a little bit afraid. “Or me.”