Tim’s pretty sure Jon and Martin believe he isn’t sleeping in Night Vale. If he’s being honest, it both is and isn’t true. He’s certainly not closing his eyes and dreaming as much as he does in London—the only person whose statement he’s taken who’s sleeping at the same time he is right now is Carlos—but he’s pretty sure he’s sleeping the same amount that he does in London, because he’s pretty sure that what he does nowadays isn’t exactly sleeping. He goes through whatever dreams are available to him, then opens his eyes and gets up, fully energized and ready to go. He chose not to sleep Tuesday night to give Carlos one night free of nightmares, but he’s going to need his energy on Thursday. The statement from Eppie is all well and good, but he had to share it with Cecil and then it got spread to the whole town, so it’s not as potent as Carlos’ was. So once Jon and Martin drift off to sleep and he’s watched them sleep for a couple hours, just enjoying the peace and quiet—not to mention Martin mumbling about tap-dancing sharks at a Matt Monro concert—he closes his eyes and lets himself drop into the dreams. Well, dream, specifically.
Carlos notices him right away, which doesn’t surprise Tim at all. He knows Carlos has had this dream often, although not recently, so the only thing that will be new is Tim, and Carlos is always quick to notice changes to things that are, if horrible and terrifying, at the very least familiar. He also knows that his presence, his hungry watching as Cecil walks away and disappears no matter how hard he begs, how much he cries, makes it so much worse that Cecil never comes back and Carlos can’t go after him.
When he opens his eyes, or comes back to the present, he spends several moments staring up at the ceiling and wondering when that fear stopped bothering him as much as it used to.
Once he’s given himself a few minutes to feel guilty about not feeling more guilty, he very carefully disentangles himself from Jon and tucks the quilt more securely around him and Martin. This isn’t unusual, one of them is often up first, and Tim almost always gets up and does his morning routine before slipping back into bed without either of them noticing, even when he’s in the middle. But this time, Tim doesn’t intend to come straight back. He looks at his sleeping partners for a moment, then presses a gentle kiss to each temple before silently getting dressed. He slips into Esteban’s room and gives Charlie a kiss on his forehead as well.
Then he steps into his shoes, takes a deep breath, and does something he’s really not sure he should be able to do.
It’s not exactly an Eye ability, or at least he’s pretty sure it isn’t from the Eye, but he isn’t sure how to quantify it. At some point in the last year, though, he’s discovered that if he Looks at structures a certain way, he can see how they looked when they were built, and any revisions that have been made. If they’re a replacement for another building, he can see the layout of the original structure. And with a little concentration, he can navigate the old building in place of the new. This house was built on the foundations of another that burned down in—the information unfolds itself in his mind—1857, and it’s more or less identical to that one, but the crucial difference is that the door is three meters to the left of the original.
Tim reaches out and lifts the ghost of the wooden bar free, then pushes the door open and steps out onto the street, without ever putting his family in danger. Or at least not in any more danger than they would otherwise have been, he thinks, scowling at the back of the old woman skulking around the door, who scowls back at him suspiciously despite the fact that she has no face to scowl with. He doesn’t even need to Look to Know she’s of the Stranger, but he does anyway.
It’s still dark out, and while this is past the autumnal equinox and the days are getting shorter and shorter, it is still pretty early in the day. Under any other circumstances, Tim would assume he could handle what he needs to do and get back before anyone else is awake, but the very nature of what he plans to do means that probably won’t happen. Still, it has to happen. He sends a mental apology to Jon and Martin for worrying them, then heads out to the corner. The bus doesn’t quite run this early, not out this far, but with a bit of concentration, he’s able to catch one of the trolleys that hasn’t run through town in a hundred years—quite literally, as he has to take a running jump and catch hold of the railing on the back.
The trolley route goes straight through a few subdivisions, including a fairly recent development Cecil calls the Barista District. Tim’s vision—his first gift from the Beholding, the ability to see the colors of the Fears—is still firmly activated, so he watches until he sees it—the tangled threads of grey and yellow he’s been looking for, beckoning to him from a distance. He lets go of the back of the railing and jumps off, then heads towards the Desert Creek Housing Development proper.
It’s a fairly new area, only about ten years old, and Tim’s able to tell that there was nothing here before that, just an empty swath of desert. He can see the impression of a few different Fears here, though, signs of kidnappings and separations and heartache and pain. Nothing on the people necessarily, although nobody is out this early so it’s not like he can really verify that, but the ground is soaked with fear like a battlefield with blood—oh, yep, there’s splatters of the Slaughter right over there, in the middle of bright green footprints. Guessing they belong to Carlos’ team from five years ago, he follows them until he reaches the house that doesn’t exist.
Or at least, it makes you believe it doesn’t exist, he thinks as he studies it, hands on his hips. It’s obviously of the Spiral, he can tell that even without his vision, but with it activated the paint glows an eye-bleeding neon yellow. It shimmers, almost like a mirage in the desert heat, but it’s too cold for mirages, and when Tim stares at it he can see that it isn’t actually going anywhere. It’s as solid as the houses on either side, it just has a…questionable relationship with reality. Usually.
Tim Knows It, though, and it clearly resents that, but it’s staying in place.
He stares at it for a moment, and in particular at the door, which is marbled with grey amid the yellow, but which he can see underneath is made of old oak. Then, without turning his head away from the house, he pitches his voice so that it can be heard without shouting. “Does your family know you don’t actually sell real estate?”
There’s a short pause, and then a slightly gravelly alto voice speaks from somewhere behind him. “Does your family know you’re putting yourself in danger?”
Tim still doesn’t turn to look, still keeps his eyes on the house, even as he blinks away the color vision. “I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re not allowed to.” Abby doesn’t sound particularly worried or particularly annoyed, just very matter of fact and calm as always. Still, Tim can tell it’s probably meant as a warning.
He raises an eyebrow, still without actually looking for her. “And who, exactly, plans to stop me?”
The rumble of the Ceaseless Watcher in his voice is definitely a warning for Abby, whether he means it to be or not, but he understands exactly what it means. There is one person in Night Vale who maybe—maybe—has the authority, or indeed the ability, to give him orders and restrict him from places, and that is not the Palmer currently talking to him. The Sheriff’s Secret Police has mistaken Cecil’s habit of following the rules for their ability to force him into obedience. They can pretend all they like that the few times he has rebelled and stepped outside the boundaries, they’ve allowed it, but really, there is no way they can force him to stop. Tim will respect the rules…for now…at least insofar as doing so might hurt other people.
This, though? As Tim said, he knows what he’s doing, and he knows how to control it. Carlos didn’t.
Again, there’s another pause before Abby answers. “There won’t be anyone to hold the door for you, you know.”
“I don’t need anyone to hold the door,” Tim retorts. “I don’t plan to come out here. I’ll be back to Cecil and Carlos’ house when it’s time.”
The silence is charged and pregnant. The Ceaseless Watcher, which clearly wants Tim to do this for…whatever reason, gets past his wards and tells him that Abby is searching for another argument. She realizes she can’t force him to walk away from this door, but she isn’t sure what will happen if she lets him go.
He sighs and turns around. There isn’t anyone to be seen, but he Knows he’s making eye contact with Abby. “If I promise to try and find a way into your brother’s dreams to find the key to your father, will you forget you saw me?”
There’s a sharp intake of breath, and then Abby steps out of whatever hidden place she’s been at and looks up at him, a faint spark of hope in her eyes. “He told you the story? He remembered it?”
Tim winces internally, but he keeps his face blank. “No. I just Knew.”
“Oh.” Abby hesitates, then nods. “I won’t cover for you for more than a day. Night Vale time,” she adds.
“I agree to those terms.” Tim tips an imaginary hat in her direction. “See you at dinner.” With that, he turns back to the house, rolls his shoulders backwards, and approaches the old oak door.
He knows—more or less—what to expect when he gets to the other side of the door. Carlos described the cabin fairly well, and after all, he’s been in the dream. But the rules are different for those who don’t know what game is being played, he supposes, because when Tim steps through and lets the door swing shut behind him, he’s stood on the ledge of a mountain, looking out over a vast desert. In the distance he can see a cabin—probably the cabin—and below him, periodically, he sees tiny figures rushing across the desert, bolting for doors that disappear just before they get there, often falling on their knees as they do so. Every once in a while, the entire desert is flooded in cherry red light.
Tim watches for a few moments, then turns around. Behind him is a tall, round structure constructed of smooth brown stone, rising above him and casting its shadow away from him. It’s small, as towers go, fifteen feet in diameter, and there are no windows on the lower levels—but then, why would there need to be?
There is, however, a door, directly in front of him. Tim doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, raises his fist, and knocks, three loud, thunderous knocks. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The door opens with a slow creak, releasing as it does so a gust of cold air that smells of salt. Tim’s not surprised by the wisps of mist that curl across the ground, skipping almost invisibly over the sand like a caress. Beyond the mist…
Even knowing what he would see, Tim still finds his breath catching in his throat at the sight of the figure before him. Tall and powerful, standing about four inches taller than Tim himself and filling the doorway with his broad frame, the man wears a cable knit jumper somewhere between navy blue and grey, despite deserts not being so cold as seasides, and a dark fisherman’s hat. The hair that falls in gentle curls nearly to his collar is still thick and glossy despite being a frosted silver, and his blue eyes are still sharp and clear, if infinitely sad. His square, well fleshed face is dusted with stubble more salt than pepper, but, though weathered, is otherwise unmarred by time or trauma.
Tim suddenly knows what Martin will look like when he gets old.
“Are you the Keeper of the Light?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.
The Keeper looks surprised, staring at him. “You can see me?” he asks, a bit stupidly.
Tim smiles and relaxes his hold, just a little bit—not to hurt, just to convince. “I am the Archivist.”
It’s the first time Tim has actually said that out loud. He’s aware of it, of course, he’s known what he is for more than a year, and Cecil even said it, but the words have never left his lips. And now that he’s said them, he feels…he doesn’t know what he feels. Like something crucial has just slotted into place. Like now that he’s actually acknowledged it aloud, the work can finally truly begin.
“So you are,” the Keeper agrees after a mere heartbeat. “Didn’t recognize you at first, but I should have guessed that was why…” He trails off. “What happened to Trudy?”
“May I come in?” Tim asks softly. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”
“Of course.” The Keeper steps back and invites him in.
From the Keeper’s own statement, Tim knows what he’ll see. A spiral staircase leads up one side of the lighthouse to higher floors, but on this level is an assortment of tools, barrels that are certainly full of oil, coils of rope, and a large, battered oil can painted a dull red. On the walls, in place of windows, are pictures. Tim glances at one as he passes it and sees Charlie, sitting across from Janice at a diner booth with Esteban in a high chair between them, smiling up at a woman with branches growing out of her body holding a ticket pad and pen.
He nods to himself. Exactly right.
The Keeper heads up the stairs; Tim follows him. There are more pictures along the way, and Tim looks at all of them. He can see Melanie and Sasha in the Archives arguing over something…Jon Prime, obvious because of his scars, sitting at the head of a table with the other department heads…Martin Prime consoling Charlie’s friend Bryn over something he’s obviously ill prepared to cope with, in the company of a large and extraordinarily fluffy grey cat…Georgie with a forced expression of interest as she reads an ad copy…Basira scowling over a homework assignment she very clearly does not want to be doing. He can even see the other three members of Charlie’s little group—Lydia and Helen at a Girl Guides meeting neither of them seem particularly pleased about attending, Ben tidying his room and making his bed. He can see Carlos washing dishes in the kitchen sink and Cecil shaving in the bathroom mirror and Jon and Martin definitely not worrying about where he is in the guest bedroom, and he lets the knowledge seep into his bones.
“Sorry about this,” the Keeper says as they reach the second story. “I don’t entertain much. You can take the chair, I’ll take the bed.” As Tim takes the proffered seat, he studies him, then adds in a slightly surprised tone of voice, “You know…I don’t think I caught your name.”
Tim could say I didn’t give it to you, but he knows—or Knows—what the Keeper means. “Never really been one for unique nicknames, I guess. Not in a long time.” He holds out his hand. “Tim Stoker. And you’re Kieran Blackwood, right?”
“I am, aye.” The Keeper narrows his eyes briefly, then slaps a palm on his thigh. “Stoker. Your grandparents lived next door to Alastair Koskiewicz, didn’t they? You used to climb the trees and go after the cherries.”
“That’s me.” Tim has only vague memories of that particular part of his childhood, although he can probably access them with the Ceaseless Watcher’s assistance. He doesn’t want to, though. “I’ve heard that statement too.”
The Keeper’s expression flickers, just for a moment. “Was it…accurate?”
Tim nods. “Danny got taken by the Stranger—it’s why I went to work for the Institute originally, I was looking for answers. Elias Bouchard—who we found out later was actually Jonah Magnus—shot Gertrude to stop her from stopping him taking over the world. I should have died during the Unknowing, but, well.” He shrugs and gestures to himself, uncomfortably conscious of his End mark, which the Keeper probably can’t see. “I chose otherwise.”
“We all have to make that choice, some time or another.” The Keeper bites his lip. “I…suppose that means…if your name was first—or did that count as dying?”
“It counted,” Tim says with certainty. “But if you’re asking if Martin and Jon are all right, they’re fine. Bit battered by the years, but they’re both alive. I should know.” He reaches into his pocket, fishes out his wallet, opens it, pulls out a photograph, and hands it over. “There. Might be easier for you to look at than those pictures on the wall.”
The Keeper takes the photo—and gasps. It’s the picture they wrangled a passerby into taking of them the day of the last court hearing, the day the judge finally severed Patience Calloway’s guardianship rights to her only grandchild. Charlie, tears streaming down his face even as he grins from ear to ear, stands on the steps of the courthouse in London, Martin kneeling behind him with his chin resting on his head and Jon and Tim on either side with their cheeks pressed to his, triumphantly holding a blackboard in front of them with “AFTER 639 DAYS OF WAITING—WE ARE A FAMILY! 5/21/2018” written across it in colorful chalk letters.
“Wickie,” the Keeper murmurs. “And that’s—that’s Walt’s boy, and—who’s the little fellow there?”
“That’s our Charlie. Charlie Cane. His aunt was Annabelle Cane, the Spider, avatar of the Web.” Tim leans forward slightly. “Jon was the Head Archivist before—well, he’s still technically considered the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, but he was hired as Gertrude’s replacement. Martin and I, and another friend of ours, Sasha James, came down as assistants. Jon and Martin and I have been living together for a bit over two years now, and we’ve been officially a throuple since…we confessed it during the Unknowing, made it official after I woke up. Charlie lived next door to us with his grandmother and we’d unofficially adopted him long before we fought to get him away from her.”
The Keeper looks up at that. “You keep mentioning this…Unknowing. What is that, lad?”
Tim winces. “Right, you wouldn’t…you’d have no reason to know about that. The Unknowing was a ritual that devotees of the Stranger were using to try and…bring it fully into our world. It was going to fail, of course, you can’t bring just one fear in, they’re too tightly bound to one another, but they were going to try and it was going to cause a lot of pain and destruction. We blew it to hell instead.”
“I feel like there’s a story here. Tell me about it.” The Keeper starts to hand the picture back.
“Keep it, I brought it for you,” Tim says with a wave of his hand. He has a copy on his phone. “Where do you want me to start?”
The Keeper lays the picture on the table and smooths it out almost tenderly. “How do you know for sure about…the pain and destruction?”
“Ah, at the hard part, excellent.” Tim smiles to take any potential sting out of the comment. “We know because, in another reality, it happened. The Unknowing happened and, well, I died in it, and someone else got trapped in the Buried, and Jon—also died, really, except not completely.”
“‘We disappoint, we leave a mess, we die, but we don’t,’” the Keeper murmurs.
Tim nods and completes the couplet. “‘We disappoint in turn, I guess, forget though we won’t.’”
The Keeper smiles briefly. “I didn’t know the Eye could peer into other realities.”
“It can’t. We found out about it because of two people who…came back in time? That’s not exactly it. Annabelle Cane called it a time loop, and I think that’s how we’ve always thought of it, but in reality I suspect it’s more just…a crack in reality, a pathway to other worlds, like she said, and she kept getting dragged back to a world that was almost identical to ours and starting over, trying to direct things to end up differently. The only reason she managed it this time was because she was able to find a way for them to get back before their part in that world ended, but they came through…more or less intact, and were able to tell us to stop it.” Tim looks at the Keeper seriously. “Your son, and Walt’s.”
The Keeper stares at him, then at the picture. Tim shakes his head, forestalling comment. “Not those two. Those are mine. These two are the Primes.” He pulls out his phone—there’s no service here, big shock, and the date/time stamp is blurry and pixellated—and scrolls through the pictures until he finds what he’s looking for, then hands it over. It’s a shot he took of the Primes on the widow’s walk of the house that had once been Jonah Magnus’ and was now theirs, dancing their first dance as a married couple, looking more in love than ever before and happier than they had been in a long time. The ring on the fourth finger of Jon Prime’s left hand glints against the fabric on Martin Prime’s shoulder, and Martin Prime’s right arm around Jon Prime’s back is strong and secure. At the same time, Jon Prime’s scars are obvious even on the screen, and an astute observer would probably spot that Martin Prime’s eyes are unfocused.
The Keeper looks like he wants to touch the screen, but seems to know that that might make the picture go away. Instead he simply stares at it. “They look…happy,” he whispers. He smiles up at Tim, tears in his eyes. “They’re married, aye?”
“Their first anniversary was a week ago. This was their first dance.” Tim smiles. “And they are. Happy, that is. They’re in the process of adopting themselves. Right now it’s just them and two cats.”
The Keeper’s smile broadens. He wipes at his eyes. “Jonny always did love cats. So I’m to have two grandchildren, then? Or…do they not count?”
“They count,” Tim says firmly. “And I don’t care if you’re talking about adopted grandchildren or the Primes. This is their universe now, too, so you’re Martin Prime’s father.”
“That must get confusing, having two Martin Blackwoods about.”
“Not really. We generally just point to who we’re talking about when we’re all in the same room, and when we’re talking to one without the other it’s your Jon or your Martin as opposed to ours.” Tim shrugs. “And, technically, legally, they’re Walter and Kieran Koskiewicz. The people who know them know their real identities, though.”
“They took our names,” the Keeper says softly. “Walt would like that. So would Alastair.” He hesitates, then asks, “Do they…know who Trudy is? Was.”
“Yeah. We found the tape with Walt’s statement on it and listened to it all together. They didn’t know before they came back, though.” Tim hesitates in turn before adding, “They met your…counterpart, right before they came back—he actually was the one to help them find the way back, and also help Martin Prime hide from the Eye when he did get back—but he didn’t tell them.”
“No, I wouldn’t have.” The Keeper presses his lips together briefly. “And I suppose the contract with Peter Lukas wouldn’t matter if I was going to send them somewhere he couldn’t follow anyway.”
“Also he already broke the contract,” Tim tells him. “He took over as head of the Institute briefly while Elias—Jonah—was in prison, and he chose Martin as his personal assistant, trying to get him to come completely over to the Lonely. But he never interacted with him outside of the Institute. He recognized it was a blind spot for you, so you wouldn’t know.”
Two bright spots of color appear on the Keeper’s grey weathered cheeks, exactly where they always appear on Martin when he’s truly angry. “That…that pig-fucking rat bastard. How dare he. I’m going to tear him limb from limb.” He pauses, then adds, “Did he touch your Wickie?”
“Tried,” Tim answers. “At the very least he stopped by to taunt him, just before we blew up the Unknowing last year. It was worse on Martin Prime, though, because he was still…it left a pretty deep mark on him. The silver in his hair isn’t from age. He was only two and a half years older than our Martin when he came back, so he’s just past thirty-three. Peter Lukas trailed the Lonely after him, though, and the Primes were living in the tunnels under the Institute at the time…Jon Prime was running down a lead, so he wasn’t there, and it caught Martin Prime. Scared the piss out of all of us, honestly. But it’s okay. After the Primes killed Jonah for good, to stop him from launching a ritual that would work—that’s what he did in their universe, slipped the words to it in a statement that he slipped to Jon Prime so he couldn’t stop and had to read it out, touched off an apocalypse and they were trying to reverse it—Peter Lukas tried to take over the Institute. Jon Prime gave him a choice—walk away, or be destroyed.”
The Keeper slowly smiles. It’s not a nice smile, but Tim likes it anyway. “The old fool never could walk away from a challenge, could he?”
Tim smiles back, and he knows the smile on his face matches the Keeper’s, because he agrees with him. Peter Lukas deserved exactly what he got. “And he didn’t.”
“Good.” The Keeper looks down at the pictures again. “I’m glad they’re safe.”
“Of course they are. They have us,” Tim says simply.
“And what are they up to now? I—I haven’t looked at the pictures downstairs for…years.”
“I looked on my way up. Jon Prime’s at work still—he’s the head of the Institute now—”
“Institute’s a blind spot. How did you—” The Keeper stops. “Never mind, you’re the Archivist, of course you can see your Archives. Keep going, then.”
Tim nods. “Martin Prime is watching one of Charlie’s friends. They’re off this week for half term and the others all have activities, but Bryn lives in the Primes’ neighborhood, so he still goes over there rather than sit at home alone. My Martin and my Jon are back in Night Vale.”
“That little desert community? I’ve had a fair few citizens from there living here over the decades. And the refugees from Desert Bluffs that didn’t want to incorporate have founded their town over again in the valley.”
“That’s where the radio broadcasts from, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, no, that’s from here,” the Keeper says. “Or from here slightly to the left, if you know what I mean.”
Tim nods again. “I do. But yeah, that’s where we’re visiting, along with Charlie. Jon’s cousin—his mother’s sister’s son—moved there to study it and ended up falling in love. Actually, you’ve met him. Carlos. According to his statement, if I interpreted it correctly, you let him go.”
“I let him try,” the Keeper corrects him. “Did it work?”
“Well, they’re married with a son now, so I assume so,” Tim says dryly. “They seem happy, anyway. And Jon doesn’t blame his mother. Also, that wasn’t your domain. Not then.”
“No, not then,” the Keeper agrees. “But it’s mine now, and the sentiment still stands. It’s not Sarah’s fault. Grief and loss does things to a body.”
“Don’t I know it.” Unconsciously, Tim touches his Stranger mark, the one he can only see with his color vision—the indigo gash, like someone has tried to carve out his heart. “They have each other now, though.” He raises an eyebrow. “And they have me.”
“And you have them.” The Keeper picks up the photograph again and stares at it. Almost to himself, he murmurs, “The contract is void…”
“Martin—my Martin—was going to try to find you, but…he’s not really lonely enough to draw the doors anymore, so I thought I’d come find you myself,” Tim says with a slight smile.
The Keeper looks as though he’s about to cry. “I’d love to see my boy again. And Walt’s boy…” He pushes the phone back towards Tim. “God. I wouldn’t have wished this on either of them.”
Tim shrugs and stands up, proffering his hand as he pockets the phone. “I’m sure Cecil and Carlos wouldn’t mind you coming for dinner tonight. You know. If you can leave the Light for an evening.”
The Keeper stares at Tim’s hand, then takes it with a smirk and leverages himself to his feet. “Who, exactly, is going to stop me?”
Tim smirks back. “Best part is, I miss them like hell and I desperately want to go back to them, so I can pull the door to myself. You don’t have to waste yours. So, you know, if you want to go to London and visit the Primes…”
“You think they’d like that?”
“I think they’d love that.” Tim pauses. “Uh—just in case you couldn’t tell from the picture, though, be warned. The way…your counterpart hid him from the Eye was, well, to sever his connection to it. He’s blind.”
A sad look comes over the Keeper’s face. “Dear God. But…yes, that would have been the only way, wouldn’t it? I hear that can be fixed.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think it’s high on his list of priorities. Still, forewarned is forearmed, yeah?” Tim turns towards the door and concentrates, hard, on Night Vale and his family.
And the door turns to an old oak one with brass fittings. Tim reaches out, grabs the handle, twists, and opens it, then bows to the Keeper. “After you, sir.”
“Why, thank you, Timtam,” the Keeper says with a bow, then blinks. “Hm. You do have a nickname.”
“My brother won’t be joining us,” Tim says quietly.
The Keeper nods in understanding, then steps through the door. Tim follows him and lets it shut behind them.
They stand on the street in front of Cecil and Carlos’ house, the sun screaming as it starts to set. The Land Whale is parked in the driveway with the Carlsburgs’ van behind it, the ramp is down across the steps, and the door is just shutting behind Janice’s wheelchair. Tim looks up at the Keeper and smiles. “Right on time.”
The Keeper smiles back. “You must be a wizard, aye, lad?”
Tim laughs and leads the Keeper up to the front door. It’s not locked, but he doesn’t feel right just barging in if the Carlsburgs don’t, so he knocks.
The door flies open before he’s managed to do more than one, and he’s suddenly confronted with Jon, his face creased in anxiety, who gives a gasp of relief and hugs him tightly. “Tim! Good Lord, where have you been? I tried calling you and just got that damned intercept message, and we called Jon Prime but he said he couldn’t see you and I was just trying to figure out what the hell we were going to tell Charlie and—”
“Jon. Jon, I’m fine, I’m okay,” Tim assures him, hugging him back tightly. He tilts Jon’s face towards his own and gives him a kiss to shut him up for a second. Once he relaxes, he pulls back and continues, “I’d have left a note, but I wasn’t sure I was going to pull this off and I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Wanted what to be a surprise? What are you—talking—” Jon trails off, eyes going wide as he stares over Tim’s shoulder. His arms drop to his side, and he straightens. “Is that…?”
“Jonny,” the Keeper says, his voice a bit shaky. Tim looks back to see that there are tears in his eyes, but he’s smiling, too. “My God, boy, you’re the very spit of your da.”
Cecil suddenly appears behind Jon and nods to Tim, who nods back, then looks over at the Keeper. “You must be the Keeper of the Light?”
The Keeper drags his eyes from Jon and looks up at Cecil. “Aye, and you’re Cecil. Saw you when you came to visit my domain some years back. Heard your show a couple times. It’s miles better than that Desert Bluffs garbage.”
Cecil grins. “And for that, you’ve secured a seat at the table for life, even if you weren’t welcome to begin with. Speaking of, come on in, dinner’s ready.” As he turns back into the house, he calls, “Martin, Charlie, I think there’s someone here to see you two first.”
“Tim!” Charlie comes barreling towards the door as Tim steps in and hugs him tightly. “I thought you were here already! We had the best day—” He stops abruptly as the Keeper follows Tim through the door and courteously shuts it behind him. His eyes widen at the sight.
Martin, who’s evidently been washing his hands, freezes on the other side of the living room. His jaw drops slightly, even as his eyes light up and begin to fill with tears.
“Dad?” he manages.
“Wickie.” The Keeper steps forward and holds out his arms.
That fast, Martin is across the room and hugging his father tightly. The faint smell of salt that clings to the Keeper fades to a mere whisper, and Tim swears the atmosphere actually warms a degree or two as father and son reunite for the first time in more than twenty years. The Keeper tangles the fingers of one hand in the curls at the back of Martin’s head, murmuring over and over too low for anyone else to hear, and Martin’s hands take a small fistful of coat bunched up in each as they try to make up for lost time. Charlie stays close to Tim’s side, eyes wide, obviously waiting his turn.
Tim glances across the room and meets Abby’s eyes. She looks back at him without saying a word.
He understands anyway.
After a moment, the Keeper slowly releases Martin, wipes his eyes, and looks down at Charlie with a warm, friendly smile. “You must be Charlie. Tim’s been telling me about you, lad.”
Tim nudges Charlie forward. “Go ahead, buddy, say hi to your grandfather.”
The look on the Keeper’s face, and the sudden bright, hopeful smile on Charlie’s, is worth everything Tim has done to make this moment happen. Including the undeniable Lonely mark.