Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

29th December, 1997 — 1:17 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

If I have ever doubted my own corruption, it was annihilated when I beheld him tonight. I have seen gods in containment, creatures whose very form ruptures sanity — yet nothing has struck me as wholly as the sight of Jayden Miller, living and unbound, in that room of heat and rot.

He stood near the bar as if the chaos bent to him, not the other way around. That jacket — black leather, the collar spiked, sleeves rolled back to the elbow — clung to his shoulders like an animal’s hide. Beneath it, a crop top so thin and cut so high that every inch of him from the hard lines of his obliques to the faint snail-trail that disappeared below his waistband was on display. Baggy jeans slung low enough to reveal the curve of a black thong peeking up, a dark slash against the pale skin of his hip.

Christ forgive me, but it was obscene in its beauty. His abdomen tight, every muscle a soft ripple under the neon light, the dips of his hips like sculpted marble catching a flicker of red and blue. Even the bruises mottling his ribs — trophies from some fight — seemed to frame him rather than mar him. His waist narrow, his stance loose and predatory at once, the leather jacket shifting to reveal a tattoo curling just beneath his ribs.

He laughed, head thrown back, Mohawk tipped and messy from some stranger’s hand, a smear of beer on his jaw he hadn’t noticed. His throat flexed with every shout. That faint line of dark hair — a trail leading from his navel down into the low-slung denim — kept pulling my gaze no matter how I willed it elsewhere.

And yet, for all his posturing, when he saw me in the doorway his expression changed. His grin cracked wide, boyish, almost startled, and he pushed his way through the crowd to reach me, the thong, the crop top, the bruises, the leather all moving as one dangerous, magnetic creature.

I remained at the threshold of the room, the noise pressing against me like a tide. It smelled of sweat, spilled liquor, and bodies too close. My cane was in my left hand, gloved right hand loose at my side. I did not blink as he came near.

He reached me, shouting over the music, “You came! Thought you’d never—” His hand brushed my sleeve, and even that small contact sent something sharp and electric through my chest.

I cannot write of this without shame; yet here, in these pages, I will be honest. He was not simply handsome tonight. He was carnal. The sight of him, half-clothed and bruised and glowing in that vile light, made my breath shorten like a man starved.

The Foundation made me a man of ice, of scalpel and steel. And yet one look at him in that bar and I am undone.

— W. Burgess

⸻

29th December, 1997 — 1:46 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The room seemed to revolve about him. Wherever he planted himself, others orbited — agents in half-buttoned shirts, sleeves rolled, sweat shining at their temples. Dylan Foster, loud and thick-necked, his lifelong companion since boot camp, had an arm slung across Jayden’s shoulders as though to lay claim. Jayden laughed at his jests, head tipping to the side, that cursed strip of dark hair vanishing beneath his waistband catching the neon light.

Ava Flores — sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued — leaned on the counter with a pint in hand, watching him with the smirk of one accustomed to his reckless charms. Theo Carter, taller, calmer, laughed when Jayden shoved him in mock offense, and even that movement — the twist of his torso, crop top riding high to show the flex of his stomach — caught the breath in my throat.

They all knew him in ways I do not, though none of them knew him as I do. They have not watched the way his pulse trembles when he drinks hot chocolate at my fire. They have not catalogued the tilt of his head as he surrenders to sleep. To them he is the reckless Scot with his leather jacket and his brawls. To me — God help me — he is far more.

And yet tonight, he let them drape themselves across him, let Dylan lean too close, let Ava tease at the spike of his hair, let Theo cuff him lightly on the back in camaraderie. Each touch made my jaw tighten until it ached.

He saw me watching.

It happened between the lights, between the shouts and clatter of glass. He turned his head, and his eyes caught mine across the room. His grin softened — only slightly, but enough. And then he left Dylan’s arm, stepping through the throng to reach me, leather creaking, crop top lifting once more as his hand shoved into the pocket of those low-slung jeans.

“Doc!” he shouted again, the accent thick, joy reckless. He didn’t care who heard. Dylan glanced over, frowning in confusion, Ava’s brows rose, Theo’s chuckle dimmed — all of them startled to see their Head of Research, immaculate and cold, standing in the filth of their haunt.

Jayden reached me, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like some devil lit from within. He clapped a damp hand to my shoulder as though we were equals. “Told you you’d come!” he laughed, then, leaning closer, dropped his voice into something hoarse and private: “Knew you would.”

The music roared. His friends called for him. But for a moment, he stood with me, his hand heavy on my shoulder, his breath smelling of whiskey and smoke, his grin just for me.

And I thought: yes. Let them see. Let them all see.

— W. Burgess

___

29th December, 1997 — 2:11 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

They stared, of course. How could they not?

Foster was the first — thick-necked, red in the face from drink, his hand clapping Jayden’s shoulder as if to anchor him away from me. His brow furrowed, his laugh gone sharp. “Christ, Miller, him? What’s he doin’ here?”

Flores tilted her glass, smirk thin and fox-like. “Never thought I’d see the day. Head of Research slummin’ with us degenerates.” Her eyes darted between Jayden and myself, calculating, amused.

Carter only raised a brow, his quiet chuckle heavy with disbelief. “Burgess in a bar. There’s a sight I never thought I’d witness. What, Miller, you drag him down here to take notes?”

Jayden laughed too loud, too long, brushing their jests off with the careless ease of a man who doesn’t feel the knife edge beneath. He slung his arm around Foster’s shoulder, leaned across to cuff Carter on the chest, grinned wide at Flores. “What, can’t a man invite a mate out? Stop actin’ like I dragged a bloody ghost in!”

“Miller,” Foster pressed, shaking his head. “What the fuck d’you mean, mate? That’s Burgess. Coldheart himself. Don’t even know if the bastard can smile. What the hell d’you talk about with him?”

Jayden only smirked wider, that ridiculous grin that made his scars and bruises look like trophies instead of wounds. He tipped his drink back, then shrugged. “Dunno. Nothin’. Everythin’. He’s sound.” A pause. “And he came, didn’t he? That means somethin’.”

Their laughter rose again — mocking, disbelieving, half-nervous. But I saw it, the thing they did not. The brief glance he gave me as he said it, sly and unguarded at once, as if to confirm I had come, as if to tell me he knew I would.

It thudded through me like a drumbeat. My cane shook faintly where I held it against the sticky floor. He was oblivious, yes — still playing at bravado, still smirking under the lights — but his words were a thread, tightening. And he came, didn’t he?

Indeed I did. And not for science, nor duty, nor research. For him alone.

They do not understand. They never will. He speaks to me, even when drunk and laughing, in ways they cannot hear. His tongue may be careless, but his body betrays him. He moved from Foster’s grip to stand at my side without thought. He smirked at me, not them.

They believe themselves his comrades. They believe themselves his family. But tonight, they looked upon him and saw him call to me — and saw me answer.

The seed is sown. And it grows.

— W. Burgess

___

29th December, 1997 — 2:37 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

I could not bear another second of their hands on him, their laughter fouling the air, the way Foster clung as though Jayden were his to guard. No — I would not.

So I leaned down, close enough that he could hear me through the wall of sound, my breath brushing the damp line of his temple. “Come. You need air.”

He blinked at me, glassy-eyed, lips parted around a retort that never left his tongue. He only grinned — infuriating, boyish, perfect — and let me take his arm. His friends jeered behind him, shouting something crude, but Jayden only barked a laugh and followed, stumbling slightly as I steered him through the press of bodies.

Outside: the world was wet, dark, cold. Rain fell hard enough to slick his Mohawk flat, drops shining in the harsh neon glow. He stood under the eave of the bar, leather jacket creaking as he pulled it tighter across his cropped shirt, his breath white in the air.

Christ. To see him there, with the night biting at his bare stomach, the faint line of hair leading down into jeans clinging wet to his hips, thong peeking like some deliberate sin — it was unbearable. Every curve, every bruise, every careless breath seemed designed to undo me.

“You’re mad,” he laughed, shaking his head, water dripping from his fringe into his eyes. “Comin’ out here. You— you in a bloody bar, Doc. Thought I’d keel over.”

“Mad?” I said, low. “Mad would be letting you rot in that place, drunk and grinning at people who do not deserve you.”

He squinted at me, confusion written across his flushed face. “They’re my mates. Don’t start, Doc. Dylan’s— been there since the start. Ava and Theo too.”

“They will leave you to the wolves the moment the night turns,” I hissed, voice sharper than I intended. “Do you not see it? You drink yourself half-dead, and they laugh. You let yourself bruise and bleed for nothing, and they clap you on the back. And then — then you call me.”

His grin faltered. A silence stretched between us, broken only by the hiss of rain. His hand flexed on the edge of his jacket, eyes darting down, then up again to meet mine.

“Yeah,” he said, softer now, almost sheepish. “Aye. I called you.”

Something inside me snapped taut. My gloved hand rose before I thought better of it, fingers pressing hard against his cheek, cold leather against damp skin. He froze, startled, then stilled — wide-eyed, lips parted, rain running over both our faces. I traced the line of his jaw, the pulse at his throat hammering under my touch, cataloguing the rhythm of his breaths, the faint tremor of his body in the chill.

He let me. Christ above, he let me.

My thumb lingered at the corner of his mouth. The city stank of rot, of spilled beer and piss, but in that moment it was only him — his warmth, his pulse, the sound of him breathing beneath my hand.

“Never call me mad, Miller,” I murmured. “You do not know what I would do for you.”

And for the first time, he had no jest. No laugh. Only silence, standing close, the rain seeping through us both.

— W. Burgess

___

29th December, 1997 — 3:02 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The night air clung heavy as I steered him toward the car, cane striking wet pavement with each step. He stumbled once, but my grip on his arm held him steady. The streets were near-empty, the bar’s cacophony muffled behind its door. Here, only the rain and the uneven cadence of his boots existed.

I opened the passenger side, gesturing him in. He flopped down gracelessly, jacket squeaking against the leather seat, crop top riding even higher from the angle. I circled to my side, slid behind the wheel, and let the silence hang — a taut string between us.

He smelled of liquor and smoke, but beneath it, faintly, sweat and leather and him. I could have drowned in it.

He turned, grinning faint and crooked, hair plastered to his temple. “Christ, Doc. Draggin’ me out like some bloody knight in a carriage.”

I did not smile. My eyes lingered too long on his mouth, his damp lips parted just slightly, pink from biting them against the cold. I thought, with a clarity sharp as glass: now. I could ask now.

The words rose, unbidden: Let me kiss you, Miller.

But before they could fall, he laughed — quick, flustered, eyes darting away. “What, you gonna kiss me or somethin’, Burgess?” His tone was mock, nervous, but the heat flushed up his neck betrayed him.

I froze. My fingers tightened awhen upon the wheel. He had said it first. The notion was not mine alone.

And then — a beat too late — the realization crossed his face. His grin faltered, his pupils flared. He had meant it as jest, but he saw my stillness, my eyes fixed upon him, and something inside him flickered.

He swallowed hard. Looked away. Laughed again, quieter this time, forcing the levity back into his voice. “Ah, forget it. Jokin’, mate. Just jokin’.”

But he had seen. For that split second, he knew.

And I — God damn me — did not deny it.

— W. Burgess

___

29th December, 1997 — 3:46 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

I am a fool. A god-damned fool in a fine coat.

The drive back was nothing — a blur of headlights on wet tarmac, the wipers hissing their rhythm like a metronome for my humiliation. He sprawled in the passenger seat, wet hair dripping onto his collarbone, leather jacket creaking when he shifted. He tried to fill the space with idle talk, little jokes about the bar, about Dylan probably puking in an alley, about how “posh” my car smelled. He was trying to make it normal. To erase what he had said.

I sat rigid, eyes fixed on the road, fingers carved into the wheel. The whole time the echo of his voice pounded in my skull: What, you gonna kiss me or somethin’, Burgess? A jest, thrown off like a spark from his teeth — but I had shown it. My stillness, my silence, my stare. In that moment, he had seen.

God, I despise myself. Forty-three years old, Head of Research, a man who has held the veil of reality in his hands and not trembled — and I sit here undone by a drunk agent’s crooked grin.

Back at the house he slipped off his jacket, water darkening the polished floor, crop top clinging to his chest. He smirked as if nothing had passed. “Cheers for the lift, Doc. Owe you one.”

I wanted to tear the smirk off his face, to kiss it, to beg his forgiveness — I don’t even know which. Instead, I managed, “You’re welcome,” in a voice too cold, too smooth, while inside everything clawed at the inside of my ribs.

He padded further into the hall, toes of his boots squeaking, and said over his shoulder, “You alright, Doc? You’re quiet. Not like you’re chatty usually, but…”

“I am fine,” I said. Lie. My hands still trembled when I unclasped my gloves.

Upstairs now, in the solitude of my study, his scent still lingers — liquor and leather and skin. His shirt from the other night lies over the chair. I pressed it to my face before I began writing this. The shame is as sharp as the thrill.

He joked, and I did not laugh. He joked, and for a heartbeat, he knew. I saw it in his eyes. He will pretend he didn’t. I will pretend too. But the truth is alive now, crawling between us, and I can no longer cage it.

I have weathered anomalies that devour minds, walked halls of screaming steel, endured the ruin of my own body after a breach. Yet tonight I feel broken in a way none of them ever achieved.

Because he joked. And I showed my hunger.

— W. Burgess