And If Thou Wilt, Forget

“I’m not hungry.”

“Tough. You’re eating something. I don’t care if you spend the whole time peeling a single grape as long as you eat it before we leave.”

“What if I made you peel it for me?”

Gerry’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “If it gets you to actually eat, I’ll do it.”

Tim gave him a quizzical look, but he didn’t say anything else. Gerry decided to take that as a victory.

It was still that between time that couldn’t quite decide if it constituted early morning or late night. The stragglers from the bars had either made it home safely, been arrested and taken to holding cells, or been scraped off the streets and transported to hospitals or morgues as needed; the night shift was still on the clock; the day shift had not yet awakened. It was the time of day that Tim’s friend Rook in Los Angeles had referred to as the liminal hours—a time when the world seemed just slightly to the left of reality. London never truly slept, but this was probably the quietest it ever really got. Nobody would really call it peaceful, but it was certainly less hectic than the daytime.

Gerry pulled into a parking spot in front of an all-night diner. Its name and decor, visible through the windows, indicated that this one was run by an expatriate American, and for some reason he felt like that fit the current mood. It was fairly empty, save a pair of uniformed beat cops evidently on their lunch break, a balding man in a tattered dressing gown absently nibbling at a bit of toast as he scribbled away in a notebook, and a young person of indeterminate gender with green hair, a frazzled look, and papers spread over every part of the table in front of them that was not occupied by a coffee cup. It would be a perfect place for them, whether they actually talked about what they’d just learned or not.

They slid into a booth near the back of the diner. The waitress came over, handed them two menus, and poured them each a cup of coffee without asking, then drifted off with the pot to give them time to look over. Tim raised an eyebrow. “Guess they don’t get many people this time of day not ordering coffee.”

“Guess not. Hope you weren’t planning on going back to bed.”

Tim shook his head. “Gertrude Robinson, much like Macbeth, has murdered sleep.”

Gerry hesitated. He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to admit this, but…he was. On the other hand, there was every chance Tim would just know it already, so he might as well say it. “I’ve—I’ve actually never read Macbeth. Or any Shakespeare, really. I’ve read that one Discworld book that borrows from Shakespeare, but I don’t think that counts.”

“I do. At least in getting the gist of the plots. And hey, at least I know what to get you for your birthday.” Tim gave Gerry a crooked smile. “It’s part of a conversation Macbeth and his wife have after he starts going fully round the twist. ‘Methinks I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep.”’” He sighed. “I was done sleeping for the night anyway, I think, but I really don’t want to go back to bed now.”

“How much are you…sleeping these days?” Gerry asked, carefully. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the answer.

Tim, however, shrugged. “About the same as I always have. Honestly, maybe better? I’m certainly a lot less likely to wake up screaming than I used to.”

“That’s not nearly as comforting as I think you wish it was.”

“How are you sleeping?” Tim asked. “I don’t…it’s harder to wake me up than I think it used to be, so if you’re tossing and turning, I’m missing it.”

“Mostly I’m sleeping okay,” Gerry said slowly. “Not so much last night, but…usually it’s okay. Just…that tape was going around in my head, you know?”

“Yeah, I get what you mean. It was a lot for me, and it wasn’t anyone I knew. I can’t imagine how I’d have felt if that had been Nonno, or Danny. It’s bad enough hearing Gertrude’s voice some days, but at least she didn’t suffer like that.” Tim was quiet for a moment. “Or at least she never made a statement about it.”

The waitress came back, pen poised over pad, and gave them both a look that clearly indicated that if they didn’t order something, she was going to have them thrown out for wasting her time. Gerry pointed to a couple things at random on the menu; Tim requested something that sounded similar enough to what he’d usually got in the sorts of diners they’d gone to on their American jaunt—God, had it really only been two years since Gertrude died? Felt like an eternity, and at the same time no time at all—and the waitress took their menus and whisked off, bawling to the kitchen for “two dots and a dash with a B&B and Jayne Mansfield with a mystery in the alley”.

“Is that an actual thing people do?” Gerry asked, more to himself than anything. “I don’t remember anyone doing it when we were actually in the States.”

“Some places do, but most don’t anymore.” Tim took a sip of his coffee and nodded in absent approval. “I think here it’s mostly a bit, you know?”

Gerry hummed. “I’d ask you what they meant, but I don’t want you to have to…you know. Know stuff.”

Tim looked amused. “Do you not know what you ordered?”

“Not really,” Gerry admitted. “I just picked something.”

“I thought it was weird that you got a tall stack of pancakes and a side of hash. Shame they don’t have scrapple on their menu.”

“Hey, you have to admit, that was pretty good.”

“It wasn’t something I’d have asked about at every diner we went to after we left Philadelphia, but yeah, it was pretty good,” Tim acknowledged.

Gerry added a dollop of creamer to his coffee and picked it up, but didn’t drink it. After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Are we safe?”

Tim nodded. “For now. I don’t think he sees me as a threat, honestly—at least not yet, or maybe not anymore. Might be because Jon’s not in the Archives, so I’m not constantly hovering around him, disrupting whatever Jonah’s plans might be.” He paused, then added, “Might also be because he was able to ‘break through my defenses’ the other day, so he thinks I’m not as powerful as he was maybe afraid I was…Jesus, was that just two days ago? It’s been a hell of a week.”

“Yeah, I know.” Gerry set the coffee down. He’d get to it eventually, but not right now. “In that case…what are we going to do? Not right this second, obviously, but…you know, in general. Do we have a plan?”

“An intention, maybe.” Tim’s eyes went vacant, but at least they didn’t start glowing, which Gerry supposed was a win. “We’ve got to figure out about the Unknowing. And…a lot of other things. Fuck.” He twisted the ring around his finger. “And I don’t know that I can properly think about them if I’m worried constantly that we’re going to be…observed. So I think our first order of business is going to be finding somewhere we can suss this out without risk of discovery or exposure.”

Gerry pursed his lips in thought. He was still thinking when the waitress returned—remarkably quickly—with two steaming plates. She plunked them down without ceremony and bustled off to check on the uniformed officers. Tim picked up the strip of bacon, which was done to a black crisp, and snapped it in half. “You want some, or are you happy with your hash?”

“I’m good.” Gerry picked up his fork and waited until Tim popped part of the bacon in his mouth before he took a bite himself. “You know…there’s always the tunnels.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. “The tunnels?”

“Under the Institute.”

“I know which tunnels you’re talking about. Just…do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Mostly for the same reason you think it is, babe. It’s cut off from the Eye.” Tim cut into his egg with the edge of his fork, letting the yolk bleed across the plate in a way that Gerry was remarkably familiar with. “Which, yes, will help us keep…Elias from seeing what we’re doing, but it’s also probably going to end up limiting how much I can do. Or how long I can be down there before I start getting…wibbly.”

Gerry shrugged. “There were parts you were okay in while we were…oh. Yeah, that would mean he can see you, wouldn’t it?”

Tim chewed thoughtfully on a piece of egg. Swallowing, he said, “Maybe. There’s one spot I think Elias can’t see that I’ll be okay, but…it’s risky.”

“Like everything else we do. Where?”

“As close to the Archives as we can get.” Tim met Gerry’s eyes. “I usually feel stronger when I’m…within shouting distance, I guess. Close enough that I can get up there if I’m needed. Which is stupid, because we’re not going to be doing this when anyone’s up there, but I feel like it’s the only way I can reasonably expect to be okay.”

“Okay, so where’s the risk?” Gerry asked. “Walk me through this, Tim. Pretend I’m an idiot.”

Tim set his fork down. “I’m not going to pretend you’re an idiot, because I feel like you’re actually implying that you are an idiot and I told you to knock that shit off. The risky part is the…Not. I’m pretty sure it’s down there somewhere.”

Gerry’s stomach lurched. “Maybe it’s dead. Maybe Jon killed it. Or maybe whoever…or whatever killed the old man killed it.”

“I don’t think it can be killed, honestly. You’d need a Hunter.” Tim ran a hand through his hair. “But it hasn’t come up into the Archives yet. I sort of surreptitiously checked a couple of the old tapes yesterday, so I know Melanie and Martin are still…them, and Jon’s voice sounds like I remember.”

“Also you haven’t torn London apart brick by brick to avenge his death.”

“Also that,” Tim agreed. “Still. If it’s still nearby, it’s in the tunnels but staying there. For now. I’m just worried that it’ll scent us out and…follow us, maybe? Like me being there might break some kind of seal…like whatever was on the room Gertrude’s body was in.” His voice cracked a little at that. “I can’t let it into the Archives again, Ger. I can’t put them in that kind of danger.”

Gerry was silent for several moments, partly because he was trying to cope with far too many pancakes—he really should have paid attention to what he was ordering—but partly because he was thinking. Maybe a little because he was watching Tim eat.

“What?” Tim said, a bit indistinctly, since his mouth was full of toast. He swallowed hard and studied Gerry in obvious concern. “Do you want some? I’ll trade plates with you if you’d rather have eggs and toast. I can choke down the pancakes.”

Okay, maybe a lot because he was watching Tim eat. Gerry felt his cheeks get hot, and he forced himself to look away. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Uh, I—I don’t think you have anything to worry about there. Not as long as we go at it from a different direction, you know? Like, as long as you’re not going in and out the steps to the Archives themselves, whatever seal might be there is still intact. And you never know, you might go down there and realize there’s not something like that there, and the Not is avoiding the Archives for a wholly different reason. Like because you’re there. You did almost catch it, after all.”

Tim’s face collapsed. “Not almost enough.”

“Hey.” Gerry reached across the table and covered Tim’s hand with his own. “The Stranger is called I Do Not Know You for a reason, okay? You knew something was up, enough to protect Jon. And Martin. You did what you could.”

“I wish I could fully believe that, but…thanks, Ger.” Tim took a deep breath. “Right. Let’s finish eating and go home.”

“Not to the tunnels?”

“We need supplies.” Tim speared another piece of egg. “And I think we should take the dog.”

Having Rowlf with them did make them stand out a bit less than they probably would have otherwise, not that it was that busy on a Saturday, even in Chelsea. He was definitely interested in the tunnels, too, sniffing enthusiastically as they walked, tail wagging madly, far too enthusiastic, in Gerry’s opinion, considering they were underground. Every once in a while, he paused and stared intently at a tunnel wall, ears perked and tail stiff.

Gerry told himself he was probably just hearing rats behind the walls, but he didn’t entirely believe himself.

Something clattered under his foot, and he froze, hand tightening around Tim’s. “What was that?” he half whispered, trying to swallow down the panic.

Tim glanced down at the ground. “Wine bottle. Look.”

Gerry remembered he was holding the torch and angled it in the correct direction. Sure enough, rolling to a stop against a bit of wall was a pale green glass bottle, slender and long-necked with a nearly flat bottom. He tilted his head to one side, studying it. “Looks like a hock, or maybe an Alsace. Someone’s been down here drinking?”

“Not anybody in the Archives. Martin’s not a drinker and Jon prefers reds.” Tim let go of Gerry’s hand and bent to retrieve the bottle, studying the label. “Tokay Pinot gris. You were right, it’s Alsatian, and it’s got to be ten to twenty years old. They stopped using the Tokay label in 2007 to keep from confusing it with the Hungarian wine, and before 1994 it would’ve been Tokay d’Alsace.” He set the bottle down carefully to one side. “Maybe the old man who got murdered was…shit. I’ll bet he was living down here. Remember that time we were down here and I swore I heard something moving around? Bet it was him.”

Gerry looped his arm through Tim’s and started leading him on again. They had to get to a good place to set up before he started getting woozy. “They still don’t have any ideas on who it was, do they?”

“Don’t think so,” Tim said. “At least Martin didn’t say they did. I know it was someone who used to help Gertrude from time to time, and I know it was someone I wasn’t supposed to know about, but that’s about it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she never mentioned him, babe. I only saw him a couple of times, and Gertrude acted like she’d been alone every time I came in, so I clearly wasn’t supposed to know he was there. He was just some pathetic old man.”

Gerry snorted. “Almost sounds like the guy I thought was Leitner, until I really got a look at him.”

Tim hummed. “Have you ever considered that maybe you hyped Jurgen Leitner up to be a bigger, badder, more impressive villain than he actually is?”

“Most things I’ve encountered have been pretty big and badass.”

“Yeah, but how often do you deal with things that are still people? Most of the people who get involved in this shit are just weak, pathetic morons.” Tim tugged at the lead. “Rowlf, leave it.”

Rowlf complied, though he didn’t seem happy about it. Gerry sighed. “Maybe I want him to be a badass because I don’t want to admit that a weak, pathetic moron ruined my life.”

“Maybe you’re blaming him for things you should actually be blaming your mother for.”

“Maybe we should stop talking for a bit.”

They fell silent for probably another ten minutes, until Tim suddenly drew in a deep breath and straightened up. “We’re close. Start looking for a good room. Preferably one with a door.”

“Here’s a door.” Gerry seized the handle and opened it, revealing…flat grey stone. “Okay, it is a door. But that’s it. I assume you want a door with a room as well as a room with a door.”

“Pretty much, Daffy.” Tim evidently caught the look Gerry gave him and clarified, “Daffy Duck. Old cartoon from the forties…it’d take too long to explain the plot, but just know that the punchline at the end is ‘Hey, bub! You need a house to go with this doorknob!’” He sighed with what sounded like mingled nostalgia and regret. “It was one of Danny’s favorites.”

“We’ll have to dig it up sometime, but meanwhile, let’s keep looking around.” Gerry shut the door—why, he couldn’t say—and moved on.

It was maybe another five or six minutes before Rowlf scratched eagerly at a door, and Gerry opened it to find that, indeed, there was a room behind it. “Good boy,” he told the spaniel, who barked happily and wagged his tail. He scratched him behind the ears before stepping into the room and sweeping it with the torch. “This look good to you, Stoker?”

Tim stepped into the room and studied it, then nodded. “Yes, I think this will do nicely.” He shut the door behind them, unclipped Rowlf’s lead, and fished around in their supplies until he found the collapsible dog dish and a bottle of water.

Once Rowlf was occupied, they busied themselves with setting up. A table and chairs would have been nice, but there’d been no way to subtly carry one in; fortunately, there were a few empty crates scattered about, for some reason, which would make decent enough seats if they didn’t opt to just sit on the floor. Instead, Tim pulled out several squares of cork board and a roll of double sided mounting tape and proceeded to stick up a makeshift bulletin board, while Gerry hung a small battery powered lantern from a convenient protruding nail—it spat out a surprising amount of light for its size—and pulled out a stack of index cards from the bag. He looked at Tim curiously. “Are you going to leave the folio from Gertrude here?”

“No. I don’t think anyone’s going to come down here and find this, but if they do, I want them to think it’s Jon that set it up. And I don’t want to lose anything. The folio stays with me.” Tim pointed at the cards. “But I made typewritten copies of the highlights.”

“Why do I feel like we should have bought some red string while we were at it?”

“Red string is for conspiracy theorists.” Tim reached into the bag and came up, smirking, with a plain white ball in his hand. “Real theorists use the pure stuff.”

Gerry shook his head fondly. “You’re a nut. Right, how do we want to organize this?”

Tim shook his head in reply. “We don’t. Not yet. Let’s just get the cards up there, then we can start organizing. That’s why they’re pinned to a cork board, right? So we can move them around.”

“Good point,” Gerry allowed. “Okay, then, let’s get them up there.”

It took them a while, and most of a box of thumbtacks, but they finally got all the cards Tim had brought up on the board. Gerry grimaced at it. “Well. This is…even more confusing. And I think we’re going to need a bit more space.”

Tim shrugged. “Well, we’re set up now, at least for starters. We can get more panels and set them up before we really start digging into this.” He studied the cards. “We just…we need to figure out where the start of it is.”

Gerry slid his arm around Tim’s waist and hugged him, also studying the board. Words jumped out at him—circus and masks and skin and dancer—and none of them built up to a coherent picture. “Maybe we should start where we ended. With Gregor Orsinov. Or maybe we need to listen to a couple more tapes.”

“Mm. I don’t want to bring the whole box down here. They’re safer in the flat…maybe we can grab a couple and come back here to listen to them. But we’re going to have to start putting this puzzle together sooner or later.” Tim sighed. “At least there are a few edges in here, but someone needs to hand us a corner.”

“The answers are out there. We just need to find them.”

“Speaking of answers…” Tim glanced sideways at Gerry. “Mind telling me why you were staring so hard at me at the diner? And why you got so nervous when I offered to trade meals with you? You know, since we’re down here where we can’t be overheard or spied on and no one will know if we get in a fight.”

“Rowlf will. And I don’t want to fight with you.” Gerry did step away from Tim, though, and turn to face him, because Tim definitely wasn’t going to want to touch him when he said this. “I, uh…I was worried, a little bit. When you said you weren’t hungry. I…look, I know it’s dumb, and I know it was probably stress, but I, I got worried that maybe you didn’t…need to eat?”

A sad look came into Tim’s eyes. “Oh, Gerry.”

Now that he’d said it out loud, Gerry found he couldn’t stop. The words spilled out of him. “I know you’re not a monster, or an Archivist, or anything like that, but, but we both know you’ve been getting these powers and things have been getting bad for a while. You’ve compelled and threatened and Known and there’s been a lot of Ceaseless Watching going on, and then you said what you said when we were at Lake Baikal about getting energy from the statements and, you know, I actually can’t remember the last time I saw Gertrude put anything in her mouth other than tea and maybe she just didn’t eat around us but even when we were on the road I never saw her eating and it was like sometimes she forgot I needed to and I—”

“Gerry, Gerry.” Tim stepped into Gerry’s space, cupped his face in his hands, and pressed their foreheads together. He didn’t kiss him, but the skin contact did effectively shut him up. “It’s okay. I understand. I’m…I’m glad you were worried about me.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. It shows you care. And it shows you’re not willing to write me off if I do start going down that route,” Tim said quietly. Gerry swallowed and wrapped his arms around Tim’s neck without conscious thought. “But I promise, I’m okay. I just wasn’t hungry yet, but like I said, as soon as I smelled the bacon and eggs I was practically drooling. If I’m honest, I worried about you a bit, even though you’re not…you know. I was afraid you’d be too upset and stressed about everything—between Gertrude and your dad—to want to eat and I’d have to force-feed you. Especially after you implied you’d be willing to skip eating if it meant feeding me.”

“I…might have been,” Gerry admitted. “Between Gertrude, and dad, and you, I was kind of too keyed up to want to eat until I saw you were.”

Tim hugged Gerry tightly. “Thank you. For watching out for me. Because to tell the truth, babe, if I do start getting that bad I’m pretty sure I’m not going to notice until it’s too late. So if you can stop me…”

“I don’t know if I can,” Gerry said honestly, settling his chin on Tim’s shoulder and—for the first time in what felt like days—relaxing against him. “But I promise I’ll try. And if you do go fully monster, I’ll still be there for you, as long as I live.”

“I should have known you were a monsterfucker.” Tim laughed and let go as Gerry shoved him away with a playful thump to the chest. “Come on. Let’s get Rowlf home and come back tomorrow. We’ve got the place set up. We can start really working on it later, but for now we both need a good long rest.”