Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes with the sun on his face and a tightness in his throat that he can’t quite shake.

He stares at the ceiling, studying the shadows cast there by the tree branches outside. Downstairs, he can hear the faint patter of footsteps and the clink of plates set on countertops. He’s slept in again, and he knows he’ll be hearing about it from Parker.

Sleeping beauty, Parker will call him, and he’ll smile, but it won’t quite reach his eyes. Later, when Faroe is out with Bella, he’ll ask Arthur, Nightmares again? and Arthur will shake his head and tell him that it’s nothing.

Because it is nothing. They’re just dreams.

Arthur exhales, then pushes the sheets off of him and stands. He shakes the pins and needles out of his left hand—how he manages to sleep on it funny every night, he’ll never know—and heads to the wardrobe.

Parker’s shirts are strewn about Arthur’s side again, splashes of ostentatious color amidst the neutrals Arthur prefers. Arthur eyes them for a moment, considering, before pulling out a slate-gray suit, matching shirt, and a mustard yellow tie. He spends the obligatory five minutes trying and failing to get his hair into some semblance of order before setting down the tub of pomade with a sigh.

His eyes find themselves in the mirror, and he just … looks, for a moment.

He’s always blind in his dreams. Maybe that’s why it’s felt so strange lately, to catch glimpses of his own reflection. Like he doesn’t quite recognize the person looking back.

It always fades. By mid-morning, he’s fully shaken off the aura the dreams leave behind, chased away by Faroe’s laughter and Parker’s jokes. But here, with it still clinging to him…

Arthur blinks and looks away. Laughs a little to himself. “Christ,” he mutters. “Okay.”

Time to rejoin polite society. Or whatever approximation of it waits for him in his kitchen.

What waits for him is enough to chase away the lingering dream in an instant.

Faroe is standing on a small step stool positioned in front of the kitchen counter, frowning intently as she mixes pancake batter with a wooden spoon that seems comically large where it’s gripped in her fist. Behind her, Parker picks their cheap nonstick frying pan off the stove and flips the pancake within it with a flick of his wrist. The raw side sizzles as it hits the hot metal, and something in the pit of Arthur’s stomach sizzles with it.

Parker turns and catches sight of Arthur. His smile is blinding. “Well, good morning,” he says. There’s the slightest edge to his words, an unspoken, Are you all right? that Arthur chooses to ignore.

“What’s going on in here?” Arthur says, peering over the counter and into the bowl Faroe is mixing. There are large clumps of unmixed flour and streaks of yellow egg yolk.

“Papa’s teaching me how to make pancakes,” Faroe says. She gives the batter another good stir; it comes a bit too close to the lip of the bowl for comfort.

“Oh?” Arthur raises an eyebrow at Parker.

“We’ve got a future chef on our hands,” Parker says, ruffling Faroe’s hair. She makes an indignant noise and swats at him with a flour-covered hand, and he chuckles and holds his hands up in a placating gesture.

“You’re gonna mess up my braids,” Faroe says, setting the spoon down with a plonk and crossing her arms across her chest.

“I think your braids look very nice,” Arthur says. “Did you do them yourself?”

Faroe huffs a little. “No.”

“Did Papa do them?”

Faroe nods.

“My technique’s getting better, don’t you think?” Parker says, pleased, like he hasn’t been doing Faroe’s hair in the morning for months now. “This one’s called a fishtail. I think.”

Arthur smiles, then looks behind Parker. “Your pancake is burning.”

Parker’s eyes go wide. “Ah, shoot.”

Breakfast is salvaged, and the three of them eat together at the little kitchen table that Parker found on the side of the road one day. It’s chipped and a bit stained, but it’s sturdy, and it holds up to the antics of a seven-year-old who likes to climb atop it even when Arthur tells her not to. Arthur makes Parker and himself mugs of tea and pours some orange juice for Faroe, and they read the Sunday funnies together until Bella stops by to pick up Faroe for church and Sunday school.

Arthur knows that Daniel would probably prefer that he accompany Bella and Faroe to church. That he kneel as well on those hard wooden floors, head bowed, reciting all the right words and phrases that he still knows from his own childhood. But Daniel would prefer a lot of things that he’s not going to get. Like a ring on Bella’s finger and a lease signed in both their names and a happy little nuclear family in their happy little cookie-cutter Christian house.

It doesn’t matter what Daniel would prefer. Arthur is happy. He’s so happy it almost doesn’t feel real some days. Bella is in school, and she’s going to be a doctor someday (Mending wounds instead of dresses, Parker jokes), so Faroe lives with him and Parker full-time for now. Parker has figured out precisely which details about their cases he can give Faroe without confusing or scaring her, and Arthur strikes a balance between writing jingles for local radio shows, working on that piano concerto he swears he’ll finish one day, giving Parker a second set of eyes on casework, and raising a little girl he loves more than anything. It’s a truly wonderful life.

Except for the dreams.

“Arthur?”

Arthur blinks and realizes that Parker is standing beside the piano, papers in hand. “Ah,” Arthur says. “Sorry, just … lost in thought.”

“I said your name three times.”

“Very lost in thought. You know how it is when I get composing.”

“You weren’t playing anything. You were just…” Parker sighs. “I don’t mean to pry, but I’m worried. These dreams—it seems like they’re getting worse.”

Arthur looks down at the piano keys. “It’s fine.”

“Art, come on—”

“I said it’s fine!” Arthur snaps. It hangs in the air between them, a dissonant chord slowly fading to silence.

Parker presses his lips together, then sets his papers down atop the piano. “Scooch over.”

“What?”

“Come on, scooch.”

“Parker, we’re not both going to fit.”

“Sure we will. Now, scooch.”

Arthur sighs and scooches.

Parker slides onto the bench beside him. It’s a tight squeeze. Parker’s thigh is hot where it presses against Arthur’s, and Arthur can feel the heat of it spreading throughout his entire body. Parker plays a few truly horrendous notes, then dances his fingers up the keys and folds them atop Arthur’s.

“If this is your attempt to get me to teach you to play again,” Arthur jokes, “I’m afraid it’s not working.”

“Nah. For both our sakes, I think we should leave the music-making to you.” Parker tugs on Arthur’s hand until Arthur relents and lets Parker lace their fingers together. Parker puts his other hand on the side of Arthur’s face, cupping his cheek gently. “This is my attempt to distract you from whatever’s bothering you. If you don’t want to talk about it, then fine. We don’t have to talk.”

Arthur does not, in fact, want to talk about it. So when Parker leans in and covers Arthur’s mouth with his, Arthur lets him.

Parker’s hands settle on Arthur’s hips—I swear, Art, you’re like a twig, no meat on your bones at all—and he pulls Arthur close, close, close until all Arthur can feel and think about and breathe is Parker. He brings his free hand up to rest on Parker’s hip, and Parker sighs against his lips, shifting his own hand so it tangles in Arthur’s hair.

It’s easy to lose himself in this—in the hot pressure of Parker’s lips, the firm grip of Parker’s hands, the little breathy noises Parker makes when Arthur threads his fingers through Parker’s hair and gently tugs. As a distraction, it is indeed quite effective.

Then, Parker shifts so his thighs are pressed against the insides of Arthur’s, spreading them wide, and Arthur swallows a groan. “Bedroom?”

“With you?” Parker kisses the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “Always.”

They don’t do this often, now that Faroe lives with them. Perhaps the occasional fleeting moment—soapy hands in the shower, open-mouthed kisses at midnight—but nothing like this, with Parker’s thumbs under the waistband of Arthur’s pants, pulling them down and off as he lies spread open and vulnerable on the bed. There’s something funny in the fact that it happens most on Sundays, when Bella takes Faroe to church and Parker takes Arthur apart with his mouth and fingers and cock.

It sure feels like worship, though, when Parker kisses the skin just above Arthur’s naval and murmurs, “You’re so goddamn gorgeous, you know that?”

Arthur hums. “Tell me again?”

Parker runs his hands down Arthur’s sides. “A fucking work of art. Maybe I should get someone to paint you like this, hang it above our bed.”

“Parker, we live with a seven-year-old.”

Parker makes a psh sound. It ghosts across Arthur’s stomach, and he shivers. “Always so pedantic. Just go with it. Be in the moment.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Maybe I’d be in the moment more if you put that smart mouth of yours somewhere useful.”

“Hey, you like this smart mouth of mine,” Parker says, wiggling his eyebrows. Then, before Arthur can respond, he shifts and takes the head of Arthur’s cock in his mouth.

He and Parker never really discussed this arrangement. It just sort of … happened. One moment, they were getting drinks at the bar together and trading stories about their lines of work. The next, Parker was in Arthur’s apartment, sitting on the couch with a glass of whiskey in hand, watching Arthur play late into the night before standing and setting his glass down and tipping Arthur’s chin up and kissing him. It didn’t feel sudden or out of the blue or strange. It felt like they’d always been doing it.

Parker moved in shortly after that, and then Faroe. It’s not the kind of family Daniel would approve of, but Arthur doesn’t care. It’s his, and that’s all that matters in the end.

It’s a shock when Arthur comes, he’s so wrapped up in himself. He gasps, hips jerking against Parker’s hands, his cock twitching in Parker’s mouth. When he stills, gasping for air, Parker gives Arthur’s cock a languid stroke just to hear him whine before standing and walking to the bathroom to spit.

When he returns, Arthur—more aware of himself now—grabs Parker by the wrist and pulls him down on top of him. Parker goes willingly, bracketing Arthur’s hips with his, pinning Arthur to the mattress, and Arthur groans.

He’s still sensitive, squirming where his cock brushes against Parker’s, but fuck, he wants. So he places his hands on the insides of Parker’s thighs and stares up at Parker and says, voice cracked down the middle, “Fuck me.”

Parker inhales sharply, his cock twitching. Then, he reaches for the Vaseline.

Arthur groans when Parker eases the first finger inside. Parker shushes him with a chaste kiss to the lips, then brushes a lock of hair back from Arthur’s sweat-damp forehead with his free hand. “You’re doing so well for me,” he says as he begins pumping his finger in and out. He’s avoiding Arthur’s prostate, giving him time to recover, but the stretch itself is enough to make Arthur shudder. “Just breathe, Arthur. I’ve got you.”

“You don’t—” Arthur sucks in a breath as Parker teases the tip of a second finger against his hole. “You don’t have to be gentle with me. I can take it.”

“Maybe I want to be gentle with you.” Still, Parker pushes in a second finger, and Arthur’s hips twitch on the bedspread. “Or maybe I want to take my time. It’s not like we’re in a rush.”

Parker kisses Arthur’s protest clean off his lips, then slips down and begins sucking on one of Arthur’s nipples. The sensation of it is electric, and Arthur grips the sheets with one hand and slips the other into Parker’s hair, wordlessly encouraging him to continue.

By the time Parker is nudging at Arthur’s hole with the tip of his cock, Arthur is hard again and breathing heavily. When Parker presses in, achingly slowly, Arthur has to fight the urge to dig his nails into the tender flesh of Parker’s shoulder blades. Instead, he wraps his arms around Parker’s back and buries his face in the crook of Parker’s neck and whispers, “Fuck, just like that.”

Parker fucks him slow, with deep and measured thrusts that white out Arthur’s mind with pleasure. He can’t hold back his bitten-off moans, his reedy whimpers, his quiet, Please, Parker, more, please. Parker holds Arthur tightly and calls him darling and Arthur wants to cry with how much it all is.

He comes with his teeth sunk into the flesh of Parker’s shoulder, and it’ll surely bruise but Arthur can’t bring himself to mind when Parker groans and follows Arthur off the edge. They come down wrapped up in one another, sticky and blissful and whole. Parker’s weight is heavy atop Arthur, and he allows himself to sink into it with a contented sigh.

“Hey, now,” Parker says, voice still slightly breathless. He pushes off Arthur, and Arthur groans. “You’re going to complain if we don’t clean up first. You always do.”

Arthur grunts as he forces himself to follow Parker’s momentum, sitting up. “I probably shouldn’t let myself fall asleep anyway,” he says, even though he feels boneless and exhausted. “It’s entirely too early for a midday nap.”

“It’s Sunday,” Parker counters, climbing out of bed. “I think you’re allowed a bit of lethargy. Wait here; I’ll get a washcloth.”

Parker returns with a cloth, and after wiping themselves down, they both crawl back into bed. Arthur curls up next to Parker’s side, feeling Parker’s breath tickle the side of his face. He shouldn’t sleep, he tells himself. It’s too early, and he just woke up, and Parker is here, and Parker’s already concerned enough about Arthur’s sleeping habits. Arthur doesn’t want to worry him more than he already has.

Arthur doesn’t mean to drift off, but he does. One moment, he’s curled up by Parker’s side, hearing the occasional flip of a page as Parker reads.

The next, he’s standing in the middle of a pit.

“Something’s coming!” a voice says. It’s deep and gravelly, located right behind his eyes, like the person it belongs to exists only within the confines of his own head.

John.

The name hits him square in the chest, bringing with it a wave of emotions. Fear, sadness, anger, longing, hurt, trust, affection, pain. He hates John, and he loves him, and he doesn’t even know him.

Above, something approaches, dragging itself languidly towards the edge of the pit. All at once, the emotions crystalize into a single, sharp point:

Desperation.

“Food?” he hears himself say.

These aren’t lucid dreams, not entirely. He’s aware, vaguely, that he’s dreaming. But it’s like being trapped in another’s body, alone and blind and helpless as it moves about. Like a human brain stuffed into the body of a wooden marionette.

Does that make John the puppeteer?

“I think so,” John says. “Hopefully water as well.”

Dream Arthur makes a longing sound deep in his throat. It’s almost a whine, and it is a sound that Arthur never imagined he could make. “God, I’m so thirsty,” Dream Arthur sighs. “And starving. It better not be another raw leg.”

“You think they’re going to cook for you?” John says dryly.

Something … complicated washes over Arthur at that. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to reply with a witty retort. He wants to tell John to never speak to him again. He wants to get out of this fucking pit, and they have to work together to make that happen.

But it’s John’s fault he’s here in the first place. And he will never trust him again.

“Maybe,” Dream Arthur mutters. He says nothing more.

Maybe they’ve got a full kitchen up there, Arthur thinks. I’m sure you can get all kinds of spices in dreams.

“I doubt they would know how to use them even if they did,” John says.

Dream Arthur frowns. “What?”

“Spices. I don’t think these creatures are familiar with the concept.”

“Why are we talking about spices?” Dream Arthur says, clipped and irritated. “It’s not like you care. You aren’t the one who has to fucking eat it.”

“You’re the one who—” John starts, angry, before cutting himself off. “… Oh.”

Oh?

John inhales. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, and everything is formless and black, but Arthur is certain, in that moment, that John is talking to him. Not Dream Arthur—him. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

Wait— Arthur thinks, and then he’s waking with a start, heart pounding in his chest and the palms of his hands clammy.

“Hey, hey,” Parker says, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, exerting a gentle pressure. “You okay, Art?”

Arthur takes a few slow, deep breaths, trying to shake off the memory of the dream. Then, he sighs and gently shrugs off Parker’s hand. Parker lets him. “Fine. Just a dream.”

Arthur can already feel it fading, bleeding away in the soft light of the midday sun. He can see, and he’s lying in bed with Parker, and their cabinets are stocked with spices of all kinds, and Faroe and Bella will be back from Sunday school in a few hours, and this—this is what’s real.

The dreams are just dreams. No matter how real they may feel.

“You don’t look fine,” Parker says, and Arthur is very much not in the mood for a conversation about how not-fine he looks.

“I’m going to the store,” Arthur says shortly, clambering quickly out of bed. He tries not to make it seem as if he’s fleeing.

From the expression on Parker’s face, he doesn’t quite succeed. “Art—”

“We’re out of milk, right?” Pants, trousers, socks, check. Shirt, on. Do up the buttons. Arthur’s hands are shaking. “And eggs? I should probably get some more cream of mushroom too, just to be safe, since it seems like that’s going to be Faroe’s food of choice for at least a little while longer.”

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but could you at least—?”

“Shouldn’t be long—a half hour at most.” Shoes, wallet. Arrange his hair in the mirror so it doesn’t look like he just got done rolling around in the sheets. Shit, his glasses.

He goes to fetch them from the nightstand, and a hand curls around his wrist. It’s loose enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. He doesn’t. “I just want to help,” Parker says helplessly. “You don’t have to talk about it. Just … tell me what I can do to help.”

Nothing, Arthur thinks, staring down at the wooden nightstand. He can’t help but feel how wrong it is, that he can see it. He hasn’t quite shaken the dream-haze yet, and it’s left him rattled and unsteady. Nothing you can do is going to help. Because there’s nothing to help. They’re just dreams.

“I’ll be back soon,” Arthur says. He gently but firmly pulls his hand from Parker’s grasp and pretends that he doesn’t see the flash of disappointment that crosses Parker’s face as he turns and leaves.

The walk to the store helps to clear his head. The sky is gray and clouded, as it almost always is in Arkham, an omen of rain that might come in an hour or in a week. The weather has started to turn, heralding budding trees and the return of big, bulky coats and thick gloves to the depths of closets.

It hasn’t quite turned yet, though, and the cold of winter lingers, cutting through Arthur’s jacket. He shivers and tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers. The cold is biting, and it clears away the lingering anxiety and fear, leaving behind only curiosity.

Why is he having these dreams? He’s no stranger to recurring nightmares; he’d had them as a child, dreaming over and over again of sprinting the same fruitless path through his home pursued by all manner of monsters. These feel different, though. It’s like he’s opening the same book but flipping to a new page each time. The circumstances are different, but the details and the characters and the overarching plot are all the same. He is always blind. He is always running or trapped or hiding. He is always afraid.

And he always has John.

It’s bizarre. The dreams are bizarre. Maybe it would be helpful to talk about them—with Parker, perhaps, or a doctor of some sort—but a very large part of Arthur doesn’t want to. It all feels far too personal, somehow.

Arthur reaches the store. He pushes his worries to the side and lets his shopping list and the rows upon rows of shelves distract him thoroughly. By the time he’s headed home with his purchases, the anxiety has melted away entirely, replaced instead by guilt at the tone he’d taken with Parker earlier. He knows that Parker worries because he cares. Because he loves Arthur, somehow. And Arthur loves him too. He trusts Parker, he does. Well and truly.

Maybe one day, that will be enough for Arthur to open up about all the things that eat at him. But that day is not today.

He gets home to find Parker in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee. He half-expects Parker to bring it up again, to push and push until Arthur breaks, but it’s also not that much of a surprise when he simply pushes Arthur’s own mug across the table towards him. Parker’s a good investigator, poking and prodding and drawing the nitty-gritty details out of people, but he also knows when to back off lest he gets bitten. Arthur has long since made his peace with the fact that Parker keeps his distance from Arthur’s sharp tongue and sharper teeth.

He puts the groceries away, then sits down at the piano again. He’s got a deadline coming up, too soon for comfort, so he spends the next hour and change with a pencil between his teeth, mapping out a few harmonies and jotting them down, scribbling out the notes that aren’t quite right. Parker jokes that they could wallpaper their house with his rejected scores, and Faroe likes to scribble out nonsensical melodies of her own.

His fingers pluck out a few notes—B, F#, E, D—and he smiles faintly. He’s been working on Faroe’s Song on and off for a bit now—meant it as a Christmas gift for her last season—but there’s still something not quite right about it. Parker thinks it sounds fine, but it’s kept Arthur up some nights.

Arthur shakes his head and returns to the jingle. A problem for another day.

Soon, the front door opens and the pitter-patter of small feet once again fills the house. Faroe is chattering to Parker about the birds they saw on their way home, and Parker is doing his best to identify the species sight unseen.

Arthur smiles, fingers still resting on the piano keys. Regardless of anything else, he’ll always have this.

A thin-fingered hand rests on his shoulder, and Bella says, “Daniel sends his regards again.”

Arthur wrinkles his nose. “I’m sure there are other things he’d rather be sending.”

“You overestimate his dislike for you.”

“I think I have a perfect estimate of his dislike for me. And for the fact that I am neither a churchgoing man nor your husband, but still the father of your child.”

“He understands that that’s not his choice to make.”

“Does he?”

“He will.” When Arthur turns, he sees a small, private smile on Bella’s face. “Someday. I’m sure of it.”

“Bella.”

“Okay, I’m mostly sure of it. Halfway, at least.” A moment of consideration. “Or perhaps a third.”

“Bella.”

“A sixth?” Her eyes sparkle with laughter, and Arthur truly does love her, if not in the way a man loves his wife.

“If you say so,” Arthur says with a smile, “then I’ll believe it. I shall simply … avoid being alone in a room with him until that day arrives.”

“Mm. I suppose that’s fair.” Bella takes Arthur’s hand and tugs on it, and he goes willingly. “Now, come on. Parker’s making that rice dish you like for lunch.”

Chapter Text

Arthur isn’t sure where they are this time. It’s hot, but not unbearably so. He’s lying in a bed—not as soft as his, which he might comment on if he had any control whatsoever over his vocal cords. A thin sheet covers him, and his eyes might be open or they might be closed. It’s not like he has any way to tell the difference.

There are a few moments of silence. Then, quietly, John says, “Are you awake, Arthur?”

Dream Arthur doesn’t respond, and Arthur remains silent in kind. He wants to hear what John has to say.

After a moment, John sighs. “All right. I know you can’t hear this, but I think that’s for the best.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Rather like he’s trying to convince himself of something. Arthur wonders what. “I just needed to tell you that it … it meant a lot to me. That we were able to move on from what happened beneath the hotel, with the King. I … lost myself. Or perhaps I found myself, and I didn’t understand yet that I didn’t want to be that version of myself anymore. Either way, if you hadn’t clung so tightly to…” John trails off. “Well. We wouldn’t be here. Even knowing what comes next, I … I’m glad you fought to keep yourself whole.” Quieter: “I only wish I could have done more. Maybe then, I…”

John trails off again. Arthur waits, letting the seconds tick by. Then, cautiously, he thinks, I’m sorry.

John inhales sharply. “Arthur?”

I don’t know who you are to me, Arthur thinks quickly. I don’t even know if you’re real. But I’m sorry. I feel like you know me, and—and I don’t know you. Could you tell me? Who you are?

“I…” John falls silent for a long moment. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not real. I’m just—a part of your dream. And it’s time for you to wake up.”

I’m rather certain it’s the middle of the night, Arthur thinks, and then he’s blinking awake, staring at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom. Beside him, Parker snores, sawing logs with chainsaws in both hands. It’s good that Arthur’s always been a heavy sleeper, though if he’s going to keep waking in the middle of the night, he may invest in earplugs.

If Arthur falls asleep again, will John be there?

Does Arthur want him to be there?

He doesn’t know what he wants.

No. That’s not quite true. He wants to know the truth. He wants to understand. He’s been having these dreams for ages now, and he’s tired of feeling like an unwitting participant in them.

Arthur rolls over and closes his eyes, trying to calm his racing mind. Sleep pulls at him, dragging him down, down, down.

This time, he doesn’t dream.

Morning comes quickly and with it routine. Parker and Arthur split time in the bathroom, Parker shaving the soft lines of his jaw and arranging his hair carefully with pomade while Arthur buttons up his shirt and arranges the bedclothes into some semblance of order. Parker gives Arthur a small smile and lets their hands brush as they trade places. Arthur can tell that he’s still worried about yesterday, but he doesn’t mention it. He’s grateful, as he always is, for Parker’s willingness to let Arthur brush what he needs to under the rug. Arthur doesn’t want to talk about it, and Parker has found the limits to which he can push the issue.

That doesn’t mean he won’t push more at a later date, of course. Parker is still a private investigator, and “nosy” would be putting it lightly. But for now, they can coexist in a mutual state of blissful ignorance.

Faroe is unwilling to relinquish sleep this morning, sulking her way through breakfast. Arthur has never been successful at the “discipline” part of raising a child, far more inclined to give Faroe everything she asks for in life and then some, but Parker—who grew up with five siblings and busy parents—wields childcare like a finely-honed weapon. He coaxes Faroe through breakfast and into the capable hands of Tess, who politely yet firmly reminds Arthur that the three of them will be going to the market at two and she will not be late again because Arthur got “captured by the music” or what have you.

“I get engrossed,” Arthur says defensively, “which I would argue is a perfectly acceptable condition for a composer, if not actively desired.”

“You can be engrossed until two, at which point I expect you to be at the market, and not a minute later,” Tess says, uncompromising.

Beside her, Faroe—still in a mood—grumbles, “The market isn’t even any fun.”

“No?” Arthur crouches down beside her. “I heard there’s going to be a surprise there today.”

Faroe, notorious lover of surprises and mysteries, visibly brightens. “What?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am not.”

“Are too!”

“I suppose you won’t know for sure until we go to the market.”

Faroe frowns, thinking this over, before apparently deciding that his reasoning is solid. “Fine.”

Faroe disappears with Tess, and Parker gives Arthur a look. “Need help arranging that surprise?”

“Don’t you have meetings all day today?” Arthur waves him off. “I can handle it.”

“You sure?”

Parker seems a little too eager, and Arthur squints at him. “Have you got something you’re trying to get out of?”

Parker sighs dramatically and holds up his hands. “I just don’t like this Pelican Lane place, Art. Freaks me out. But the neighbors have been hearing noises again, so here I am, again, checking it out. There better not be any goddamn opossums this time.”

Pelican Lane. The name makes something in Arthur’s chest curl—nerves? “Is that the condemned place that’s falling apart?”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

Ah, all right, then. “You’re going to fall through the floor one of these days and break a leg.”

“Whaddya take me for, some kinda amateur? I’ll be fine, promise. I probably won’t even have to go in; last time, the bastards left shit all over the porch, so it wasn’t exactly rocket science figuring out what was up.”

Parker’s jokes, as always, settle most of Arthur’s unease. “Hey now, don’t sell yourself short. Being able to tell what kind of animal you’re dealing with just from its droppings is an admirable skill.”

“Great; I’ll stick it right at the top of my resume. Just what every future client’s looking for.” Parker gives Arthur a winning smile. “Y’know what I am good at, though? Surprises.”

Arthur rolls his eyes theatrically. “All right, all right, twist my arm. How about I help you with Pelican Lane, and then you help me put something together for Faroe?”

“Deal.” Parker steals a quick kiss before Arthur can react, then winks at him. “Coffee first?”

“God, please.”

Parker shows Arthur the case file over their mismatched mugs. Another noise complaint the police won’t look into because they’ve been called six times prior and they’ve found nothing. “Lucky for us, though,” Parker says with a grin, “I’ve got no problem investigating the same jack shit ten, twenty, a hundred times, so long as it keeps paying.” It’s a thin file, with just a few pictures of the house and some notes from the neighbor about the kinds of noises they’ve been hearing. Scratches and thumps, mostly. Apparently from the basement.

Unsettling.

They finish their coffee, and Parker stacks their mugs in the sink before they head out the door. The air is clear and crisp, a rare sunny day in Arkham, and Arthur breathes it deeply. Beside him, Parker whistles a tune, something light and jaunty, then holds up his hand to flag down a cab.

The drive is short, and soon, they’re getting out on the sidewalk in front of a building that looks like it probably should’ve been demolished fifteen years ago. Arthur wrinkles his nose at it. “On second thought, I don’t think either of us should go in there.”

Parker waves a dismissive hand. “We’re not really going inside; we’re just gonna take a quick look around so I can let the neighbors know that everything is fine and dandy.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” Arthur says, but he follows Parker anyway as he begins walking around the perimeter of the house.

“C’mon, Art. When have I ever been known to get myself into more trouble than I need to?”

Arthur considers this for a moment. Parker has a point; he’s certainly the more cautious of the two of them. Though he’s the one who decided to investigate creepy houses for a living, so. Grain of salt and all that.

They make their way to the back of the house. The porch wraps around it, a few of its boards snapped and decayed but otherwise sound. The windows are all shuttered save for some thin, murky ones close to the ground. “Those lead into the basement,” Parker says, pointing down at the windows. “I like to come here first and peek inside, just to see what’s what. That way, if there’s nothing there, job done. If there is something there, I’m not caught unawares. See? I’m careful.”

“Yes, yes.” Arthur squints at the windows. “You can see the whole basement through these?”

Parker waggles his hand from side to side. “Eh, most of it. Enough that I feel confident saying there’s nothing down there if I sit and stare for a while. Go on—why don’t you take a look?”

“I’d better be getting a cut if you’re going to be putting me to work like this,” Arthur jokes, but still, he gets down on his hands and knees next to the window, then drops to his stomach when that’s not quite low enough. He feels distinctly like he’s doing something he’s not meant to be doing. Maybe he is; he’s not really sure what kinds of laws are in place for this sort of thing. Presumably, Parker knows.

Would Parker mention if they were doing something illegal?

… Hm. Well, he’s already down here, so.

Arthur looks through the window.

Parker must have done this before because there’s a section of glass that looks like it’s been roughly swept clean of dirt and grime. The window is still frosted with age, and Arthur moves closer to the glass until his nose is pressed right against it. It’s not like there’s any light down there; how is he meant to see anything?

Arthur cups his hands around his eyes to shut out the noonday sun as best he can. Oh—hold on, there is a little bit of light down there. From another window, maybe? Arthur squints. He doesn’t think he sees anything moving about, which is good, but he also can’t make out much of anything at all, which is inconclusive.

The sun isn’t very bright, but Arthur finds himself squinting more in an effort to block some of it out. Christ, it’s starting to give him a headache. There must be some distortion from the glass because it looks like the light is golder than it ought to be, shot through with patches of iridescence. The oil-slick rainbow seems to swirl and churn, and Arthur stares at it, transfixed. The pressure behind his eyes builds, thrumming and pulsing, but he doesn’t want to blink, because then he’ll lose sight of the light. What if he misses something? What if something moves? He’ll just keep watching. He’ll keep staring at the light, and—

And a hand grabs his shoulder and pulls him away from the window. Sunlight hits him—bright sunlight, far brighter than that in the basement, and Arthur flinches away from it, squeezing his eyes shut. Fuck, his head is killing him. Feels like he’s pulled an all-nighter or something.

“What’s up with you?” Parker says. “I said your name like five times. You didn’t hear me?”

“What? No. I was… I don’t know. Distracted.”

Parker raises an eyebrow but helps Arthur to his feet. Arthur sways, a wave of vertigo washing over him. It would have landed him on his ass if Parker hadn’t caught his arm and steadied him.

“Woah,” Parker says. His brow is furrowed. “Easy there. You okay?”

Arthur grips Parker’s forearm to keep himself grounded. His head is swimming. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just a bit lightheaded after standing up so quickly.”

Parker doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? You were down there for a while. Almost five minutes.”

Five minutes? Oh, maybe. Actually, that sounds about right. He’d just been trying to get a thorough view of the basement. To make sure nobody was in there. Like Parker said—you have to sit and stare a while. Just to be sure.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Arthur feels steadier now, so he lets go of Parker’s arm and slowly opens his eyes. The light is still bright, but it’s not so bad now that his eyes have adjusted a bit.

“Well?” Parker says. His forehead is still creased, but his eyes glint with a familiar curiosity that Arthur knows and loves. “Did you see anything?”

“Just a dark, dusty basement. No intruders, nothing out of sorts.”

Parker claps Arthur on the shoulder. “You’re a real stunner, Art, you know that? That means we can go home and I can tell Mrs. Finch that yes, I know the noises are scary, but no, it’s nothing to be worried about. Just another animal.”

Arthur nudges his elbow into Parker’s side. “No, that means we can go to the market and you can help me figure out what I should do for my surprise.”

“Honestly, Art, it’ll be my pleasure. Either way, let’s get outta here.” Parker grimaces. “This place gives me the creeps.”

[Scene break]

Tess meets them at the market, a significantly less morose Faroe in tow. When Faroe sees Arthur, she grins and tugs her hand free from Tess’, running across the cobblestones and barreling into Arthur’s legs.

“Oh, hello!” Arthur smiles. “Did you have a nice time with Tess?”

Faroe nods, her pigtails bouncing as she does so. “What’s the surprise?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you what it was.”

Faroe’s nose wrinkles, and she makes a disgruntled noise that she absolutely learned from Parker. “That’s not fair. I waited all day.”

“She did wait,” Tess says, coming up behind Faroe and raising an eyebrow at Arthur like she expects him to drop the ball on this. Which, for the record, Arthur would never do. Not when it comes to Faroe. “All day. Very patiently, I may add.”

Faroe crosses her arms and pouts. Arthur probably shouldn’t encourage such behavior, but he already has the surprise ready, and Faroe’s just excited about it. So he heaves a melodramatic sigh and says, “All right. I suppose you did wait all day.”

Faroe lights up.

Arthur leads Faroe carefully through the market. It’s not overly crowded at this time of day, but it’s busy enough that he keeps one hand clasped with Faroe’s, just to make sure she doesn’t get lost in the throng. She keeps trying to outpace him in her excitement, then realizes she doesn’t know where they’re going and slows again. On Arthur’s other side, Parker walks just close enough that his hand occasionally brushes against Arthur’s.

It’s springtime, the temperatures just beginning to tick up to the sort that make wearing suits outside uncomfortable, and the flowers are starting to bloom. They’ve been an obsession of Faroe’s as of late, and Arthur has to keep reminding her not to pick them or grab them or pluck their pretty petals off. Look, don’t touch, all right?

But here, at the end of the market, there’s a little stall set up, its tables sprinkled with spilled soil. Faroe sees it and frowns, not quite understanding, until she sees another girl carefully placing a sprig of green into a tiny terracotta pot. She squeals and races ahead to the table, and Arthur lets her, following close behind so he can pay the fee and help her pick out what kind of flower she wants to plant.

She settles on marigolds—a bright yellow variety, or so the seller claims. Right now, they’re just a few tender-looking leaves attached to a root ball. Faroe’s tiny hands pack the dirt down tightly around the flower, and Parker graciously helps her fill the space around the root ball with more dirt as required. She scribbles designs on the side of the pot with chalk—a yellow flower, a few stick figures holding hands, something that Arthur thinks is meant to be a frog. They give the plant a bit of water to moisten the new soil; then, the seller gives them a card with instructions for care, tucks a little daisy behind Faroe’s ear, and sends them on their way.

Faroe holds her newly potted plant like it’s a priceless treasure, cradling it gently against her chest as they make their way through the market. Parker picks up a few things for the week’s meals—some eggs, a bundle of carrots, fresh bread—and Arthur decides on a small indulgence for himself in the form of a bag of half a dozen sun-ripe peaches. He bites into one as they walk, wiping at his chin as the juices run down it, and promises Faroe that he’ll cut one up for her when they get back home when she looks at him with pleading eyes.

And he does. Faroe loves it, eating the entire thing and nearly spoiling herself for dinner, but they manage to get some vegetables in her all the same. Arthur lies in bed that night, Parker curled up by his side, and focuses on the memory of Faroe’s laughter, the sweetness of the peach, Parker’s hand brushing against his, the sweet smell of spring.

He sleeps soundly. And he does not dream.

Chapter Text

“And then you’re going to put your hand there, and—yes! That’s exactly right. Very good.”

Faroe freezes for a moment with her hands in position—a bit rigid still, but they’ll work on it—then carefully presses down on the keys. The chord rings out through their apartment, fading almost immediately, and Faroe keeps her fingers pressed down on the keys, looking at Arthur expectantly. “It stopped.”

“That’s because I didn’t have my foot on the pedal.” Arthur exaggerates moving his foot up and down on the pedal of the piano, then keeps it down and plays a few notes. He lets them ring for a moment before lifting his foot again and silencing them. “See? If you press down on the pedal, the notes last longer. That’s because inside here—” Arthur sets a hand on the main body of the piano. “—there’s a big padded bar that rests against the strings. When you press a key—” He presses a key. “—a hammer comes down and hits the string. Because the bar is pressed against the string, it’s not able to vibrate for very long before the bar stops it. But when you press the pedal—” He presses the pedal, then plays the same note. “—the bar lifts, and when the hammer hits the string, it can vibrate without anything stopping it. Eventually, the vibrations stop because the string gets tired. But it can vibrate for much longer this way.”

Faroe’s brow is furrowed with intense focus. She kicks her feet back and forth, then frowns harder, this time more akin to a scowl. “I can’t reach the pedals.”

“That’s okay! You’ll get taller, and then you’ll be able to reach them. Until then, I can press them for you. Do you want to play that chord again? Put your fingers on the keys like I showed you.”

Faroe puts her fingers on the keys … approximately where Arthur showed her. Well, that’s good enough. “Okay,” he says, pressing the pedal down with his foot. “Now, push down.”

Faroe plays the chord, and—actually, that sounds quite nice. He’d expected it to be a bit dissonant, but with only white keys in the equation, he supposes there are much fewer opportunities for cacophony. It’s strange, though. It’s just a chord, but it reminds him so strongly of something that he can’t quite put his finger on. A sense of deja-vu, almost. It feels like it needs…

Arthur reaches out and plays a few notes with his right hand—F#, G, F#, D, F#. Yes, that’s right. God, it’s so familiar, it’s itching at him. What is it?

“I think the strings got tired,” Faroe says, and Arthur blinks. Oh, she’s right—the chord has faded completely. He must have gotten lost in his own thoughts.

“Well, they’ve had a very long day,” Arthur says lightly, lifting his foot from the pedal. “As have you, my little duckling.” He’s definitely been noticing Faroe’s eyelids drooping, though she’s made a valiant effort to stay awake in her newfound quest to learn more about what Parker and Arthur do during the day. “Time for bed.”

“Don’t wanna go to bed,” Faroe grumbles, but she stumbles along behind him anyway as he ushers her to her room. She gathers her pajamas and shuffles off to the bathroom, and a few moments after the door is shut, Parker pokes his head out from their bedroom, one eyebrow raised.

“Piano lessons over with for the night?”

Arthur nods and leans against the doorframe beside him. “I don’t know if she’s going to stick with it, but it’s nice to teach her nonetheless.” He remembers the chord from earlier and smiles. “Hell, she’s quite the inspiration as well.”

Parker makes an inquisitive noise.

“Oh, just—there’s this melody that’s been stuck in my head lately. I can’t quite seem to get it down right. She played something today, entirely by accident, that … unlocked some of it for me.” Arthur hums the fragment of melody. “I don’t suppose you recognize it? Sounds awfully familiar.”

“Not even a little. But you know I never pay much attention to that kind of stuff.”

“And yet you’ve moved in with a musician,” Arthur jokes.

“I didn’t say I hated it—just that I don’t pay much attention to it.” Parker nudges an elbow into Arthur’s side. “And besides, how’s that phrase go? Hate the sin, love the sinner?”

“Do not say that around Bella,” Arthur warns. “She’ll go off on one.”

“You say that like I don’t enjoy hearing her go off on one.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Before he can respond, though, the bathroom door opens and Faroe comes out, looking significantly wearier and ready for bed in her baby-blue pajama set. “Did you brush your teeth?” Arthur asks her.

Faroe nods.

“For at least as long as the Happy Birthday song?” She’s been going through a phase of hating the taste of toothpaste, so it’s been harder and harder to get her to brush for longer than a few seconds before spitting it back out.

Faroe nods again.

“All right, then. Do you want Papa Parker to read you a bedtime story?”

Faroe worries her bottom lip between her teeth, then nods quickly. “A short one, maybe. And a happy one. About a prince or something.”

Parker taps his chin in exaggerated contemplation, then snaps his fingers. “I think I know just the one.”

He follows Faroe into her room, leaving the door ajar. Arthur sees him kneel by the bookcase in the corner, tracing the spines of the books before selecting one and holding it up triumphantly. Arthur smiles and goes to check Faroe’s toothbrush. Thoroughly wet. Okay, that’s good. Faroe’s too young to be getting dental work.

Arthur hears the sounds of Parker’s voice bleeding through the crack in the door. He smiles and goes to ready himself for bed.

Parker joins him ten minutes later and finds him sat against the headboard, reading a book of his own. He doesn’t know if Faroe would like poetry; he’s never tried to read her any. Perhaps he should. Yeats is probably a bit too much though; Frost or Blake might be a better starting point.

“Out like a light,” Parker says, shucking off his suit and underlayers. He deposits the latter into the laundry bin, hangs the former back up in the closet. “Only took a few pages. I guess the piano must’ve tuckered her out.”

“She had a long day with Tess, apparently.” Arthur sticks a bookmark in to mark his page and sets the volume of poetry down on his nightstand. “Went to the park, then down to the library, then over to see Mrs. Francis and Annabell.”

“A busy schedule indeed.” Parker wanders off to their ensuite bathroom, leaving the door open as he prepares himself for bed. “Maybe she’ll start turning in earlier once she starts school in the fall, then.”

“I wouldn’t stack your hopes on it. She can have quite a bit of energy when she wants to.”

Parker sighs dramatically. He holds his toothbrush in one hand, toothpaste in the other, and says, “A man can dream, can’t he? Would be nice to have a bit more us time at night.”

He begins brushing his teeth, and Arthur crosses his arms and smirks. “And of course, by us time, I suppose you mean a quiet fuck rather than a candlelit dinner.”

Parker laughs, then curses when it sprays toothpaste all over the mirror. He finishes up, spits into the sink, then grabs a towel and begins cleaning off the mirror. “Jesus, Art, you sure know how to woo a guy. Both. Both would be nice, actually.”

“Well, it’s too late for dinner.”

Parker puts his toothbrush back in the holder, then turns and raises an eyebrow. “I suppose our options are rather limited, then.”

He extinguishes the light in the bathroom, locks their bedroom door, then crosses the room to the bed. Instead of sliding underneath the covers, he rounds the bed to Arthur’s side and clambers on, settling with one knee on either side of Arthur’s thighs. Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I do suppose they are. How unfortunate for us.”

“Ass,” Parker says, then leans forward and kisses him.

Arthur sighs into Parker’s mouth, settling his hands on Parker’s hips. Parker tastes like his favorite whiskey, and Arthur drinks it in secondhand. He fights the urge to take control and instead allows himself to relax into the heat of Parker’s lips, the slow and unhurried pace he’s setting.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. Parker’s an excellent kisser, and before long, Arthur is left breathless and gasping, body slowly going limp and boneless, melting into the pile of pillows he’s propped himself up against the headboard with. He can feel Parker smile against his lips, but he’s too liquidated to feel properly indignant about it. “There we are,” Parker says, pulling back just enough to speak. “Ain’t this romantic?”

In response, Arthur slides his thumbs beneath the waistband of Parker’s boxers and slowly tugs them down. Parker lets him, shifting from one knee and then the other, and then the boxers are on the floor discarded and Parker is knelt atop Arthur’s lap, naked and flushed and beautiful.

Parker kisses him again, chaste, then says, “I’m feeling a little underdressed here, Art.” He tugs at the sleeve of Arthur’s sleep shirt meaningfully.

“Might I remind you that I’ve been a bit occupied,” Arthur says, taking off his sleep shirt. “Hard to remove one’s clothing while one is being kissed within an inch of their life.”

“Flatterer.” Parker cups Arthur’s cock through his briefs, and Arthur gasps, canting his hips up into the touch. Parker lifts himself up, making quick work of Arthur’s underclothes before settling back down on Arthur’s lap. Distantly, Arthur hears the sound of fabric hitting the floor, but he’s much more focused on the brush of Parker’s cock against his as Parker leans forward, opens their nightstand drawer, and withdraws a small, familiar jar.

Soon, slick fingers are wrapping around Arthur’s cock, and Arthur bites his lip to stifle a moan. He reaches for the jar with one hand, wraps the other around the back of Parker’s neck, and pulls Parker in for a kiss. He’s going for heated, but Parker pulls back, guiding them into that same slow, unhurried pace from before. His hand moves almost leisurely on Arthur’s cock, pulling slowly up towards the head and lingering there before slipping back down again, cupping Arthur’s balls, running a gentle thumb along the base.

Arthur brings his own slick hand to Parker’s cock. He tries to be patient too, to be slow and deliberate, but there’s a fire raging beneath his skin, a fever he can’t sweat out, and Parker is swallowing every one of his moans and gasps and tiny stifled cries. That’s for the best, really; the walls aren’t all that thick here, and they’ve got a child a room over. Arthur knows Parker likes hearing them, though, for all that he teases Arthur for making their room sound like the set of a cheap porno. Another time. Another night, just like this.

“Christ, Arthur,” Parker says, resting his forehead against Arthur’s. “You’re so damn impatient. Let me just—”

He shifts forward, nudges Arthur’s hand away from his cock, then takes the both of them in hand. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath as he feels Parker’s cock press against his, then lets it out shakily as Parker begins to stroke them in tandem, so goddamn agonizingly slow.

Parker kisses him, and he still tastes of whiskey, and Arthur lets the whole world melt away.

His orgasm is inevitable, a slow cresting of tension that builds and builds and builds until Parker breathes his name and it all comes crashing down, like a wave breaking upon a beach. Parker follows shortly after, shuddering apart atop him, and Arthur cups the side of Parker’s neck and lets his thumb rest against Parker’s pulse point. Parker’s heart thrums, and Arthur thinks, Thank god, he’s alive.

Vaguely, Arthur registers that this is a strange thing to think at a time like this. But the unease slips away as soon as it’s come, buried in the post-orgasm haze.

Parker, wonderful man that he is, retrieves a warm rag and cleans off Arthur’s stomach, then carefully wipes the remaining lubricant from Arthur’s sensitive cock. He gives himself a cursory wipedown as well, then discards the rag in the laundry bin and slips into bed beside Arthur, who has burrowed beneath the sheets.

“See?” Parker says, wriggling to get himself comfortable, settling with his face just a few inches from Arthur’s. “Us time. Wasn’t that nice?”

Arthur makes an inarticulate grumbling noise and sinks further into the sheets.

“All right, all right.” Parker reaches over and flicks the lamp off, bathing the room in darkness. “Night, Art.”

Arthur shifts so his knee is pressed against Parker’s. “Good night.”

Sleep comes quickly after that.

[Scene break]

Arthur wakes at the bottom of a pit.

His face is pressed into the packed dirt floor, but he gets the feeling that he’s put it there on purpose. His vision is, as always, black, but he knows with a strange sort of dreamlike instinct that he’s in the same pit he was the last time he woke up here.

He thinks he’s been here for a while.

His mouth is dry—painfully so, drier than it’s ever been in his life. All of him feels shriveled and parched, like he’s been placed in an oven and baked for a little bit too long. His head is spinning, and he’s dazed and weak in a way that he’s never felt before.

He genuinely feels close to death.

He thinks he understands why he’s lying on the ground. He’s not sure if he has the strength to do anything else.

How long has it been since he’s had water or food? A few days? A week? Surely he would be dead if it was a week.

“It’s been five days,” John says, and Arthur startles. He’d almost forgotten, in the haze of dehydration and nausea, that he’s not alone in these dreams. “Or at least, you’ve slept five times since the last water drop-off. I don’t … I’m assuming that means it’s been five days. I don’t know. Time doesn’t move right down here. In the Dreamlands … I don’t know if the concept of a ’day’ has any meaning at all.”

Dream Arthur says nothing. He must be asleep. A moment passes. Then, John sighs. “I don’t understand why you keep ending up here.”

Well, it’s not like I’m trying to, Arthur thinks indignantly. But while I’m in the area, why don’t you start giving me some answers?

“There’s nothing to answer. This isn’t real, Arthur. You’re dreaming. I’m a fragment of your dreams. You’re inventing this whole conversation.”

No, see, that doesn’t make any sense. Even if this was a lucid dream, I should have control over my own body. But I don’t. And this all seems … more real, somehow. Like a memory.

“You would know if you had been here,” John says with conviction, and—well, he’s right. Arthur has never been trapped at the bottom of a dirt pit, slowly dying of thirst. That’s not the kind of thing a person forgets.

But.

Sure, but—you seem … I don’t know, sentient. It just doesn’t make any sense.

“I’m not sentient. You’re making this whole thing up. It’s a dream, Arthur.” John sighs again. “I don’t know how to make you let this go. All I can do is keep waking you up. Try … I don’t know. Drinking some chamomile tea before bed. Or whiskey. Whatever works.”

Arthur feels the dream begin to shift. Don’t you dare kick me out again. We’re having a conversation, John! Would you please just—

“—listen to me?”

Beside Arthur, the bed shifts, and Parker mumbles something incoherent in his sleep before settling down. His snores resume—soft for now, but unlikely to stay that way for long. Honestly, the man could win a contest.

Arthur sits up and scrubs a hand across his face. The clock on the wall, barely visible in the moonlight, reads 4:16 in the morning—a touch too early to reasonably get up, but damned if Arthur’s getting back to sleep now. He slips out of bed, making sure not to wake Parker, and goes to the kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea.

As the kettle boils, Arthur leans against the countertop and stares out the window. It’s still dark outside, the streets dotted with circles of pale yellow light from Arkham’s old iron street lamps. For a moment, Arthur thinks he sees the shadows move, tendrils of inky darkness licking just at the edge of the small pools of light. Then, he blinks, and there’s nothing.

… There’s probably nothing.

Arthur turns off the heat beneath the kettle before it can properly whistle. He pours himself a cup of Lady Grey, sits on the sofa, and breathes in the fragrant steam.

Something’s going on here. Arthur doesn’t have the shape of it yet, but he knows that it’s there. The dreams, yes, but the little moments in between as well, when he’s awake and drifting, attention caught by something he can’t quite get the shape of yet. It feels a bit like one of Parker’s cases—a story full of missing parts and half-finished sentences, waiting for him to unearth the pieces that will make it all make sense.

Pelican Lane. A melody he can’t quite place. A shadow that seems a little too dark. The Dreamlands.

John.

John, who seems so real and who refuses to answer any of Arthur’s questions. Perhaps that’s because he really is just a figment of Arthur’s imagination. That’s the most likely explanation, after all. Occam’s Razor. Any other explanation is … well, it’s ridiculous. It would imply that John, whoever he is, not only has sentience but also exists only in Arthur’s dreams. The world simply doesn’t work like that.

Arthur takes a long sip of his tea. It’s still just a touch too hot, and it scalds the top of his mouth, but the fragrance of it is invigorating.

If John won’t tell him what he wants to know, then, fine. Arthur will just have to get answers himself.

And he thinks he knows exactly where to start.

Chapter Text

Miskatonic University Library is an imposing building, all stone frescos and steel beams and heavy wooden doors. Arthur pays the cab fare, then follows a group of students into the austere entry hall. Despite its tall arched ceilings, the quiet chatter of the students hardly carries, captured by the plush carpet underfoot and the large curtains and tapestries hanging along the walls. It’s not silent, but there’s nonetheless an air of prim, proper academia that makes Arthur instinctually hold his breath as he crosses the foyer. He passes by the large wooden reception desk and into the next room, which is filled with scattered tables and shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books of all sizes and colors.

Arthur hesitates just inside the doorway, briefly overwhelmed. Then, he reluctantly turns on his heel and goes back out to the reception desk. There’s a short line, a few students waiting to check out books. As Arthur waits, he lets his mind wander.

Parker was worried about him this morning. He didn’t say anything—hardly even showed it on his face—but Arthur knows him too well by this point. He’s seen him at his best and at his worst and everywhere in between. He knows Parker worries, and he knows that Parker knows that worry can rub Arthur the wrong way. So Parker hides it. But not well enough.

Parker found him in the living room just after sunrise, sitting on the couch with the book of Yeats’s poetry balanced on his knees. His tea, only half drunk, had gone cold about thirty minutes prior, and he hadn’t felt like getting up to make another cup. Parker quietly sat next to Arthur and said, “Found your favorite poem yet?”

He didn’t say, You weren’t in bed when I woke; are you okay? but Arthur heard it anyway. He hesitated, then said, “Not yet. Probably later. You know how these things go; the best poems are always close to the end.”

Parker seemed to take that as an answer, or at least as good an answer as he was going to get. “Well, let me know when you find it.” He stretched, and his spine let out a series of pops that had Arthur wincing. “Another cup of tea to keep you going? That one looks a bit stale.”

Arthur thumbed a corner of the book and nodded. “Yes, that’d be lovely, thank you.”

Parker stood and retreated to the kitchen, and Arthur’s eyes skimmed the words in front of him without really reading them.

He’s glad Parker hadn’t asked. He doesn’t know what he would have said. What he could have said. How can he explain that there’s someone—something—haunting his dreams, and he doesn’t know if he’s real or not? How can he explain the blindness, or the monsters, or the feeling that his body both does and does not belong to him, or the sinking suspicion that there is more here than can be ascribed to an overactive imagination?

Parker would tell him that he’s stressed and needs more sleep. Which … well. Perhaps he’d be right. Arthur is rather tired.

That’s probably why he doesn’t notice that he’s reached the front of the queue until the person behind the counter—a bespectacled older man, with wisps of gray hair slicked neatly back on his head and a deep burgundy bow tie at the base of his neck—clears his throat expectantly. “May I help you?”

“Ah, apologies.” Arthur clears his throat as well and stands up a little straighter. “I was hoping you could help me. I’m looking for books on dreams—lucid dreams in particular, or dreams that might help you unlock memories you didn’t know you had. Do you know where I might find those?”

The man—Mr. Armitage, as his name placard reads—glances behind Arthur at the empty foyer, then nods. “Yes, of course. Follow me.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Armitage leads Arthur through winding stacks of books until Arthur feels thoroughly lost. Finally, Mr. Armitage stops in a section that appears completely randomly chosen to Arthur’s eye. He hums, considering, then stretches up and taps a finger against the base of the highest shelf. “This will probably be closest to what you’re looking for. See if you can find what you need here, and let me know if you have any other questions.”

“Thank you so much,” Arthur says. He skims the titles on the spines—An Alchemical Understanding of Lucid Dreams, Nightmares: Why They Happen and How To Stop Them, 1001 Dreams and What They Mean...

“Excuse me,” Arthur says, turning to face Mr. Armitage, who’s already taken a few steps back down the aisle towards the foyer. “Apologies, but I—I do have one more question, if you’d be so kind.”

Mr. Armitage nods. “Of course.”

“This may be too specific, or—or perhaps not specific enough, but … do you know if any of these books could give me information about the Dreamlands?”

Arthur isn’t sure what he expected—confusion, perhaps, or dismissiveness, or a polite, No, apologies. Instead, Mr. Armitage’s eyes grow wide behind his spectacles, and he turns to face Arthur fully. “Where did you hear that name?”

He speaks with an intensity that catches Arthur off guard. “I—i-in a dream, I don’t … does it mean something? Have you heard about it before?”

Mr. Armitage nods slowly. “I have. And it does. In a dream, you said? That is … most troubling.” His face goes somber. “You should pursue this no further. That is the best advice that I can give to you.”

He turns to leave.

“But—wait, excuse me, just—hold on one moment!”

Mr. Armitage stops, turning to face Arthur again with a pinched frown on his face. “Yes?”

“I…” Arthur hesitates. “I don’t know that I can ignore it. You must understand, I—I need answers. If you know anything, i-if you know where I can get those answers, then please—tell me. I can handle it.”

The frown deepens. “Answers to what?”

“To—to the Dreamlands. What it is, where it is, what it means, anything.”

Mr. Armitage gives Arthur a concerned look. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I’m not familiar with the Dreamlands. Though if you’re unable to find what you’re looking for here, you might have more luck searching for it in an atlas.”

“No, you—you just said that you had information about it. That it means something to you.” Arthur’s mouth flattens. “I don’t appreciate being manipulated.”

The concerned look morphs into something more akin to anxiety, like he thinks Arthur is going to start ripping books off the shelf. “I assure you, sir, that it is not my intention to do so. I’ve shown you to the section regarding dreams, as requested, and I’m afraid I don’t know anything further about your specific … topic of research?”

He seems genuine, and the absurdity of it shocks Arthur into silence long enough for Mr. Armitage to bid him well and make a hurried departure. Then, Arthur is alone amongst the books. The library is quiet, but he can still hear people moving about—the shuffle of feet on carpet, the flip of pages, the occasional clearing of the throat. It’s the only thing reassuring him that he isn’t trapped in another horribly realistic dream.

Is he being messed with? Did Mr. Armitage—what, tell him to leave it alone and then decide to pretend like they’d never even had the conversation in the first place? That doesn’t seem likely. Or at least, it didn’t seem like he was lying. About any of it. But the alternative is that he simply forgot what they were talking about, right then and there, which is equally unlikely, if not more so.

Arthur doesn’t understand what’s happening. But there aren’t any easy answers, or at least none that he has found. All he can do is keep researching. So he turns to the books.

There’s not much here, unsurprisingly—or, at least, not much to do with his current situation. He selects a few books that seem particularly pertinent—one on lucid dreaming that seems vaguely credible, one about how dreams can unlock hidden memories, and a few that promise to tell him exactly what his dreams mean in intimate detail—then heads back to the reception desk. On his way, he passes by a large atlas open on a display table, and he hesitates.

Well. While he’s here.

Arthur thumbs to the index and searches the Ds. There is no mention of the Dreamlands. Not that he really expected there to be, but it’s worth exploring every nook and cranny. It’s what Parker would do.

Mr. Armitage is at the reception desk again when he arrives, books in hand. “Ah, Mr. Lester,” he says. “Find what you were looking for?”

“Yes, I—I suppose I did.” Arthur frowns. “I’m sorry, did I introduce myself to you?”

“Oh, it was a while ago—I’m not surprised you don’t remember,” Mr. Armitage says dismissively, gesturing for the books. After a moment, Arthur hands them over. “There was a charity event of some sort for the city. You and your partner were there—Mr. Yang, I believe his name was. We met over a few glasses of champagne.”

Some of the tension in Arthur’s chest loosens. “Ah, yes, I do remember that. Apologies, I didn’t recognize you. Parker was always better at remembering faces.”

Mr. Armitage finishes noting down the titles and passes the books back to him. “Yes, well, as I said. It was quite some time ago.” As Arthur takes the books, Mr. Armitage gives him a thin-lipped smile. “Do let me know if you need anything else. And say hello to Mr. Yang for me.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Arthur hesitates. “You’re … you’re sure you don’t know anything about the Dreamlands? Anything at all?”

He studies Mr. Armitage’s face carefully. The lights of the foyer are bright, and they leave nothing to chance. Arthur’s spent enough time now around Parker to know the common tells of a lie—the twitching of an eye to the left or right, the slightest change of expression, a shifting of posture. Mr. Artmitage exhibits none of them. If anything, he seems almost … apologetic. Like he wishes he had any information to give. “I’m afraid I don’t. Perhaps the books will help.”

Arthur sighs. “I hope so. Thank you anyway, and have a nice day.”

“You as well, Mr. Lester.”

Arthur exits the library into bright sunshine—a rarity for Arkham, so bathed as it often is in clouds and smog. He breathes in deeply, then sighs again and goes to hail a taxi.

[Scene break]

“What’ve you got there?”

Arthur looks up as Parker sinks onto the sofa next to him, bottle of whiskey in one hand and a couple of glasses in the other. Faroe’s been put to bed already, and Arthur’s taken advantage of the relative quiet to crack open one of the books from this morning. It seems … less than promising. Perhaps he should have expected that. Hell, maybe he did. He doesn’t feel all that surprised to be coming up empty-handed.

“A book,” Arthur says. “Just something I picked up from the library today.”

Predictably, Parker cranes his neck to read the cover, and Arthur sighs and lets him. Just as predictably, Parker’s brow furrows with concern when he reads the title. “The dreams are still bad, then?”

Getting worse, Arthur does not say. Instead, he exhales and nods, shutting the book and setting it to the side. He’s not getting any more reading done tonight, for all the good it would do him anyway. Maybe the one on lucid dreams will be less … pseudoscientific.

Parker purses his lips. “And you think the answer’s in there?” He points with his chin towards the stack of books.

“No,” Arthur sighs, “but it’s worth a shot. Maybe they’ll tell me that I’m … I don’t know. Too stressed, or eating too much fiber, or something like that.”

“Maybe it’s all the whiskey before bed,” Parker jokes, but his heart’s not quite in it, Arthur can tell. Parker pours him a glass and holds it out. “Fancy one anyway?”

Arthur takes the glass and sips at it. It’s good whiskey—Parker never buys the bad stuff if he can help it—and it burns pleasantly on the way down. He expects Parker to ask him more questions about the dreams—questions he’ll figure out a way to deflect, because he loves Parker, he does, but he really doesn’t want to explain that he feels like he’s losing his mind. Instead, Parker takes a long pull of his own whiskey and then says, “Well, I certainly need the drink after the day I’ve had.”

It’s an intentional distraction, and Arthur goes along with it gratefully. “Hm?”

“Okay, Art, picture this with me.” Parker gestures with his hands, nearly spilling his whiskey in the process. “You’re a rich bastard whose purebred pup’s gone missing. The cops don’t think you’re worth their time, so who do you turn to? Well, Arkham’s finest, of course.”

Arthur’s lips twitch into a smile. “Barnes and Carter?”

Parker kicks Arthur’s shin, and the lip twitch becomes a full-on grin. “Me, of course. Ass. So you come knocking at my door, asking me if I could pretty please figure out where your dear old Claudia has run off to, because she’s a good dog, you see, a proper lady, and she’d never just run away, even if your son did happen to leave the door open all day and your estate is bordered by thick woods on all sides.”

“No, of course not. How ridiculous.”

“So I, being the delightfully kind person that I am—”

“Who also likes getting paid for easy jobs.”

“Hush. I say, ‘Well, of course, sir, I’ll look into that right away, sir.’ Only so many places a dog could go, you see, and she’s only been gone a day or so, so the tracks are still pretty fresh. Plus, there’s every chance that she’ll slink back home when she gets too hungry or lost or lonely, and I’ve been paid half up front.”

“A quite tidy sum, I assume.”

“Oh, quite tidy. So I start lookin’ around. She’s not in the house, and there’s no signs of any sort of struggle, canine or humanoid or otherwise. So probably not dognapped. The woods is the obvious next choice, but you’re sure she couldn’t have run off in there, because she’s scared, you see, scared of the wild animals, and, of course, scared of the dark. So, fine. I check around the estate itself, all the little nooks and crannies where a dog might get themselves trapped. The dog’s been around the yard a lot, so there’s tracks, of course, but I find a set that seems fresher—you remember that rain we got a few days ago, left the ground proper muddy. Guess where the tracks lead. I’ll give you one shot.”

“Surely not into the woods,” Arthur says, faux-scandalized.

“Two bucks for the scrawny Brit in his underclothes!”

Arthur elbows Parker in the ribs. He ignores it. “So, of course, I go back to you,” Parker continues, “and I say, ‘Found some tracks. They lead to the woods. I think I’ve gotta investigate the woods.’ We go back and forth for a bit before you finally agree to let me do my goddamn job, and into the woods I go. Prepared, of course—I’ve got her favorite toy, some dog treats, a whistle that she’s apparently trained on … you know, the essential tools in any respectable private investigator’s arsenal.”

“Naturally.”

Parker gives Arthur a flat look. “Guess how long it took me to find this dog.”

With a look like that, the answer is either five minutes or five hours. Arthur goes for the former. “A few minutes?”

“God, I wish. All goddamn day. I swear, I’m gonna have to scrub my shoes for hours to get all the mud and muck off of ’em. I was traipsing all over that fucking forest, shaking the treat bag and whistling and thinking, ‘What the hell am I doing here? Is this the kind of PI that I am? Chasing down pampered lost dogs? Anybody could do this. This doesn’t require skill of any sort.’

“I did eventually find more tracks, but honestly, I think it was just good old-fashioned dumb luck that saved the day in the end. Stumbled across the pooch a mile or so away from the house, prancing about the woods without a care in the world. Didn’t even seem particularly bothered by the leaves and shit that were all stuck in her meticulously tailored fur. Was happy as a clam when I clipped the leash to her and brought her back home.”

Parker sighs and drains the rest of his drink. “Got 50 bucks from that case, though. Rich bastard had the audacity to be pissed that I’d brought her back dirty, as if it was my fault she’d gone and run off into the woods, but he paid me fairly anyway.”

“Sounds like quite the adventure.”

Parker sighs. “It’s certainly not the most exciting case I’ve ever had. Or the filthiest.”

Arthur takes a sip of his whiskey, his mind drifting to Pelican Lane. “Mm! Speaking of cases. How did things turn out with the Pelican Lane case?”

Parker waves an absent hand. “Oh, nothing much beyond what you already know. Told the neighbor it was just animal noises, nothing to be concerned about, and she’s let it go for the time being. Maybe next time, she’ll call up someone new—though I suspect she keeps comin’ to me because I keep agreein’ to check it out, even knowing I’m gonna find jack squat.”

“But you’ve never actually been inside the house. To check in person, that is.”

“Well, once or twice. But the floors, you know—they ain’t what they used to be. Whole place feels like it’s a sneeze away from caving in. Taking a look inside through the windows is good enough for me. If there’s ever anything more than noises, sure—maybe I’ll risk it. But for now, case closed.”

“Hm. Well, I suppose that makes sense. Strange that you’ve never seen the animal in question, though.”

“Eh, maybe.” Parker stretches. “Either way, I’m glad I don’t have to spend any more time around that house than strictly necessary. It’s unsettling as hell. And also probably really moldy.”

Arthur wrinkles his nose. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Parker knocks his knee against Arthur’s. “Of course. I’m always right.”

Arthur snorts. “Absolutely not.”

“Fine. I’m mostly right.”

“Sure.”

Parker gives Arthur a wide grin that softens after a moment into something more genuine. “Bed? I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a hell of a day. Could fall asleep sitting up.”

Arthur hesitates. He considers, for a moment, staying up later, trying to get through more of the books he checked out from the library. But Parker’s sitting right there, knee pressed against his, already worried and palpably trying not to push against the boundaries of what Arthur is comfortable with. So Arthur exhales slowly and says, “All right. I suppose it has been a long day.”

He leaves the books on the side table next to the couch. He can skim through the rest of them tomorrow.

[Scene break]

Arthur is in a basement.

He’s walking around, which is new. He hasn’t been having these dreams for that long—a week or two, maybe? A month? He can’t recall—and most of the time, he comes to asleep or lying on the ground or confined to some small space. Waking in a version of himself that’s up and about is … disorienting. Like he’s been drifting, lost in thought, and has suddenly become aware of himself once more, having moved from one place to another unconsciously in the meantime.

He’s in a basement. Pelican Lane, his mind supplies, though he’s not sure how he knows that. Just as he’s not sure how he knows that he’s in a basement, given his blindness. It certainly smells like a basement, damp and mildewy and earthy. There’s something else there too, subtle. Arthur can’t quite place it.

“Just move along the wall,” John says, and Arthur becomes aware of rough stone beneath the palm of his hand, then wood—some sort of door, perhaps? Or a shelf?

It must be a door because Dream Arthur pushes it and it swings open with a creak. As he steps through it, Arthur thinks, pointedly, I’ve been looking into the Dreamlands. There’s not been much to go on, admittedly. Perhaps you could tell me more?

Silence.

Maybe this is a different sort of dream—one where John can’t hear Arthur talk. It’s certainly possible. It’s not like John has a face that Arthur can read or a body that Arthur can see that can give him away. (Does John have a body? Arthur doesn’t think so. He gets the strong feeling that John is simply a voice, tethered to Dream Arthur’s mind. Which is … ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous.)

“Arthur, it’s another small room,” John says after a moment—talking to Dream Arthur, presumably. “This room is much nicer. The walls are smooth plaster and painted. It’s … it’s dim, but … there appears to be a mural.”

“And?” Dream Arthur says, in tandem with Arthur’s, Is this what you do? Describe everything to me?

John pauses for a moment. “A-and, it’s…” He stutters ever so slightly, and Arthur’s non-existent eyes narrow.

Can you hear me?

“What?” Dream Arthur says.

“I—it’s, uh. It’s the symbol on the top of the stairs and on the book. It’s painted above a creature.”

You can hear me, can’t you.

“What creature?” Dream Arthur asks.

“Just—!” John stops, takes a deep breath. “Just give me a minute to … sort myself out. There’s a lot going on here.”

Are you ignoring me?

“I’m busy,” John snaps.

“Okay, okay,” Dream Arthur says placatingly. “Just—when you’re ready, just tell me what you see.”

You’re ignoring me. Arthur feels frustration simmer up within him. Don’t give me, ‘I’m busy’—you’re in my dream!

John exhales. He sounds almost pointed when he says, “Fine. It is an enormous mass, which extrudes black tentacles, slime-dripping mouths, and short, writhing goat legs. It is immense and horrific. It is more than death itself. It is a forest of despair filled with a thousand young, and it is an all-consuming, all-devouring end to life as we know it.”

Well. All right, then. Arthur feels like he should be more frightened by that description, but he feels vaguely … unimpressed. Like he’s seen worse. Dream Arthur, however, makes a small noise of horror. “All … all that is depicted in the mural?”

“… No.”

Is that creature from the Dreamlands? Have I met that creature before? Have we met that creature? Why won’t you talk to me, god damnit!

“H-How do you know that?” Christ, Dream Arthur sounds like he’s about to faint. If this is a memory—however unlikely that possibility may be—then Arthur feels like surely he should have kept his wits about him a bit more than this.

John hesitates, just for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says eventually, and it sounds … well, it sounds like he’s reading from a script. It sounds like a lie.

Dream Arthur apparently thinks so too, if his judgmental silence is anything to go by. Right, okay, Arthur thinks. This is my dream, and therefore you have to do what I say. What. Are. The Dreamlands? Is this a memory? If so, why have I forgotten it? Who are you? And … who are we to each other?

“What is its name?” Dream Arthur asks.

John says, “You ask too many questions. As always.”

And Arthur wakes in his bed, blinking up at the ceiling, thoroughly disoriented to find himself both lying down and with sight again.

God damnit. Arthur turns over in bed and glares at the wall. The clock, as best he can make out, informs him that it’s a little after one—entirely too early to get up and do anything productive. There’s enough sleep lingering in the corners of his mind to chase him back into unconsciousness, but he resists it, just for a moment.

Pelican Lane. The basement in his dream—it was Pelican Lane. That can’t be a coincidence. Whatever these dreams are, whoever John is—there’s something down there, in that basement, that can give him answers. He’s sure of it. It doesn’t make any sense, that his dreams can be tied to the waking world, but neither does it make any sense that he can speak to—and be ignored by—a voice in his head that appears to have its own name and personality and sentience.

Arthur closes his eyes and exhales.

There are answers in the basement of 58 Pelican Lane. And tomorrow, he is going to find them.

Chapter Text

It’s only a half-hour walk to 58 Pelican Lane, so Arthur doesn’t bother with a taxi. It’s another nice day—sunny, cool but not cold, with a light breeze that just barely stirs the loose curls around Arthur’s ears. He hums as he walks, fragments of melodies. Some of them are jingles he’s working on. Others are like a forgotten memory, just familiar enough to drive him nearly mad.

He turns down Pelican Lane, and if his pace slows, well—it’s just because he’s enjoying the nice weather. That’s all.

The house looms dark against the bright sky. An instinct grips Arthur, squeezing the air from his chest like a boa constrictor wrapping itself around a mouse. Turn away. Go back.

Arthur swallows heavily and begins walking up the drive.

The stairs to the porch are half-decayed and look like they won’t hold his weight. Arthur worries his bottom lip between his teeth, then turns and walks around the perimeter of the house. He thinks he remembers, from the time he was here previously with Parker, that there was a back entrance.

He’s proven right. There’s another set of stairs leading up to it, but these are stone and in significantly better shape. This side of the house must not have seen as much weather as the front; it’s in poor condition, but it seems more or less intact. Less chance of me falling unceremoniously to my death, I suppose, Arthur thinks wryly.

He inhales. Exhales. Then, he starts up the stairs.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

Arthur, already a bit keyed-up, startles and nearly loses his balance. He catches himself on the railing, which blissfully does not crumble into dust the moment he touches it. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, turning around to see Parker skidding to a stop just shy of the staircase, having materialized out of absolutely fucking nowhere. “Were you following me?”

Parker winces. “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds creepy.”

Arthur blinks at him. He’s not sure if he’s more annoyed or baffled. “Why?”

“Look, I just—” Parker scrubs a hand across his face. “You were acting real weird this morning, all right? I didn’t know what was up with you, and you aren’t talking to me about any of this—which is fine, it’s—it’s fine, you don’t have to, it’s fine, I get it, but … I don’t know, Art. And then I saw you looking over the notes from the Pelican Lane case, and I … I was worried you were gonna go get yourself hurt. Okay? I was worried. And here you are, so. I don’t know. Maybe I was right to be.” Parker takes a breath, then makes a frustrated gesture at the house. “What are you doing here, Art?”

Arthur bites his tongue for a long moment in an attempt to not immediately start a fight that neither of them will win but that both of them will surely lose. “I’m fine. I’m just…” Arthur sighs. “I just want to see what’s in the basement. That’s all.”

“But why?” Parker squints at Arthur, like he’s trying to make sense of a puzzle that isn’t quite adding up. “Is this … does this have something to do with the dreams?”

Arthur can’t help it; he bristles. “Just drop it, Parker.”

Parker visibly bites his tongue. “Fine! Fine. But don’t go inside the house, okay? The window’s right there if you wanna take another look—long as you like.”

Arthur doesn’t know how to explain that that’s not enough, not this time. He sets his jaw and says, “I’m going inside, Parker. Either go home or come in with me.”

Parker mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like stubborn ass. “You’re gonna get yourself killed,” he says. “You know that, right?”

But still, when Arthur turns and heads up the stairs, Parker follows him. Parker always follows him.

Arthur knows that Parker worries. Of course he knows. He knows Parker cares and loves him and wants him to be safe. But Parker also knows not to push. He still does sometimes, but he always backs down when Arthur bares his teeth and snarls and hisses and bites.

Does Arthur want him to push?

Perhaps a better question is, does Arthur need him to push?

Arthur wants to trust Parker. He wants to tell him about the dreams, and about the Dreamlands, and about why he’s really interested in this basement, and about John. But something inside of him flinches at the prospect. It’s too much, too raw, too vulnerable, like letting Parker see this would be akin to letting Parker place his hands on Arthur’s naked soul.

He wants to try. But he knows he isn’t ready. He’s not sure if he ever will be.

“All right?” Parker says, and Arthur realizes he’s paused just in front of the door. “Watch your step, Art. Seriously.”

“Yes, yes,” Arthur says. Then, he opens the door and steps inside 58 Pelican Lane.

It’s honestly a bit underwhelming. It looks like any other abandoned house—mostly empty, with a few pieces of furniture scattered about draped in long white cloths to keep the dust off. The cloths, however, are significantly more moth-eaten than any Arthur has seen before, and the smell of mildew and rot hits Arthur square in the face the moment he’s past the threshold.

“Eugh.” Arthur presses his sleeve to his nose in an attempt to block out the stench.

Behind him, Parker makes a similar noise. “Like I said. Watch your step. Half the floor’s rotted, and it doesn’t always look it.”

“All right.” Arthur takes a few careful steps forward. He doesn’t like the ominous creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet. “Where are the stairs to the basement?”

“Hell if I know. D’you see a door anywhere?”

Arthur looks around. It’s dark in here, most of the windows either boarded up or covered in tarps, but enough sunlight leaks in around the edges to make out the general shape of things. “Not yet. Perhaps in another part of the house?”

When Arthur glances back, Parker has a look on his face like he’s just taken a bite out of a lemon. “You sure you don’t wanna just call it a day? The basement’s nothing interesting, trust me—just a bunch of dirt and bugs and mold.”

Arthur considers it. This place is significantly worse off than he anticipated, and he thinks he understands why Parker was so adamant that they not enter. But they’re already here, and if they’re careful, there’s no reason they shouldn’t be able to find answers. Or find something, at least. “Come on,” he says, turning and picking his way carefully across the room. “I think the kitchen’s around the corner.”

Parker sighs, but Arthur hears the floorboards creak as he follows close behind.

The kitchen is similarly decrepit. Arthur opens a cupboard, immediately regrets it, and closes it again. “I think they left a, uh. A potato or … something in there. Eugh.”

Parker’s pulled a handkerchief out from his pocket and has it pressed against his mouth and nose. Wordlessly, he hands another one to Arthur, who takes it gratefully. It helps with the stench, at least. And the dust; they’re kicking up quite a bit of it.

There’s a door at the far side of the kitchen, and Arthur makes his careful way towards it. He half-expects it to be a supply closet, but when he opens it, he instead finds a set of wooden stairs, leading down into inky blackness.

“Here,” Arthur says, stepping back to let Parker see.

Parker looks through the doorway and grimaces. “Christ, that’s unsettling.” He shivers, then takes a deep breath and straightens, as if psyching himself up. “You really wanna go down there, huh?”

“You don’t have to come.”

Parker scoffs. “Of course I’ll come. What if you get eaten by rats or something?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Well, if it does, I’ll be there to save you.” Parker brushes past Arthur so he’s standing at the top of the stairs. “In fact, I’ll go first, all right? I’ll scare all the creepy crawlies away.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Faroe.”

“Hey. Anyone can be unsettled by creepy crawlies.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Listen. They’ve got too many legs, okay? Nothing needs that many legs. I swear, they crawl on you and you just—”

At which point, Parker steps forward onto the first stair, which promptly collapses.

Time stops. Parker’s eyes are wide as he hangs suspended in midair, sentence cut short by an involuntary gasp. Arthur feels frozen as well, watching as Parker drops inch by aching inch, gravity pulling him down, down, down into whatever waits below.

The moment passes. Arthur’s muscles unlock, and he acts on instinct. He lunges forward, reaching out with one hand and grasping the doorframe with the other. Parker reaches too, a desperate grab for anything to slow his fall, and—

And Arthur’s hand closes around Parker’s wrist just before it slips out of reach.

The sudden weight is jarring, nearly pulling Arthur’s shoulder out of its socket. He’s not a very big man, and what he lacks in bulk, Parker makes up for in spades. Still, Arthur grits his teeth and digs his feet into the floor and grips the doorframe with all he’s worth, and he just—just—manages to keep his footing.

Parker hits the edge of the floor hard, and he makes a sound that’s half-yelp, half-groan. “Fuck,” he hisses. His eyes when they find Arthur’s are wide as saucers. “Shit. Fuck. Can you pull me up?”

Arthur looks down at where Parker hangs over the yawning void, and for a moment…

He doesn’t know what comes over him. A strange sort of deja vu, maybe—a dream, coming back to him in the daylight. But the darkness beneath Parker seems to groan and swell and churn, reaching up and tangling around his ankles like the tides of a dark and bottomless sea. There is nothing to see in its depths, and there is no sound, but Arthur knows as surely as he knows his own name that there is something down there. It is hideous, and it is evil, and it is many-eyed and many-toothed, and it is so, so hungry.

It reaches up, up, up, opening its jaw wider and wider and wider, snarling, gnashing, biting, gnawing, ravenous, and—

“Art, for fuck’s sake, snap out of it!” Parker shouts, and Arthur closes his eyes tightly and heaves with all he’s worth.

Parker comes spilling out onto the kitchen floor. Arthur topples backward as well, his momentum sending him sprawling across the cracked tile. The house creaks ominously for a moment and then falls silent. Arthur tips his head back and lets it thunk against the floor. He stares up at the ceiling and breathes heavily, waiting for the racing of his heart to slow and for the shaking of his hands and legs to subside.

Shit.

Parker does not wait. There’s a scuffling sound as he moves further away from the entrance to the basement, then a muttered, “Motherfucker.” Then, louder: “What the hell, Art?”

Arthur exhales and sits up slowly, wincing as his back and shoulders make their complaints known. “What?”

“What do you mean, ’What’? You zoned out on me!” Parker struggles to his feet, pressing a hand to his stomach and wincing. “Shit, that’s gonna bruise like a motherfucker. You didn’t notice?”

“I … I don’t … I suppose I…” Arthur trails off. He can’t stop looking at the basement door. “I don’t know what happened,” he says quietly. “I … I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

Parker scrubs a hand across his face. “Yeah, I’m all right. Almost shat myself, and I think I dislocated my shoulder a bit, but yeah, I’m just fine.” Parker gives Arthur a scrutinizing look. “Are you all right?”

Arthur’s exhalation is a little bit shaky. The urge to deflect, to just brush it off, washes over him, then passes. “Frankly,” he says, “I have no idea.”

Parker purses his lips, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Let’s just … let’s just get out of here. Please?”

Arthur tears his eyes away from the basement door. “Yeah. I don’t…” He swallows, and it goes down hard. “I don’t think we should be here.”

Parker, bless him, does not say I told you so. Instead, he helps Arthur to his feet, then keeps a tight hold on Arthur’s hand as they pick their way across the house and out the back door.

As soon as his shoes touch the grass, Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Parker does the same, tipping his head back towards the sky and muttering a, “Thank Christ,” under his breath.

I’m sorry, Arthur doesn’t say. Instead, he turns his back on the house, nudges Parker with his elbow, and says, “Let’s catch a taxi home. I think both of us could use a drink.”

[Scene break]

Three glasses of whiskey should, by all rights, send Arthur into a deep, dreamless sleep. Instead, as if some malevolent god is punishing him for attempting to bridge the gap between dream and reality, Arthur wakes in the middle of freefall.

Dream Arthur is terrified. Arthur can taste it on the back of his tongue, thick and acrid. Arthur can’t feel the vertigo directly, nor can he feel the air rushing past him as he plummets, but he’s aware of their presence, just as he is aware of the fear that accompanies them.

If he dies in this dream, does he die in real life as well?

He’s not sure he wants to find out.

Arthur’s impact on the ground is softened by something that squelches when he hits it. Dream Arthur chokes on a silent scream of pain, lying in a pile of … something, and…

And Arthur cannot smell. But the stench hits him all the same.

Blood. Decay. Filth. Rot.

Dream Arthur gags, and Arthur thinks, Jesus fucking Christ, what—where are we?

“Arthur,” John says. He sounds horrified. “We fell, Arthur. We fell so far.”

Dream Arthur presses a hand to his mouth, then staggers to his feet. How is my leg not fucking broken? Arthur thinks, then: John, please. I don’t … please just tell me where I am. Please just tell me what this means.

John inhales sharply—he can hear him, then—but says nothing. The resulting silence is filled with Dream Arthur’s ragged breathing and attempts not to vomit.

John, I don’t— Arthur begins, but he cuts off sharply when a low, rumbling growl echoes from further off in the space they’ve fallen into. For a moment, nobody moves. Nobody even breathes.

Then:

What, Arthur thinks, the fuck. Was that.

John doesn’t answer. “Arthur,” he says lowly. “Get back in the pile.”

The pile of what?

… Rot.

Jesus Christ, are these bodies? Did we fall into a pile of bodies?

For the first time, Arthur considers that these aren’t dreams. Not really.

They’re nightmares.

“The smell,” Dream Arthur gasps. He sounds like he’s moments from vomiting. “I—I can’t—”

“Arthur, get in the fucking pile. Now.”

Dream Arthur takes a shaky breath. Footsteps, large and heavy, begin approaching at a rapid pace. “Fuck,” he hisses. Then, he drops down into the pile and begins covering himself with…

Arthur can’t think about it.

It wouldn’t be so bad to wake up right now. Arthur needs answers, but this … this is too much.

“I’m sorry,” John says quietly. Dream Arthur, who has both hands clamped over his mouth and nose, says nothing. “I’m sorry that you’re here. That you’re experiencing this. Any of this.” A pause. “Goodbye, Arthur. I shouldn’t…” A sigh. “I’ll wake you sooner next time.”

Arthur realizes that John is talking to him only a moment before he’s jolting awake in bed, the palms of his hands clammy with sweat and the smell of rotten meat lingering in his nostrils.

He sits up. Tries very hard not to vomit. Squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment.

Is he going mad? It certainly feels like he’s going mad.

He should try to just forget about it. Focus on his work. On Parker. On Faroe. He’s been distracted lately, he knows. Parker’s noticed it. Maybe Faroe can tell as well. God, Faroe. They should go somewhere, Arthur thinks. A trip, somewhere nice. The beach, maybe? An amusement park? Something to get them out of Arkham. To get his mind off of everything. To distract him, just for a bit.

Bella’s always called him too curious for his own good. Maybe she’s right.

Arthur sighs, lies back down, and closes his eyes. Sleep comes quickly after that.

[Scene break]

When Arthur walks into the kitchen the next morning, Parker’s standing at the stove, already half a stack deep into a plate of pancakes. He slides another one onto the pile, then shoots Arthur a grin. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Morning sunshine!” Faroe parrots from her seat at the table. She has a glass of orange juice in front of her, as well as the plant from the market. She’s staring at it intently, like she’ll be able to make it grow faster through sheer force of will.

Arthur places a hand on Parker’s lower back as he passes—a gentle gesture, but also a test. Predictably, Parker winces, and Arthur purses his lips. He knew Parker’s back got off worse from the fall than Parker was letting on. He gives Parker a meaningful look that Parker stubbornly ignores, then opens the fridge and fishes out a carton of eggs and a few sausages that are about to go bad. “Have you decided on a name for the plant yet?” Arthur says over his shoulder as he grabs the front burner that Parker’s not using and clicks it on, then sets one of their newer pans atop it.

“I can’t decide,” Faroe says with a frustrated little huff. “Can it have more than one name?”

“Well, I don’t see why not.” Arthur sets a few pats of butter into the pan and watches them sizzle.

“Then I want to name her Marigold Gertrude Leafy McLeaf Lester.”

Beside him, Parker bites his lower lip, clearly trying very hard not to laugh. Arthur digs an elbow into Parker’s side, then begins cracking eggs into the pan. “That’s an excellent name. Make sure she stays by the window—the one in the sitting room. We want to make sure she gets enough light.”

“I will! But she needs to eat breakfast first.”

Arthur glances over his shoulder, just to make sure Faroe isn’t dumping her orange juice into the pot. “Good idea. Parker probably has some extra coffee grounds from this morning’s pot—why don’t we give her those?” He stirs the eggs together, making sure they don’t burn.

“Why would she drink coffee?” Faroe sounds thoroughly disgusted by the prospect, and this time, Parker does laugh.

“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Arthur scrapes the eggs off onto a plate, then regreases the pan and adds the sausage. “We can also use tea leaves if you think she’d like those better. The point is to—”

Arthur cuts off as the smell of cooking sausage hits him. He sets the spoon down atop the pile of eggs and tries to discreetly press his hand to his nose to block it out. Apparently not discreetly enough, though, because Parker shoots him a sidelong glance that clearly says, Hey, what gives?

It’s nauseating. Rancid. Utterly vile. It reminds him of piles of meat fermenting on a dark stone floor, filled with bits of bone and sinew. He can feel it between his teeth, taste it on his tongue. Meat. Flesh.

“Er, the point is to make sure she has something yummy to eat in the morning,” Parker says. He presses closer to Arthur and says, in a low voice so Faroe can’t hear, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Arthur reaches for the nearest lid and puts it over the pan. It helps the smell somewhat, but it still lingers inside Arthur’s sinuses, bringing him right back to that pit, to that monster, to John. “Sorry,” Arthur mumbles, turning away from the pan. “Can you—can you finish those?”

“Yeah, of course,” Parker says, frowning. “Do you wanna…?”

He gestures at the pancakes, now done.

“Sure.”

Arthur puts a pancake and a small scoop of eggs onto Faroe’s plate. He takes the syrup out of the cabinet and makes a smiley face on her pancake, and Faroe grins in delight before immediately decimating it with her fork and knife. Parker sits down beside them after a minute or two, nestling the covered bowl of sausage next to the eggs. Arthur takes shallow breaths through his mouth as quietly as he can and tries very hard not to gag.

Shit.

Faroe rambles on about the plant. Apparently, she’s been reading a book about how to take care of plants, and did you know that some plants like being in the sun all the time, but some will die if they get too much light? And did you know that the reason plants are green is because of the sun! But then what about the plants that aren’t green, or the ones that don’t like sun but are green? And plants will die if they get too thirsty, but if you give them too much water, they can also drown. And there’s allllll different kinds of plants, and some are really big, and some are sharp, and some eat bugs, and Dad, Papa, can we get the kind that eats bugs, please, please, please please please—

Parker eats all of the sausage. Faroe’s not a big fan of the texture, and Arthur…

Arthur just can’t.

Once the table’s cleared away, Faroe runs off with Marigold Gertrude Leafy McLeaf Lester to find the perfect spot for her, and Arthur begins scrubbing the dishes. Parker wordlessly takes a towel and begins to dry.

He won’t be wordless for long, though. Arthur knows him too well.

Sure enough, after the second plate, Parker exhales and says, “Is it a hangover, or something more?”

The easy out is to say that he’s just hung over. A bad night, too much to drink, didn’t sleep well, you know how it is. But Parker’s still wincing as he moves, and Arthur saw the purpling bruises on his back this morning when he got out of bed, and…

He owes Parker the truth. For jumping headlong into danger with him, despite all the bullshit reasons Arthur had to give.

“I … I had another dream,” Arthur confesses quietly. He passes the last plate to Parker, then starts on the cutlery. “I’d fallen down into this—this pit. Like yesterday, at Pelican Lane, except … deeper. And there was something down there. Something hungry.” Arthur swallows and looks down at the forks in his hand. “I landed in this pile of … I don’t know. I couldn’t see it. I could smell it, though. Rotting meat. Piles and piles of—of rotting meat. I could still smell it when I woke up last night.”

“Jesus.” A pause. “And the sausages…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Arthur nods and hands him the forks. “Just a lingering nightmare. That’s all.”

“Sounds like a bit more than a nightmare.” They scrub in silence for a moment. Then: “… D’you have any idea what’s causing them?”

Arthur sighs and scrubs a bit more forcefully than necessary at the spatula. “I have no idea. I wish I knew.”

“Yeah,” Parker says. He sounds profoundly tired. Arthur knows the feeling. “Yeah. Me too.”

Chapter Text

Arthur is, ostensibly, composing.

He’s sitting at the piano. There are pages of blank sheet music spread out before him, waiting for inspiration to strike. Behind them are half-finished manuscripts—his concerto, the song he can’t quite get right, a jingle that’s due in a few days that’s still a few bars short. His hands are even resting on the keys.

But his mind is drifting.

He read through the book on lucid dreaming yesterday. It was just as unenlightening as he thought it would be. The others were much the same. He’ll have to take them back to the library soon, but … while he still has them here, sitting on his side table, he doesn’t feel quite so directionless.

He doesn’t know what to do.

Should he let it go? He doesn’t even know if that’s an option. It’s not like everything’s just going to go away if he ignores it. He’ll keep dreaming, and he’ll keep losing himself to these moments of confusion and vertigo. That’s not a solution.

Should he try other avenues of research? Probably, but he hasn’t a clue where to start. He could go back to the library, he supposes, and try to wheedle more information about the Dreamlands from Mr. Armitage, but that seems like an exercise in futility. Still, the library may hold some answers that he just hasn’t uncovered yet. At the very least, he has to go back anyway to return his books. Perhaps he can do some more digging.

Should he go back to Pelican Lane? Try to investigate the basement? That seems the most surefire path forward, given the information he currently has on hand. But it’s also the most dangerous. There’s every chance that if he goes back and tries again, he will fall, and this time, there will be no Parker to catch him. Because if he goes back … he goes alone this time. He’ll make sure that Parker can’t follow him.

But Arthur isn’t stupid, and Arthur isn’t reckless. He has a daughter, for Christ’s sake, and a man he cares about deeply. He has a family. If he falls through a rotten stair and breaks his neck, then Faroe loses her father, Parker his partner, Bella her oldest friend. He needs to know what’s happening to him, how to fix it, but not at the expense of his life.

No. First, the library. Perhaps tomorrow, once he’s double- and triple-checked the books to ensure that he hasn’t missed anything important.

“Hello, Earth to Arthur.”

Arthur startles, hands slamming down on the keys in a discordant jumble of notes. Parker stands at the end of the piano, forehead creased, eyebrows pinched. His jacket is slung over one arm; it looks like he just got home. “Shit,” Arthur says, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Sorry, lost in thought.”

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Parker remarks, carefully neutral. “Must be something pretty interesting going on in that melon.”

“One can only hope,” Arthur jokes, somewhat weakly.

Parker worries his bottom lip between his teeth, then sighs. “Look, Art. If you’re still troubled over what happened at Pelican Lane—don’t be, okay? I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re both fine. There’s nothing down in that basement but a bunch of mold and maybe some raccoon shit. I won’t lie to you and tell you that my back ain’t still killing me a bit, but I promise, I’m fine. Are you fine? And don’t say yes just because that’s what you think I wanna hear.”

“Like you said.” Arthur turns back to the piano and plays a few idle notes. “I am fine.”

“Hey now, that’s not what I meant. Emotionally. Are you okay?”

“A little early to talk about our feelings, don’t you think? The sun’s still up and everything.”

“Look, would it kill you to give me an honest answer for once?” Oh, Parker sounds annoyed. Arthur’s hands go stiff on the keys. “I’m just—I’m worried about you, all right? You’ve been all over the place lately, and frankly, it’s scaring the hell outta me. Just—I dunno! I thought maybe you’d trust me enough to tell me what’s wrong. We’re … we’re friends, Art. Come on.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “If we’re friends,” he says, “then take me at my word when I say that I’m fucking fine!”

He doesn’t quite shout it, but Parker takes a small step back as if he had all the same. He holds his hands up in a placating gesture, as if soothing a wild beast. Arthur bristles. “All right! All right. I know…” He stops, chewing on his words. “I won’t push. Okay? If you say you’re fine, then … I won’t push.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, clipped. Even as he does so, though, he can feel the beginnings of guilt gnawing at his throat. He swallows around it and focuses on the piano.

After a few moments of silence, Parker says, “Look. I’m not pushing! But. If you … if you wanna go back to Pelican Lane. Find out what’s in that basement. I’ll go with you. Okay?”

Arthur turns around at that. Parker’s face is slightly pinched, but otherwise completely serious. “Parker, you nearly died.”

“Well, you know—gotta go sometime.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Standing offer, okay? I want to make sure that if you do go back to that place at any point, you ain’t going in alone. I don’t want you to croak in that awful, moldy basement.”

Parker’s tone is light, but his face is serious. Arthur exhales, clenching and unclenching his hands on his thighs a few times. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he says quietly. “But I don’t know if I’m going back.” I don’t know if I should. If I should just let it all go. Forget about it. Live my life as best I can. “It’s too dangerous. You’re right. And there’s no way we can get down to the basement anyway if the stairs are rotted through. I … I won’t lie to you and tell you that I don’t want to know what’s down there, because I do. But it’s not worth losing you.” Arthur swallows. “Or you and Faroe losing me.”

Parker’s face softens slightly, like Arthur’s finally answered his question. “Yeah, all right.”

Faroe gets back home half an hour later, gripping a large orange rock in her hands that she shows off first to Arthur, then Parker, then Arthur again with intense pride. Tess seems tired, and Arthur pays her extra and sends her on her way. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so she’ll have two days off to rest and recover while he and Parker watch over Faroe. (Or perhaps just Parker—Arthur needs to stop by the library in the morning to return these books, though it shouldn’t take long.)

Faroe sets the rock in a place of honor—on the windowsill next to Marigold Gertrude Leafy McLeaf Lester—before climbing into her chair at the kitchen table and making very pointed eyes at the stove. Arthur raises an eyebrow in return, then turns and begins digging in the icebox for leftovers.

Parker lets the conversation go over dinner, like it had never even happened at all. It’s one of the things Arthur values most about Parker—that he cares, but that at the end of the day, he’s willing to respect the boundaries Arthur puts up around him. You push too hard, too fast, too much, and inevitably, something breaks. Parker won’t let him break.

He does, however, push hard enough to bend sometimes.

“Is there anything I can do?” he says after Arthur’s gotten settled into bed beside him. Arthur had taken up the mantle of bedtime story tonight, and he’d read Faroe a rather fantastical tale of a mouse with a sword going on adventures. “With anything, of course, but especially with the dreams. If not, then I’ll stop asking about them. Hand to god, swear on my grandma’s grave, pinkie promise—the works. But in return, you’ve gotta be honest with me, Art. Really honest.” The look Parker gives Arthur is intense, searching, just on the edge of pleading. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Arthur closes his eyes and slowly exhales. In the darkness of his eyelids, it feels a lot easier to put his thoughts and feelings into words. Not easy, but. Easier. “I honestly have no idea,” he says. “Unless you have a lot more knowledge about dreams than I do, I don’t know if there’s anything you can do to stop them.”

“Yeah, I figured that.” Parker sighs. “But—I dunno. I could make you chamomile tea before bed? Make sure breakfast is always ready in the morning? Keep the room a bit hotter or a bit colder at night? Just. Anything I can do.” Parker shifts, and Arthur can feel the weight of his eyes on him. “I just don’t like feeling like I’m leaving you all on your own for this. And not because I don’t think you can handle it, so don’t start getting bristly with me. It’s all me. Okay?”

Despite everything, Arthur can’t help but feel warmth curl in the pit of his stomach. He hates feeling stifled or coddled or treated like a child, and a small part of him insists that that’s what’s happening, but he knows it’s not. Parker just cares. Cares about him.

It’s a nice feeling, he thinks. To be loved.

“I appreciate it,” Arthur says genuinely. “But I don’t want you doing anything differently. I just … I just want to wake up and forget about the dreams as best I can. I want to spend time with you and Faroe, and I want to live my life like normal. I know I’ve been…” Arthur trails off. “Distracted lately. I’m sorry for that. It’s…” Arthur hesitates. Honesty. He keeps his eyes closed, even turns away from Parker a bit. “I think they’re getting worse? Or they’re—I don’t know. Affecting me when I’m awake as well.”

“Art,” Parker says. He sounds concerned. “You should go talk to somebody. A sleep doctor or something. Maybe they can help.”

Arthur clenches his jaw. “They can’t.” He doesn’t know if they could or not. He only knows he isn’t going to try.

Parker exhales slowly. “All right. Forget I said anything.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, Parker sighs again and says, “Okay. I can do that. Keep your mind off of ’em? Remind you what’s real and what’s not?”

Wordlessly, Arthur nods.

“Okay. Let me know if you ever need anything more from me, but I won’t ask again.” Parker says it matter-of-factly, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Being a rock for Arthur to lean on. He reaches over and squeezes Arthur’s hand, and Arthur squeezes back.

For a long moment, the two of them sit, listening to the occasional passage of cars outside and the rattling buzz of their radiator. Then, with a little bit of humor in his voice, Parker says, “So, d’you want to start now?”

Arthur frowns, opening his eyes and glancing at Parker. Parker has one eyebrow raised, a small smile on his lips—the look of a man who’s planning something. “Start what?”

Parker slides his hand up Arthur’s arm and thumbs at the sleeve of Arthur’s shirt. “Keeping your mind off of them. I’m an excellent distraction. Got word-of-mouth testimony saying so and everything.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Do you, now?”

“Mm-hm.”

Arthur purses his lips, then clicks his fingers. “Ah! Yes, I do believe I recall Ms. Chesington mentioning that you provided quite the spectacle at a party one time to cover up her stealing her husband’s wallet to obtain proof of his infidelity. Shame I wasn’t there to see it.”

Parker smacks Arthur lightly on the chest. “Don’t you get smart with me when I’m trying to seduce you.”

“Parker, you’ve never seduced me a day in your life.”

“And yet here you are, in my bed. Funny, that.”

“Your bed? As I recall, the money for this mattress came out of both of our paychecks. I rather think we both have a claim to it.”

“Oh, I’d like to claim something on this bed, that’s for sure.”

“That’s really not your best line.”

“I work with what I’m given,” Parker says. Then, he leans over and kisses Arthur.

Arthur sighs and welcomes the distraction with open arms. The kiss is slow and unhurried, and for once, Arthur finds he’s all right with that. He’s tired, and Parker’s lips are warm, and it’s nice to lean into the sensation of it and forget about everything else.

Parker’s hands slide down Arthur’s chest and land on the waistband of his pajama bottoms. He gives them a meaningful tug, and Arthur lifts his hips and allows Parker to divest him of trousers and undergarments alike. His cock is still soft, but Parker takes him in hand and works him until he’s hard and whining into Parker’s mouth.

“Living up to my reputation so far?” Parker says with a cheeky grin, pulling back just far enough to speak.

Arthur still has enough energy to roll his eyes. “Yes, Parker, you’re a dream, et cetera. You do know we’ve had sex before, right?”

“Hey, it’s always nice to feel appreciated.” Parker gives Arthur another quick kiss, then shifts back on the bed so he can lie down between Arthur’s thighs. He looks up at Arthur, winks—god, what a drama queen. Then, he takes Arthur in his mouth.

Arthur bites back a groan and tips his head back so it thunks against the headboard. “I do appreciate you,” he says, one hand going almost on instinct to the back of Parker’s head. He threads his fingers through Parker’s hair, and Parker hums. “And not just for this.”

Parker apparently takes that as a challenge. He sinks down on Arthur’s cock, and Arthur swears quietly and tightens his grip on Parker’s hair. As Parker’s lips reach the base, Parker shifts, and Arthur feels a hand cup his balls.

It’s over rather quickly after that. Arthur doesn’t have much stamina to begin with, and Parker’s doing that thing with his tongue, and it’s all just too much. Arthur doesn’t realize how much tension he’d been holding until he presses his hand to his mouth and groans and feels it all come to a head, snap, and then leak out of him, leaving him boneless and drained.

Parker squeezes Arthur’s hip, then shuffles off to the bathroom to spit. When he returns, Arthur is lying down on his side, head on his pillow, facing the bathroom and watching Parker with half-lidded eyes. Parker settles into bed next to him, and Arthur reaches out and cups the side of Parker’s face. “Do you want me to…?”

Parker shakes his head. “Nah, not tonight.”

Arthur nods. He feels tired down to his bones, drained, heavy. For all of Parker’s jokes, this does seem to have settled him. “All right.” He pauses. Then, he shifts closer, lets his knees brush against Parker’s, lets their ankles tangle together, close enough that when Parker breathes out, Arthur can feel it. He brushes a thumb along the curve of Parker’s cheek, opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it again.

Parker seems to understand. “Night, Art,” he says softly, wrapping an arm around Arthur and pulling him in close. “Sweet dreams.”

Arthur exhales and closes his eyes. “One can only hope.”

[Scene break]

His dreams are, predictably, anything but.

Arthur once again wakes at the bottom of a pit. Vaguely, he wonders why he so often ends up here. Is it significant? The very small part of him that still entertains the idea that these are built from some sort of distorted memories wonders if perhaps the dream version of himself spent a considerable length of time here.

He hopes the latter isn’t true. This is a horrible, lonely place, and he cannot imagine spending more than a few short minutes in it.

John is quiet. Dream Arthur is too. It takes a moment, given that they’re sitting with their backs against a wall and Dream Arthur’s unseeing eyes are open, but Arthur realizes that Dream Arthur is asleep. Or drifting, lost in his own mind without any awareness of the world around him. Arthur gets the feeling that for him, there’s not much of a difference.

Arthur chews his words, trying to decide what to say that John will respond best to. But he doesn’t know anything about John. So eventually, he settles on, Hey.

John inhales sharply.

Don’t—look, don’t send me away just yet, okay? I just want to have a conversation. It doesn’t have to be about the Dreamlands, o-or anything important. I don’t know. I want to understand, but … I also just want to talk.

John is silent.

Talk to me? Arthur swallows. Please?

John exhales slowly. “… I shouldn’t.”

Why not?

“I just shouldn’t.”

That’s not an answer.

“Yes, it is. You just won’t accept it.”

Arthur scoffs. Okay, so you’re a smartass. That’s one thing I know about you. Anything else you can tell me?

“No,” John says, clipped.

How about … a last name? John what?

John hesitates. “John … Doe. John Doe.”

Arthur almost scoffs, but something about it settles neatly in his mind, like a puzzle piece slotting into place. It sounds like a lie. But it’s not. He’s certain of it. You’re telling the truth, Arthur says, skeptical. How do I know that you’re telling the truth?

“How am I supposed to know?”

Well, it seems like you know a lot more than I do. But— Arthur chews on his words for a moment. But if that’s one of the questions that you won’t answer, then, fine. I’ll ask another one. Why are you here?

“In your dreams?”

Or in this pit. Or both. I can’t see you—it’s rather curious that I’m always blind in these dreams, though it never feels distressing—but I hear you, so you must be—what, traveling with me? Or, the Dream version of me?

“… Yes. We … travel together. We were captured, and we ended up here.” Quieter: “It’s not going well.”

Oh.

John says nothing for a long moment. Then, he inhales and continues, “And as for why you’re here, I don’t know. You shouldn’t be—and I’m not sure it’s safe for you to be—but I can’t seem to stop it.”

You’ve tried?

“I know a little bit about dreams. I’ve done my best to keep you from coming here—to this place, to me—but it never sticks.” John mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like stubborn ass. “It’s better if I wake you up and let you go someplace else.”

But I still don’t understand. What is this place?

“Just a dream. Well, a series of dreams. It’s not real, Arthur. I’m … I’m real to me, but not to you. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

Not really, no.

“All that matters is this: nothing here can hurt you. You might feel it, through your connection with … with this Arthur, and you might be scared, but neither death nor injury can touch you here. It’s just a dream.”

I … didn’t think it would, but, er. Thanks. I guess.

John huffs. It’s a familiar sound, one that sits right at home in Arthur’s chest. He wonders how many times John has been exasperated with Dream Arthur in the past. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

I do understand the concept of a dream, yes.

John grumbles inarticulately. There’s a moment of silence between them, punctuated only by a soft, weary groan as Dream Arthur shifts in his sleep. The groan cuts off into a whimper, and Dream Arthur curls in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest. Arthur can’t feel Dream Arthur’s body, not exactly, not the way he can feel his own. But he knows, instinctually, that Dream Arthur is thin. Too thin. Ribs-pushing-against-skin thin. He must be freezing.

He sounds like he’s in pain.

“He’s starving,” John says quietly.

Oh.

Dream Arthur shifts and settles, his breaths evening back out again as he falls into deeper sleep. After a long moment, John says tentatively, “But you’re … you’re eating?”

The question takes Arthur off guard. I’m sorry?

“I just mean—your life, when you wake up. It’s … good?”

I’m not dying at the bottom of a pit if that’s what you’re asking.

John huffs again. “Jesus Christ. Forget I asked.”

Now, hold on, don’t get all irritated with me. Yes, fine, it’s good. I eat, I compose, I help my daughter learn her letters, I go to bed at night with my partner by my side. I’m sorry if you were hoping for a different answer, but that’s what I’ve got.

Arthur does not mention the moments he loses himself. Dreams bleeding into reality. He doesn’t even let himself think about it. He doesn’t want John to know, somehow. He doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s because John is talking to him for the first time, really talking to him, and somehow, Arthur knows that if he tells John about the day dreams, John will send him away.

And that can’t happen. This is the closest Arthur’s ever come to getting answers. He has to tread carefully.

“No, I—I’m glad.” John sounds genuine. “I’m glad that you’re happy, Arthur. Truly.”

Arthur thinks about the man lying at the bottom of the pit. Is he? he can’t help but ask. The … other Arthur. Is he happy?

John hesitates for so long that Arthur isn’t sure he’s going to get a reply. Then: “It’s complicated.”

So, no. Arthur sighs. I suppose I wouldn’t be either if I were starving to death at the bottom of a pit. Christ, I can’t imagine what that must feel like.

“I…” John hesitates. There’s a long moment of silence, and Arthur gets the distinct feeling that he’s overstepped somehow. It doesn’t come as a surprise when John says, “He’s going to wake soon. Perhaps it’s time for you to wake as well.”

Must you always send me away right as we’re in the middle of a conversation?

John says nothing.

And Arthur opens his eyes to a close-up and personal view of Parker’s slack, sleeping face.

Fine. Okay. He can work with this. He’s being haunted by some sort of—what, dream walker? Psychic presence? Are those even real? Christ, maybe he really is going mad. But there’s simply no possible explanation for this that does not involve some degree of the supernatural.

The supernatural. If Parker were awake right now, he would laugh at Arthur. Parker’s always been more inclined to believe in that sort of thing, sure, but it’s a bit far-fetched even for him.

And yet.

Arthur exhales and leans further into the gentle warmth of Parker’s body. For the first time, he falls back to sleep with the smallest bit of satisfaction. Perhaps tomorrow night, John will be willing to tell him more.

Chapter Text

Clouds moved into Arkham overnight and brought with them the sort of fine drizzle that makes one’s umbrella useless and one’s skin a perpetual state of damp. Arthur steps into the lobby of the Miskatonic University Library with glasses so fogged he can hardly see through them. He sighs wearily and steps to the side, removing his glasses and wiping the lenses clean on his shirt sleeve as best he can. It’s an imperfect, smudged job, but it’ll do until they’ve dried properly.

Mr. Armitage is once again seated behind the front desk. He’s wearing a pair of spectacles of his own, perched on the tip of his nose, and he’s studying a ledger of some sort with intense focus. Arthur walks up to the desk, waits for a moment, and then politely coughs.

Mr. Armitage startles slightly. He sets the ledger down and looks up at Arthur through his spectacles, mouth opening to deliver what is sure to be a pointed and scathing lecture on bothering a man when he is occupied. The moment his eyes find Arthur’s face, though, they light up. “Mr. Lester!” he exclaims. “You’re right on time.”

“I, uh.” Arthur hesitates, then gestures with his armful of books. “I’m just here to return … er. On time for what?”

“Oh, yes, yes, you can just set those on the side there—I’ll have somebody reshelve them.” He doesn’t answer Arthur’s question, instead coming round from the back of the desk and beckoning Arthur with a thin, wrinkled hand. “Come, follow me.”

“I’m … sorry, what for?”

“I’ve got what you asked for just back here. Come on!”

Bewildered, Arthur follows him into the main library, through the tables, and around a few rows of shelves. They stop in front of a door with several layers of papers attached to it—fliers, notes, printouts—as well as a plaque that reads, Mr. Henry Armitage, Head Librarian. As Mr. Armitage pulls out his keys, he says, “Now, I had to set it out for you in my office—it’s very fragile, you see, and not something I show to many people. I made an exception for you, of course, my old friend, but you have to promise that you will not remove the book from this room. Is that understood?”

“I—yes, all right, but—please, Mr. Armitage. What book?”

“Oh, the book!” Mr. Armitage unlocks his office and ushers Arthur inside. “The one you asked to see the last time you were in.”

“Right. Of course. The book.” Arthur eyes the book that’s set atop Mr. Armitage’s desk. It looks old and heavy, with a deep brown leather cover inlaid with symbols that Arthur can’t quite make out. “And it’s all right if I handle it? Er, without gloves, I mean.”

“Yes, yes, quite all right. It’s survived quite a bit more than a few fingerprints.”

Arthur approaches the desk. Closer up, he can see that the symbols are actually scratches—deep gouges in the cover, like the book’s been attacked by some sort of animal. He reaches out to touch it, then hesitates. “What…?” He swallows. “What is it about? This book. If I read it, what will I learn?”

When he looks at Mr. Armitage, his face has grown severe. “I cannot say for certain. But I must warn you—it may be more than you wish to know. Knowledge, despite its usefulness, is a curse that carries a heavy toll.”

A wave of deja vu rolls over Arthur, so strong his mind goes perfectly blank for a moment. Mr. Armitage gives him a final discerning look, then says, “Take care, Mr. Lester. Leave it on the desk once you’re finished and check in with me before you leave so I know to put it away.”

Then, he turns and leaves Arthur alone in the office.

Arthur stares at the closed door for a long moment, utterly baffled. “What?” he says aloud, as if there is somebody lurking in the corner who can give him answers. Predictably, there is no response.

So Arthur looks back down at the book.

Upon closer inspection, there’s something familiar about it that he can’t quite put his finger on. Maybe he’s seen something like it before in a museum? It seems old and worn, almost to the point of not being properly taken care of.

Arthur sits at the desk and runs his hand along the cover. The grooves and cuts catch on his fingertips, but the leather is soft and warm—almost unnaturally so. Arthur shivers despite himself, then takes a deep breath.

“Christ, I hope there’s some answers in here,” he says. Then, he opens the book.

[Scene break]

Arthur wakes on the floor of the office with Mr. Armitage kneeling beside him, one hand still on Arthur’s shoulder from where he’d shaken him awake. “Excuse me,” Mr. Armitage says, forehead pinched into a frown. “Are you quite all right? Do you require a physician?”

Arthur sits up, then groans as the room spins around him. “No, I—I’m fine.”

What happened? Did he faint? That seems … odd. Last he remembers, he was reading—

—parts of the mist coalescing at times to form ropy tentacles, slime-dripping maws, or writhing—

—I don’t know why someone gave you this book, Arthur, but in opening it, you’ve cursed—

—thinking of time linearly would only confuse. These worlds are all acting simultaneously—

—looks like they struggled and killed each other. The stone beneath them is stained red with—

—drawn to you, Arthur. To us. The child, the book, the laughing woman… There is something otherworldly—

Oh, fuck. Arthur grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes tightly shut to avoid passing out again. “I was just—” he manages to say, then takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. “I’m sorry, I … I think something happened when I read that book.”

“Which book? And why were you reading it back here? This is my private office—it’s not open to the public.”

With effort, Arthur opens his eyes and looks at Mr. Armitage. His forehead is still pinched, this time halfway between confusion and indignation. “What do you mean, ‘which book’? It’s the one you gave me, from your private collection. You insisted I read it here.”

“I most certainly did not. My private collection is private for a reason. Are you ill, sir? I really do think you should see a doctor.”

Right. Okay. It’s this again, then. Arthur sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, I promise you, I am quite all right. Just … dizzy. The … the lights and the sound, they can all get quite overwhelming. You understand. This door was unlocked, so I came in thinking I could get a spot of quiet. I apologize.”

Arthur stands, with effort, and staggers a bit, bracing himself on Mr. Armitage’s desk. When he glances down, there is no book on its surface—just a few pencils and some loose sheets of paper. It feels impossible. A lot of things feel impossible lately.

—She knows what’s inside of you, Arthur. And she knows what it is—

“Well, seeing as you’re standing and in apparent control of your faculties, I would kindly ask you to leave,” Mr. Armitage says—indeed kindly, but also firmly. “Please.”

He opens the door and gestures out to the main hall of the library.

Arthur takes a few deep breaths, then stands and straightens his suit. “Yes, of course. My apologies. I’ll just—do you mind terribly if I still check out a few books? I do apologize for my behavior. I promise, I meant no harm by it.”

Mr. Armitage gives Arthur a long look, then sighs. “Of course. This is a place of knowledge, and it is available to all who wish to seek it. But don’t let it happen again.”

“Of course.” Arthur exits the office, and Mr. Armitage closes and locks the door behind them. “If you could do me one last favor—where might I find books on the supernatural, as well as deeds and public records for local properties?”

Arthur follows Mr. Armitage’s directions to the back corner of the library where the light is dimmer, the windows smaller and more cramped. Once there, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the library, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths in an attempt to recenter himself.

What the fuck was that?

He was in Mr. Armitage’s office. He opened the book. He read it. And then…

—don’t know why I became bound to you, but … from the Dark World that I thought I would never—

—think this will leave us unscarred? Arthur, you went to a place while you were—

—can see through your eyes and as far as I can tell, I control nothing—

—see this, but you have the cold, calculated demeanor of someone not to—

—different versions of this same, core world, branches off, alternate pathways that—

Jesus fucking Christ, okay. Arthur presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until spots bloom across his vision. These are … what, hallucinations? Memories? They feel like memories. They slip away the moment he begins to grasp them, slamming into his mind and then receding a moment later, leaving him with nothing but the aching sensation of having forgotten something important. He doesn’t remember the details, or really anything at all, but he’s sure nonetheless: whatever he’s forgetting, it’s about him. Or … some version of him.

Him, and … John.

He can’t remember the words, but he can remember John’s voice—speaking to him, next to him, within him, somehow. If the John in his dreams is a traveler, invading his unconscious mind, then—what, did the book knock him out? Did he dream again?

Maybe. But this feels different, somehow. He’s always been able to remember his dreams, and they’ve never left him feeling quite so … hollow. Like he’s somehow lost his grip on reality.

And then, there’s John.

Arthur exhales shakily, then drops his hands to his sides. It’s seeming more and more likely that John is more than simply a figment of Arthur’s overly active imagination. Not for the first time, but perhaps the first time he really means it, Arthur entertains the notion that his memories have been altered somehow. Have they been suppressed? Is that even possible? It seems like something out of a penny dreadful. There’s no way that Arthur has gotten himself entangled in something so … supernatural.

And yet.

Arthur turns to the shelves with purpose. He finds, predictably, very little of any use. A single book on the intersection between dreams and the occult and one book about hypnotism and the power of suggestion. It’s all useless, though. He already knows it is. The only book that has ever or likely will ever be of any use to him is gone—if it ever even existed at all.

Books in hand, Arthur returns to the main portion of the library and follows the directions Mr. Armitage gave him to the section containing public records. It doesn’t take long to find 58 Pelican Lane; the record of ownership informs Arthur that the property has sat vacant for twenty years after its former occupants disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Superstition is a potent thing, and the house went unsold, becoming officially condemned six years ago.

There’s not much else to go on, and Arthur sits back on his heels, frustrated. He moves over to the section that contains newspapers and begins rifling through them, looking for anything that mentions Pelican Lane. It’s a much longer and more tedious process, but after about an hour—and with a severe backache setting in—Arthur finally pulls out a paper that looks to be of some relevance.

Anna Stanzyck Found, the headline reads.

Damn, Arthur’s headache is getting worse again. He massages his temples and balances the newspaper on his knees, skimming the body of the article. Anna and another girl, unnamed, reported missing several months prior, were found wandering along Pelican Lane about twelve years ago. Police were unable to get a coherent statement out of either girl concerning what happened and where they’d come from, though evidently, foul play was suspected. There was some speculation as to whether the reappearance of Anna and the unnamed girl was connected to a recent case at 58 Pelican Lane. Police apparently found the body of a man, later identified as Peter Yang, in the basement of the—

Arthur blinks and rereads that paragraph. No, not Parker’s body—another girl, Emily McFarland. Suspected murder case.

Christ, this must be getting to him more than he’d thought.

Arthur skims the rest of the paper, but there’s nothing else of use. He’s been gone for … he doesn’t actually know how long. Arthur retrieves his pocket watch, checks it, and curses. Fuck, it’s almost two in the afternoon. He’d only meant to be gone until eleven. How long had he been unconscious?

Arthur tidies up the space around him, checks out his books with Mr. Artmitage, who looks thankful to see him going, and then hails a taxi to take him home.

Parker’s waiting there when he gets back, halfway through making cookies with Faroe. He looks at Arthur when he enters, one eyebrow raised. “About time. We were about to revoke all cookie-eating privileges unless you helped roll some of these.”

Arthur looks at Parker, and—

—can’t imagine why he’d call out his own name before dying—

—he looks away again, toeing off his shoes and hanging his jacket on the hook near the door. He takes the opportunity, his back turned to Parker, to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment.

This can’t continue. The dreams, the moments when he loses himself, the flickers of vision-nightmare-memories that haunt him near-daily. He can’t ignore it; he can’t run away from it; he can’t suppress it or pretend it’s not there. He needs to investigate it, find its source, and then dig it up and burn it out of him.

He can’t look at Parker again, his partner, his co-parent, the man he loves and trusts and shares his home with, and feel—even for the briefest of moments—the most overwhelming and potent grief. He just … he can’t.

Arthur turns back and gives Parker a weary sigh. “It took much longer than anticipated to find what I was looking for at the library. I swear, I can still smell the old paper.”

Parker’s eyes narrow. He’s always been able to see right through Arthur, for better or for worse. Private eye and all that. Arthur knows Parker can see through him now, but he says nothing—perhaps because Faroe is tugging at his sleeve urgently, demanding his immediate attention. “Is the oven hot enough yet?” she asks.

Parker gives Arthur a look that Arthur can’t parse for the life of him, then looks down at Faroe with a smile. “Well, while your dad washes his hands, let’s check!”

Arthur takes the hint and retires to the bathroom. He washes up, then scrubs some water over his face as well. When he drops his hands, he swears—just for a moment—that his eyes flash a deep, sickly gold. Like they’re catching the lights above the sink and reflecting them back all wrong.

The moment passes, and Arthur braces his hands on the vanity and studies his reflection. It’s normal. As it has always been. His tie, a bright goldenrod, sits at the base of his Adam’s apple, bobbing slightly when he swallows.

It’s the same face he’s always had. Of course it is.

So why does his reflection strike him with such a feeling of unease?

“Art!” Parker calls from the kitchen, startling Arthur away from the mirror. “What, did you fall in or something?”

Arthur exhales slowly. “Coming!” he calls back. He gives his reflection one last searching look, then heads back into the kitchen.

Faroe is currently wrist-deep in a bowl of cookie dough, nose wrinkled with intense concentration. She looks up when Arthur enters and beams at him, then pulls out two large handfuls of dough. “I’m going to make big cookies! Like the ones at the bakery!”

Parker looks down at his tray of more modestly-sized dough balls, then gives Arthur a shrug. “All right, let’s give it a go! Can you roll those into balls and put them on this sheet?”

He slides another parchment-covered sheet in front of Faroe. She slaps one handful of dough onto the sheet and begins rolling the other between her hands. It’s approximately the size of a baseball.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at Parker, who gives him a look that roughly translates as, Listen, do you want to tell her no? Because I sure as hell don’t.

Well, fair enough. He just hopes to god they turn out. Maybe he can run down to the bakery before they close and buy some backup cookies, just in case.

Parker, apparently, is a goddamn mind reader, because he comes round the counter and says under his breath, “Do you wanna roll the rest? I’m gonna make a quick run to the bakery, you know, just in case. Don’t want any waterworks.”

Arthur feels affection swell in his chest. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks, Parker.” Then, because he can, and because the day up until this point has been weird and upsetting, and because he still can’t quite shake the lingering grief, he leans forward and gives Parker a quick, soft kiss on the lips.

Parker squeezes Arthur’s upper arm in reply. He doesn’t ask about the library, doesn’t ask what’s wrong, though Arthur can tell he wants to even as he gives Arthur a fond smile and heads out the door. God, Parker. Arthur loves him so much. More than he knows what to do with sometimes.

“All right,” he says, sidling up next to Faroe and rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s see about the rest of these cookies.”

[Scene break]

(Faroe, unknowing, holds the bakery cookie in both hands and bites into it with enthusiasm. Parker, behind her, quietly deposits two lumps that might have, in a better life, been cookies into the trash bin. He makes an exaggerated gesture as he does so, like that of a scientist disposing of nuclear waste. Arthur bites down on his tongue to contain his laughter. Parker passes Arthur a cookie, then sticks two small ones in his mouth, one in each cheek like a chipmunk. He smiles, and Faroe spills crumbs across the floor as she shrieks with delight.

Arthur bites into his cookie, and it’s bitter. He smiles anyway and pretends that it is sweet.)

[Scene break]

Arthur wakes, and—

Or. No, he’s not sure…

He’s dreaming. That he’s sure of. It has the same feeling as all the other dreams—a sort of weightlessness, like he’s not within his body but is still attached to it. Indeed, Dream Arthur is there, walking around. Arthur can feel it.

But everything is … fuzzy, somehow. Arthur can’t quite put his finger on it.

Has he been drugged?

Dream Arthur is muttering to himself. “The drip. Okay,” he says under his breath. John says nothing, which is…

Not new, necessarily. But Arthur gets the feeling that it’s not by choice. Dread coils in the pit of his stomach like a snake preparing to bite.

There’s something coming.

He doesn’t know if he wants to—

Above you.

Arthur startles. The voice is from everywhere and nowhere, a grinding whetstone in the back of his mind, a rumble of thunder on a dark and stormy night. It sounds like a threat.

“Above me?” Dream Arthur says.

And then—

It’s not quite water, but Arthur is still drowning in it. It’s real and acute and all-consuming, a sharp contrast to the vague disconnect that he’s become familiar with. Arthur inhales on instinct, and water—thick and hot like blood—rushes down his throat and into his lungs. He chokes on it, gags, attempts to vomit, but more water rushes down his throat when he tries. He lashes out, flails against the bounds of the mind in which he is trapped, screams for help, for air, for something, but there is no response.

And there, amidst the rushing torrent of water in his ears: a baby, wailing in distress.

The water twists, rushes past, and Arthur feels the world warp around him. His blackened vision goes blacker still, fades, and then he’s knelt over and gasping, brackish water pouring out of his mouth in choking waves.

A child giggles, somewhere close by. Arthur feels Dream Arthur freeze.

“Faroe?” he says. His voice is very small.

Arthur collapses in the confines of Dream Arthur’s mind, water dripping from his hair and nose and mouth. His ears are ringing, and he feels like he might vomit out more water at any moment. The child giggles again. Footsteps, running off in the opposite direction.

Dream Arthur takes an aborted step in the direction of the footsteps, then stops. “Faroe,” he says again. This time, it sounds like an apology. Or perhaps a confession.

John is still silent. Perhaps he’s not here at all.

Perhaps this is just an ordinary nightmare.

It certainly feels like a nightmare.

It feels like a nightmare when the water returns, crashing over Arthur’s head, trapping him in its inescapable current and choking him to death and beyond.

It feels like a nightmare when he is pulled from the water, allowed a single desperate breath of air, and then plunged beneath it again, his gasp of shock allowing even more water into his bruised and battered lungs.

And it feels like a nightmare—like the worst kind, the kind that burrows into your soul and makes a home there, the kind that twists you and turns you and makes you fill your days with the happiest moments you can in a desperate attempt to chase away its darkness—when Arthur is once again pulled from the water and man whose voice he does not recognize spits in his ear, like the filthiest of sins, “It’s all your fault. You were supposed to protect her.”

Arthur is thrown through a window.

And Arthur wakes in his bed, gasping, drowning, unable to breathe around the weight on his chest that—

That shifts a moment later, replaced with a knee that digs firmly into his ribcage.

Arthur makes an oof sound, and a small, trembling voice says meekly, “Sorry, Dad.”

Faroe. The dream slams back into him—the water, the crying, the giggling, the kind of all-consuming grief that can only come from the loss of the thing you love the most—and Arthur has to bite his lip hard to keep his next breath from becoming a sob. He exhales shakily, then turns and watches as Faroe finishes clambering into bed between him and Parker. “It’s all right,” he says, and his voice is choked, but he doesn’t think Faroe notices.

Parker, though, whose limit of “things he can sleep through” apparently ends with “elbow to the face,” makes a groggy noise and opens a single eye to squint at Arthur. How the man manages to look incredulous less than five seconds after waking, Arthur will never know. “Nightmares?” he asks, and it’s not clear whether he’s asking Faroe or Arthur. Or both.

Faroe’s the one who answers, though. “Yeah,” she says, burrowing herself beneath the covers and pulling them right up to her chin. “Real bad ones.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Parker says, giving Faroe’s shoulder a squeeze. “Do you wanna talk about them?”

Mutely, Faroe shakes her head. “I wanna go back to sleep. Can I sleep here? Just for tonight. I can’t sleep in my room.” She buries her nose in the covers and whispers, muffled, “‘Cause of the monsters.”

“Well,” Parker says, “you’re safe in here. Promise. No monsters allowed. Isn’t that right, Art?”

Arthur can’t stop looking at Faroe. “That’s right,” he says quietly. Her brown curls spill across the pillowcase like tendrils of ivy reaching for the sun, like writhing worms in peat moss. Her hands, still so small, grip the edge of the comforter tightly, like she can hide away from the entire world beneath it. She is looking at him, and her eyes are so wide. So scared. So trusting. “Nothing’s going to hurt you here. I promise.”

Arthur pulls Faroe close and presses a kiss to the top of her head. She grumbles but settles down between them, the anxiety and tension draining from her as she does so.

Parker locks eyes with Arthur over Faroe’s head. He says nothing, but his eyes ask, Are you all right?

Arthur pinches his lips tightly together, rests a protective hand on Faroe’s shoulder, and nods once.

Parker hesitates, then nods and closes his eyes again. Arthur closes his as well, listening to his own heart beating away in his chest and the three sets of breaths now mingling in the late-night air.

If Arthur lets his mind wander, he swears he can still hear it. Drip, drip, drip

You were supposed to protect her.

Arthur grits his teeth and focuses on the steady sound of Faroe’s breathing. No. It was just a dream. It wasn’t real. There was no John. It was a horrible nightmare, but that’s all it was.

It was just a dream.

It was just a dream.

It was just a dream.

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes to birdsong.

Soft, dappled sunlight filters in through their window. It falls across their bed, dipping into the peaks and valleys of the sheets, making Faroe’s hair burn bright auburn, smoothing out the lines of Parker’s face and casting shadows across his nose and mouth. Arthur lets sleep cling to him, turning his mind soft and fuzzy as he burrows into the warmth of the sheets.

It doesn’t last. It never lasts these days, not more than the few moments before Arthur’s brain comes back online. But those few moments, with the three of them in bed, enjoying the quiet and the sunlight together … Arthur feels truly at peace.

It passes. Arthur remembers the dream—the grief, the loss, the drip, drip, drip—and the comforter atop him suddenly feels too stifling. He shifts, trying to slip out of bed without waking anyone, but it’s too much for Faroe, light sleeper that she is. She wakes, and the noise she makes—though Arthur attempts to quiet her—inevitably wakes Parker as well.

The morning shifts, rolling onto its side and staggering to its feet and lumbering into the kitchen like a clumsy, gentle giant. It shifts further when, as Arthur’s halfway through pancakes, a knock comes at the door, heralding a sharply-dressed Bella who sets a basket of ripe strawberries on the table, kisses Arthur on the cheek, and braids Faroe’s shower-damp hair into an intricate knot atop her head. Faroe chatters on to her about the care and keeping of Marigold Gertrude Leafy McLeaf Lester and the various adventures they’ve been on since Bella last stopped by, and Bella listens with the raptured attention of one attending a sermon.

Arthur deposits the plate of pancakes onto the table, and they eat them topped with sweet strawberries and rich pats of butter. The sunlight brightens, shimmering through the crystal suncatcher Bella bought for them last Christmas and scattering rainbows across the kitchen floor. Bella wipes the stickiness from Faroe’s fingers with a washcloth, helps her get into her Sunday best, and swipes a few spare strawberries before leading Faroe out the front door.

The clock chimes nine, and Parker puts the last dish on the drying rack, then groans and stretches. Arthur is in the sitting room, flipping idly through one of his recent library acquisitions. He’d looked into the water-filled basin, felt bile creep up his throat, and then asked Parker if he could take care of the dishes instead. Parker hadn’t asked why.

Now, Parker sits on the couch next to Arthur, letting his knee brush against Arthur’s thigh. “So I’ve got a lead I’ve gotta chase down today,” he says with a heavy sigh. “I hate workin’ on the Lord’s day, but there’s this pastor, see, and apparently, people’ve been hearing strange noises comin’ from the crypt after Sunday service the past few weeks. So it’s gotta be today. And I thought—I dunno. Maybe you’d like to come with? Could use a second set of eyes.”

Arthur knows what Parker is doing. I can do that. Keep your mind off of ’em. He appreciates it, he does, more than he can put into words. But…

“I’m afraid I’ve got some work to do today as well,” Arthur says with a sigh. “Tight deadlines from these radio stations—you know how it is.”

It’s a lie. Mostly. Arthur knows that Parker knows it’s a lie. Arthur also knows that Parker won’t question it—will probably just assume that Arthur doesn’t want to step anywhere near a church and simply doesn’t want to say so.

And, sure. That’s part of it. But also…

Parker’s mouth twists into a wry grin. “No rest for the wicked?”

Arthur shrugs. “Maybe we can take tomorrow off. Sleep in, spend the day about the house, do something fun with Faroe. That might be nice.”

Parker raises an eyebrow skeptically, but all he says is, “Yeah, all right. I think we’re due a vacation and a half by now.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “Christ, more than.”

“Wish we could afford to move out of this miserable city,” Parker says, looking wistfully up at their ceiling like it’s the key to greener pastures. “Damn depression.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. He looks up as well. The paint there is curling, growing yellow with age. “That’d be nice.”

Parker retires to their room to put on his Sunday best. Arthur stays on the couch, flipping idly through his book to keep his hands busy. There’s nothing in these pages that can help him. He thinks he knew that when he checked it out. But it was nice to hope, if even just for a bit.

Parker comes round the couch fifteen minutes later, hair slicked back and hat in hand. He retrieves the car keys from the side table, then jingles them at Arthur. “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

Arthur shuts the book and sets it to the side. “I’m sure. Like I said—lots to do.”

“Right.” Parker sighs, then leans down and gives Arthur a chaste kiss. “Well, I’m off, then. I should be back by mid-afternoon at the latest, but, well—you know how it is when people get chatty.”

“You love it when people get chatty.”

Parker grins. “I sure do. You get the best information that way.” He gives Arthur a wink, then heads to the door. “See you tonight!” he calls behind him as he leaves.

“See you tonight,” Arthur echoes as the door closes behind him.

For a few moments, Arthur sits in silence, listening to the sound of traffic outside and the occasional creak from their upstairs neighbors. Then, he stands and goes to put on his shoes.

He hesitates by the piano. Its fallboard is shut, sheet music scattered on top of it full of half-finished melodies. He places a hand upon the cool wood and closes his eyes. He could stay, like he told Parker he would. He could finally make progress on his concerto, or get ahead on his radio work. He could put everything else out of his mind and lose himself in the music, like he often had in his earliest days of composing. Like he still does, if he allows himself to.

He could stay.

Arthur’s fingers curl, then lift from the piano. “I’m sorry, Parker,” he says.

Arthur puts on his shoes, gathers his keys, and hails a taxi to take him to 58 Pelican Lane.

[Scene break]

The wood floors are no less rotted now than they were the last time Arthur was here. But they’re not any more rotted either, which Arthur supposes is something to be thankful for.

He remembers the route—where to place his feet so the floor is less likely to capsize. The kitchen is safer ground, and Arthur takes a moment to recenter himself, brushing invisible dust off of his suit and double-checking that his flashlight has enough batteries in it. Then, he turns towards the basement door.

It’s closed again—perhaps they shut it before they left? Arthur can’t quite recall. He reaches for the knob, hesitates, then steels himself and opens it quickly. He’s not sure what he expects to find lurking behind it other than some particularly moldy stairs, but the anxiety is still making him jittery.

Arthur shines the flashlight down into the darkness, and…

An ominous feeling crawls across the back of his neck, making him shiver. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a small step backward, then opens them again.

It’s the same. He’s not imagining it. Or, if he is, it’s a very persistent illusion.

The stairs aren’t rotted at all. They’re intact, solid, even the top step that Arthur remembers crumbling to dust beneath Parker’s feet. The wood looks old and weathered, like it’s been here ages, but there are no signs of decay or rot. It seems like it would hold Arthur’s weight easily.

It feels, somehow, like it’s beckoning.

This is a very, very bad idea.

Arthur bites his lip, then takes a cautious step onto the first stair, gripping the doorframe tightly as he does so.

The stair creaks but holds steady.

The darkness yawns beneath him, waiting.

“Okay,” Arthur says quietly. He points the flashlight down and descends the stairs.

The basement, when he reaches it, is … underwhelming. It’s little more than a root cellar, with a dirt floor, stone walls, and a few boxes and barrels stacked in the corners. Arthur pans his flashlight slowly over every inch of it, but there’s nothing there but shadows and some well and truly spoiled potatoes.

There are, Arthur notices, no windows.

Huh.

There must be more, then. Another entrance, perhaps? Maybe there’s a different way down than the one in the kitchen. Arthur turns to head back up the stairs, then hesitates.

… His dream. The one where he was in this basement. He remembers—there was a door. A secret door? It felt like shelving. But there are no shelves in this room, only barrels and boxes. Maybe, underneath the boxes…?

Arthur lifts each of them in turn, but he finds nothing but compost and writhing worms. He wrinkles his nose and retreats to the center of the room. What the hell is he missing?

Maybe he isn’t missing anything. Maybe it was just a dream.

But he’s far past the point of skepticism now. His dreams feel just as real as what he’s seeing in front of him, sometimes more so. In fact…

Arthur backs up until his heels are at the base of the stairs. He takes a deep breath. Then, he clicks the flashlight off and closes his eyes.

It’s terrifying, being alone and blind in this place. The moment Arthur can no longer see his surroundings, he’s certain he’s being watched; the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he swears he feels the air stir around him, like something is moving just beyond his reach. The urge to open his eyes is intense, but Arthur grits his teeth and resists it. Instead, he takes one tentative step forward, then another. He doesn’t remember anything being on the ground that might trip him, but he also didn’t remember the stairs being whole, so he treads carefully, hands outstretched in front of him.

Seven paces later, Arthur touches cool stone.

Okay.

Slowly, Arthur begins feeling his way along the wall, trailing his right hand across the rough cobblestone. He recalls there being a cluster of barrels not far from here, and he expects his shoe to knock into one of them soon.

It does not. Instead, after a few steps, Arthur’s fingers catch on something flat and wooden, a bit warmer to the touch than the stone.

There.

He drags his fingers along its surface until he finds a gap. He digs his fingers into the gap, exhales, and then pulls.

The door opens with a groan, and triumph curls in Arthur’s chest. It’s a heady feeling, and he thinks, in that moment, that he understands why Parker does PI work. If this is what it feels like to discover something … perhaps he’d like it, too.

Arthur walks through the open doorway and, presumably, into another room. He could open his eyes, now that he’s figured out the solution to his puzzle. Maybe this is the room with the windows that he could see into with Parker. Or maybe it’s the room from his dreams, made of plaster and with a horrible mural spread across its wall.

But…

It’s just a feeling. But Arthur knows, somehow, that if he opens his eyes now, he’ll find himself back in that root cellar and he won’t be able to find his way here ever again. It’ll be lost to him forever. It feels like his last chance—to return to the waking world and pretend like none of this ever happened.

But that wouldn’t stop the dreams. It wouldn’t stop everything else.

And…

And at the end of it all, Arthur needs to know what waits for him down here. It will eat him alive if he doesn’t.

Arthur keeps his eyes shut, places his right hand on the wall, and begins walking along the perimeter of the room. The mural was on the wall opposite the door, so if he rounds this corner, then the next…

Yes, there it is. It must be at least partially carved because Arthur can make out the shape of it beneath his fingers—whorls and curves and sharp points, outlining a creature that Arthur thinks would drive him mad were he to look upon it. He swallows and curls his hand around something cool and smooth, protruding slightly from the center of the mural. It feels almost like a doorknob.

He could still turn back. The smart decision would be to turn back. It’s what Parker would do. It’s what Parker would have done ten minutes ago.

Arthur turns the knob. The wall rumbles, and Arthur lets go as it slowly grinds its way sideways, revealing beyond it the unmistakable sensation of empty space.

Go back, something in Arthur’s mind whispers. It sounds a lot like Parker.

Arthur steps through the doorway.

He doesn’t know how he knows that there are stairs. He just knows that when he takes the first step down, then the next, then the next, it doesn’t surprise him. The air grows cool and damp, though it remains silent, absent of even a single drip of water. Arthur’s footsteps echo as he descends, the only sign of life in this hollow place.

Go back, go back. Please, Art, go back.

“I’m sorry, Parker,” Arthur whispers as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “I can’t.”

Parker says nothing in response.

Whatever place Arthur has found himself in, it feels massive. The walls when he traces his hand along them are still stone, but unworked—the rough-hewn stone of a natural cavern. Was this house built atop a cave system? It seems unlikely, but, well. A lot of unlikely things have been coming to pass lately.

Arthur makes to continue along the wall, then hesitates. He’s not sure why, but … it feels like he should walk forward instead. Into the center of the room. He gets the feeling that there’s something there, waiting for him.

Parker says nothing.

Arthur removes his hand from the wall and walks, blindly, confidently, trustingly, into the room.

He doesn’t stumble. His feet seem to always know exactly where to go. Arthur feels himself wander left, then right, then left again, and when he reaches a hand out, rough stone brushes against his fingers. Stalagmites? Pillars? He’s not sure. Whatever they are, though, they stretch up and up and up, past his head and perhaps beyond, all the way to the ceiling.

He thinks he should be afraid.

There is, indeed, something churning in the pit of his stomach—something hot and fierce and roiling. It isn’t fear, though.

It’s anticipation.

Arthur’s foot catches on an irregularity in the ground, and he stumbles to a stop, just managing to keep his balance. His hands reflexively reach out and land on something smooth and flat. A table, perhaps? Or a podium?

He slides a hand across its surface, and it connects with something warmer than stone. Softer. Something that moves and slides and shifts beneath his touch.

Bound leather and paper. Grooves carved onto its surface.

A book.

Arthur isn’t sure if it’s the same one that Mr. Armitage gave to him and then forgot about. It’s impossible to know without seeing it, and it doesn’t feel right to open his eyes yet. But still, it’s a book, in a basement, underneath 58 Pelican Lane, and…

And if there are answers to what’s been happening—the dreams, the visions, the strange occurrences, the Dreamlands, the grief, the loss, John—then they have to be here. Where else would they be? They’re not in the library, and they’re not in the apartment, and they’re not anywhere where the sun is allowed to shine. Arthur’s subconsciousness has led him here, and it must be trying to tell him something. It must.

Maybe he should start listening to it. See what it has to say.

Arthur slips his thumb beneath the cover of the book.

The quiet, before now absolute, begins to grow and swell, filling with what at first Arthur thinks is static but what he then realizes are whispers—dozens and dozens of voices, stacked one on top of the other, surrounding him on all sides. Arthur swallows, suddenly nervous. But he does not let go of the book.

One whisper rises above the rest. In the back of his mind, in the space between his eyes, Arthur hears a voice that is by now as familiar as his own say, You shouldn’t be here. Put the book down and go.

Arthur sets his jaw. “I can’t,” he says. His voice cracks, but he ignores it. “Don’t you understand? I can’t leave here without answers. If I do, then nothing changes. Nothing changes, and I keep dreaming about—” He chokes on the end of his sentence. Drip, drip, drip.

Nothing good will come from you opening that book, John says. He sounds serious in a way that Arthur has never heard him sound before. Desperate. I need you to trust me, Arthur. Don’t. Put it down and walk away. Please.

“You’ve been there,” Arthur says. God, he’s losing his mind. He feels so untethered from himself, so lost. If he leaves now, that feeling never stops. Ever. He thinks it might kill him. “In my dreams. You’ve seen it. You know that I can’t.”

I know, but I am begging you. A pressure begins to build behind Arthur’s eyes, like something is desperate to escape. If you do this, there is nothing that I can do to help you. There is no going back. For fuck’s sake—it’ll ruin everything!

Arthur swallows. “I think,” he says in a small voice, “that leaving will ruin me more.”

The pressure reaches a fever pitch. No, Arthur, don’t!

Arthur opens the book. And he looks.

[Scene break]

Arthur wakes on the floor of his office—Arthur Lester and Peter Yang, Private Investigative Services, it’s on the open door—and he does not remember his own name. He scrabbles at the floor beneath him, gasping for air, unable to see anything—why can’t he see anything? how did he get here?—and his desperate hands make contact with something warm and soft and very, very still.

Arthur goes very, very still in kind. “What?” he breathes. It … it feels like…

“It’s a body, Arthur,” a voice says—John, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. He sounds kinder than Arthur is used to—but, no, that doesn’t make any sense. Arthur’s only just met him. “Your partner.”

Arthur inhales sharply. “No, no, no,” he says, patting the body in front of him with increasing desperation. It can’t be Parker, it can’t. He went to the church, he … or, no, wait, he was … he was working on finishing up a case, and there was a knock at the door … there was a package, and Arthur … but, no, it was a Sunday, and there’s no mail on Sundays, so how could he…?

There’s a knock at the door, and Arthur freezes. “Who’s there?” he whispers.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” John snaps. “It’s your office. It’s your goddamn memory!”

“My—my what? My…”

John makes a sound halfway between a groan and a growl. “Is this what you wanted?” he says. Arthur’s left hand moves without his permission, grabbing his right hand and dragging it until it smacks against the side of Parker’s face. It’s slack and unresponsive, and Arthur gags. “Parker is dead, Arthur. And it’s all your fault.”

Another knock at the door. “Just a minute!” Arthur calls. His palms are sweating. “Fuck. Fuck. We’ve got to hide the body. We—no, I don’t understand, he—where are we? We don’t have an office! I’m not a PI, I’m a—oh, god, my head, it’s killing me!”

Arthur presses his hands, both back within his control, to his temples. The pressure in his head builds and builds and builds until he feels like he’s going to scream. The knocking continues, growing louder and more insistent, until Arthur can’t take it anymore.

He struggles to his feet, stalks over to the door—

“Don’t open it!” John shouts.

—and opens it.

[Scene break]

Arthur wakes strapped to a stone table.

He immediately struggles. Around him, voices rise and fall like the tide, mingling together in a shared chant. One voice rises above all the rest and cries with religious fervor, “Our king, remember your name!”

John growls. It is a low, inhuman sound that rattles Arthur to his core. “I can’t hold on!” he says, and Arthur can’t tell whether he’s angry or desperate or scared. “Fuck, why couldn’t you just let it go? Why did you have to push? You are going to die, Arthur. Do you understand me? Unless you fight this, you are going to die. I need you to hold on. Just keep holding on.”

Another voice, distorted and cracked, snarls, “I am the fractured soul of a God!” It sounds like John, but instinctively, Arthur knows that it is not. It is deeper, and it is larger, and it is much, much older.

“John!” Arthur shouts, tugging against his restraints with increased fervor. “I—I can’t—I don’t understand—fuck, I can’t think right now! Where am I, what—what’s happening? John?”

“You fucked up, that’s what—”

The room rattles and shakes, and from somewhere in front of him, wind begins to howl, like that of a hurricane or a tornado or a black hole.

“Fuck. Just—you need to focus, Arthur! Focus on Parker, on Faroe! Think about your life with them—the breakfasts, the story times, the markets, the piano lessons, all of it! Hold onto it and don’t let go, or this is going to eat you alive, and there is nothing I can do to help you.”

Grief slams into Arthur like a tsunami, knocking all of the breath out of his lungs.

Sitting next to an empty hospital bed, holding a small bundle close to his heart, listening to a sympathetic doctor tell him that there was nothing they could do.

Kneeling next to a bathtub, knees soaked through with water, cradling a limp body in his arms and crying out in agony as he tries and fails to find a heartbeat.

Placing his hand flat on a chest that no longer breathes air, unable to see but knowing without a shadow of a doubt that the eyes of his partner no longer sparkle with joy and laughter and life.

He chokes out, “Are they even real, John?”

John does not respond.

The thing that is not John snarls, “And this body is mine!”

And then Arthur is falling and falling and falling, and there is no end in sight.

[Scene break]

Arthur wakes kneeling on the dirt floor of a prison pit, wrist-deep in a man’s chest.

He cries out and wrenches his hand away, coated with sticky-wet blood. He’s gripping something soft and squishy, and he doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to think about—

His stomach growls. And something inside of him—an urge he can’t quite suppress—makes him lift his arm, bringing whatever is in his grasp close enough to his mouth that he can almost taste the iron tang of it.

The urge lessons, and Arthur reels back so violently he nearly slips on the blood-slick mud beneath him. The organ drops from his hand and he scrambles back, but his muscles are so weak that he ends up collapsing onto the floor of the pit, gasping for air and trying desperately not to vomit.

“Arthur, focus!” John says. Arthur can hardly hear him over the ringing in his ears. “This isn’t real, okay? You’re not here. It’s like the dreams, just—I need you to focus on Faroe. Picture her in your mind. Remember her, Arthur. Hold onto her.”

Arthur presses a hand to his mouth on instinct, then flinches back and frantically scrubs at his lips with the back of his forearm. He shakes his head, tasting iron on his tongue when he says, “I can’t, I can’t, how am I meant to—I spent all that time with them, but they weren’t—the whole time, they were—oh my god.” Arthur digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand so hard he thinks he probably draws blood. If he does, he doesn’t notice. His hand is already stained with it. “Oh my god, I killed him. A-and I … and I ate…”

“Arthur, the song!” John sounds desperate now, and a hand—Arthur’s left hand—John’s hand—reaches up and grips Arthur’s wrist tightly. “Remember the song. Faroe’s song. You were writing it; you know it. You need to remember the song. Focus on the song, Arthur! It’s the only way you can—”

[Scene break]

Arthur wakes crumpled on the plateau with a knife buried in the side of his neck.

He breathes in instinctively and immediately chokes. The metal of the knife grinds against his spine, slices through his vocal cords, severs his veins and arteries, twitches when he makes the slightest motion. His instinct is to cough; he can’t quite suppress it, and the agony that shoots through him when he does is the most exquisite he has ever felt.

“Faroe, Arthur, remember Faroe!” John’s voice echoes across the plateau, like he’s projecting it throughout the entire sky. “You played the piano together, you—you raised her, loved her, cared for her. You wrote a song for her. You haven’t let her go before, not ever, and you can’t do so now, you fucking bastard! Don’t let her go. Keep holding on.”

Arthur inhales, gurgles, and spasms. His blood spills from his neck in heavy rivulets, and he can feel his body slowly shutting down.

Oh.

He’s dying.

“No, Arthur, no!” John sounds distraught in a way Arthur has never heard him sound before. “Come on, come on, I know you’re stronger than this. Remember what Daniel said—you can’t let it win. You never let it win. You fight, and you keep going, and you never give in!”

Something is pressed into his hand, his fingers forced to curl around it. It’s cool to the touch, small, with sharp edges and engraved designs on it. “The music box. Listen to the music box, and focus, and fucking hold on!”

Arthur’s hand is shaking, but he grits his teeth and finds the little lever on the side of the box. It takes him a few tries to grip it, but he does.

He turns it, and—

[Scene break]

Arthur wakes sitting at a piano bench. His hand, already poised on the keys, plays a series of notes—F# G F# D F#. “Like that,” he says. “Now, your turn.”

A small, chubby hand reaches out and plays the same notes in a halting rhythm. Arthur beams. “Yes, that’s it! Very good.”

He leans over to press a kiss to the top of Faroe’s head. Faroe giggles and plays the notes again—F# G F# D F#—and Arthur echoes them, and Faroe kicks her legs back and forth and grins at him, and Arthur smiles back and says, “Well, what do you think? Do you like it?”

[Scene break]

Arthur wakes lying on the stone floor of the cavern beneath 58 Pelican Lane.

It is not a gentle awakening. Arthur’s stomach heaves and rolls, and he turns on his side just in time to vomit its contents across the pale cobblestone in front of him. It’s the dark red of old blood, and Arthur vomits again upon seeing it, diluting it with pale yellow bile.

Arthur rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and gasping for air. His hand flies to his throat—the knife, he just finished stabbing himself, he—

There is no knife. His throat is clear and unmarked.

But it can’t be, he—he was just on the plateau, he just—

No, wait, he was just here, in the basement, investigating alone, while Parker—

But that can’t be right; he’s been in the Dreamlands for months now, trapped, no way out, and Parker is—

Parker is on a case, and Faroe is with Bella, who—

But Faroe is—

She’s always been—

He couldn’t—

He didn’t—

Arthur presses the heels of his hands—both hands, unscarred, both pinkies intact and fleshy—into his eyes and makes a low, keening noise deep in his throat.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

Arthur drops his hands.

He can see the ceiling of the cavern above him, illuminated with flickering golden light.

Slowly, he sits up.

There is a man standing before him.

No.

There is a god standing before him.

The King in Yellow looks down at him, eyes blazing like twin suns behind a pale expressionless mask, and says, “What the fuck have you done?”

Chapter Text

On the fifteenth day in the prison pits—or at least, what Arthur was calling the fifteenth day—he asked John, “Why are you still here?”

His voice was cracked and raw, longing for water. He felt John hesitate for a moment—perhaps trying to figure out if this was a trap or not—before saying, “I don’t understand.”

Arthur tilted his head back until it thunked against the dirt wall behind him. “You are a fragment,” he said slowly, “of the King in Yellow. The King in Yellow has trapped us here because we refuse to separate.” Arthur laughed humorlessly. “We’re not exactly friends at the moment. Why are you still here? Why haven’t you called to him?”

“You … you think I would go.” John sounded startled. “Rejoin the King. Leave you here to die.”

Arthur shrugged. “Why not? We tried to kill each other. We despise each other. Surely you want to go.”

“I don’t despise you, Arthur,” John said. Like Arthur was saying something radical, rather than something perfectly logical. “You’re…” He hesitated. “You’re still my friend.”

Arthur scoffed. “Sure.”

“I … I know I haven’t been acting like it,” John said. “But you are. The King—he isn’t me anymore. I don’t want to be him.” John’s left hand twitched at Arthur’s side, an aborted motion to—what, take Arthur’s hand? Comfort him? “I’m sorry for what I did. What I … said. I didn’t—”

“Don’t,” Arthur warned.

“… All right.” John sighed. “I understand. But Arthur, I promise you. I will not leave you alone in this place.”

Another twitch of the hand.

“I will not leave you here to die.”

In the cavern beneath Pelican Lane, Arthur stares at the towering entity that stands before him and digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He remembers the snap of bone, searing pain, his leg crumpling beneath him as it folded in ways it was never meant to. He remembers collapsing to the ground in agony, John crying out his name. What if I decide to leave this body? What happens then?

He remembers the dagger. He remembers plunging it into his throat. He remembers the brush of a hand against the side of his face. Goodbye, Arthur.

He remembers a stretch, and a release. The most profound feeling of loss. Blood, gurgling up between his teeth.

And then…

It slips away like sand between his fingers.

But John left. He remembers that clearly. John left and rejoined the King.

Does that mean…?

Arthur looks up at the King in Yellow, Lord of Carcosa, Ruler of Madness and Deception and Lies, and says, “John?”

The King’s eyes flash a brighter gold. “Yes.” He hesitates, seems to falter slightly. “And … no. It’s complicated. It doesn’t matter. What have you done, Arthur?”

“What have I done?” Arthur stands unsteadily, just managing to keep his footing. “You’re the one who—”

Arthur cuts off abruptly. Now that he’s standing, he can see the top of the podium, and his eyes catch on something laid out upon it. An open book, partially scorched, filled with symbols that shift and twist in dizzying patterns.

He’d read that book, right before he…

Arthur raises a shaky hand to his throat. It’s unblemished. His legs are fine. When he holds his left hand out before him, there is no wooden pinkie. He doesn’t feel like a man who has been starving at the bottom of a pit for three months. He certainly doesn’t feel like a man who just slit his own throat. He is, apparently, in perfect health.

He left his apartment this morning—the apartment he shares with Parker and Faroe, the apartment that Tess and Bella visit, the apartment that Daniel turns his nose up at—and came here. Parker is on a case, and alive. Faroe is with Bella, and they are alive. Arthur is here, on Earth, and he is alive.

There are two sets of memories in his mind—two lives that he has apparently lived—and the dissonance makes his head throb. “John,” he says tightly. “What’s going on? Where am I?”

John—the King—John sighs. It shakes the room ever so slightly. “You’re safe.” Pointedly: “Despite your best efforts.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

There’s motion in the corner of Arthur’s eye, and Arthur flinches away so violently he nearly trips. John, halfway through reaching towards Arthur with a black, claw-tipped hand, hesitates, then slowly withdraws. “All you had to do was just—be happy.” John moves back, giving Arthur more space. “I suppose I should have known that that was too much to ask. I should have known that you’d push.”

“Push what?” Arthur swallows, and it tastes like bile. “I have these … these memories, of living here, growing up here, with—with parents, a-and Bella, and Parker, and Faroe, and … and I was happy. Christ, I was happy. But now, I remember…” Arthur looks at John, at the god he has become, at the god he always was, and says flatly, “What did you do to me? What is this place?”

John’s face, blank mask that it is, remains expressionless. He still manages, somehow, to scowl. “I didn’t have a choice, Arthur. You stabbed yourself in the fucking neck!”

“What,” Arthur repeats venomously, “did you do to me?”

“I saved your goddamn life!” John snaps, and it’s like a physical weight slams into Arthur’s chest. He staggers backward a step, nearly slipping in the puddle of his own sick. “You were dying, and there was nothing I could do to heal you, but I had the King’s power and I was still me, so I made it stop. I built this place and I put you inside of it and while you’re here, your body is frozen.” John clenches his fist. Something beneath his robes twitches—a hundred somethings, all writhing with agitation. “But if you keep pushing, it’s going to collapse. And you are going to die. I’ve restabilized it after you fucked it up, so it’s fine for now. You’re welcome.”

Arthur feels hollow, like all of his internal organs have been scooped out and dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Anger is there too, simmering beneath his skin, but stronger than that, making his hands shake and his tongue go numb, is a kind of horror that he hasn’t felt for a very, very long time. Not since he knelt on a flooded bathroom floor and cradled the cold, still body of his daughter in his arms.

“Faroe,” he says. “Is she…?” Arthur swallows sharply. “Is she real?”

He doesn’t want to know the answer.

He has to know.

John’s hands unclench. The agitation beneath his robes slows and stops, and he lets out a quiet sigh. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he says, and Arthur feels like he’s going to be sick again.

“No,” he says, bracing his hands on the podium to keep himself steady. “John, no.”

“This place, it’s … it’s like a dream you never wake up from. It’s built on memories—your memories. I took away the parts that hurt, collected the things that made you happiest, and I let them grow into this. I…” John hesitates. “I couldn’t save you, Arthur. I couldn’t stop you from dying. Your mind is suspended here, in this dream, but your body is … it’s dead. Outside of this place, you’re dead. And if you leave it, you’ll be dead too.”

“I’m dead,” Arthur echoes. He can feel his mind desperately trying to distance itself from this situation; he tries not to let it. “And this—all of this—it’s just a hallucination? An illusion?” He swallows. “A dream?”

John’s hands twitch by his sides. “Yes. I’m sorry, Arthur—it was the only thing I could do to help you.”

“And Faroe? Parker?” Arthur’s stomach is beginning to churn. “They’re illusions too?”

The golden light filling the room swirls and flickers. “Yes. Everything here is an illusion, except for me. And you, though your body is…”

Right. Right. Right.

Arthur presses a hand to his mouth, and he says nothing.

“I’m sorry,” John says again. “I thought you’d want them here—that you’d want them alive.” His tone sharpens into something defensive. “And you never should have realized that they aren’t. I thought I’d locked away all of the bad memories, but then you started having those dreams, and I knew they were starting to leak through, and … I suppose I was wrong. This is all still so new to me.”

Arthur’s stomach churns and churns and churns until it’s a roiling tempest, a hurricane locked away beneath his ribcage. “You lied to me,” he snaps, and oh, there’s the anger. It pours out of him in waves, bitter and thick. “You trapped me here, erased my memories, made me think I was losing my mind!” He points an accusatory finger at John. “I made my choice, on the plateau, and you—you just left! After you promised you wouldn’t! And now, what—I’m supposed to believe that you’ve taken over the King? That you’re in complete control? How could you think this was a solution? How could you think I’d—”

“What,” John interrupts, “how could I think that if you could choose any life for yourself, you’d choose one without loss? How could I think that if you had the chance to see Parker again, Faroe again, you would take it? Should I have put you somewhere alone, desolate, horrible? Should I have let you die?”

“Maybe!”

It hangs in the air between them, sticking to the sharp stone that juts down from the ceiling. Arthur is breathing heavily, and the things beneath John’s robe are thrashing, and Arthur wants to scream. He wants to stalk forward and beat his fists against John’s stupid robe, rip John’s stupid mask off of his stupid face, stare into John’s stupid glowing eyes until he’s convinced it’s actually John in there and not a broken, corrupted version of him that has put Arthur here specifically to torment him.

Because this place … his family … Parker, Bella, Faroe … they’re not … they’re just memories. They’re not real. All this time—every breakfast and lunch and dinner, every nighttime story and chaste kiss and glass of whiskey—it was all an illusion. A product of his own mind, made real by the will of a god. An immortal, powerful, eldritch god.

… Arthur’s friend.

Arthur deflates. “Maybe,” he repeats, quieter this time. “I don’t know. I—I don’t … I don’t know.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, John sighs. “Regardless. By reading that book, you’ve functionally reset yourself. You managed to hold onto this world just enough that I could stabilize it, but the memories you gained … there’s no way for me to lock them away again. I’m sorry. I can’t put things back the way they were, and I can’t make you forget that this isn’t real.” John huffs. “I tried to stop you, but you’re too goddamn stubborn.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, I … I couldn’t have lived like that anymore.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m … not sure if you were aware of anything other than my dreams, but they were … they were leaking through into my waking world as well. Feelings I would get, times that my mind would drift, parts of … well, I know now, parts of the illusion that would warp, then snap back into place. It was—Christ, it was more than disorienting. It was maddening.”

John takes a small step backward, further into the shadows. “Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t realize.”

Arthur laughs dryly. “Yes, well. Not the sort of thing that occurs to a god, I suppose.”

John is quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks again, he sounds smaller, more subdued. “I suppose not.” He hesitates, then says, “There are … two paths forward from here. And it’s your choice, Arthur, as to which you want to take. I’m not … I’m not going to make it for you, or force you to do one or the other. I will sustain this place as long as you would like me to. There is perhaps a limit to its existence, but we wouldn’t have to worry about that for a very, very long time. So you could stay. I can’t change your memories, but I could probably make changes to this world itself if you’d like. I’m able to … navigate it at a structural level, to put it simply.”

John fixes Arthur with an intense look that makes Arthur shiver. “But you wouldn’t be able to push the limits of this place any further than you already have. Reading that book nearly broke it, and while it’s stable now, it’s fragile. Any further investigation, any further attempts by you to break through the surface and discover what lies beneath—it would destabilize it entirely, for good this time.”

“And if I chose to leave…”

“You would die.” It’s blunt, but not cruel. “I’m not entirely sure where you would go, whether it would be the Dark World or somewhere else, but either way, I … I don’t think I would be able to reach you there. We would be … separated.”

Ah. Arthur tries very hard not to feel like a particularly interesting bug being kept in a glass jar. This, Arthur thinks, is meant to be an act of kindness. Of salvation.

And. Well. Isn’t it?

“Do I have to decide now?” Arthur looks at the ground by John’s feet so he doesn’t have to look at his face. At the mask that pretends to be his face. “Is there a point at which I can no longer leave this … this dreamscape, or could I choose to leave at any time?”

“There’s no time limit. However. I need you to understand, Arthur. Once you leave, you can never come back. It is not a choice that can be undone.”

Arthur does not mention that he is quite familiar with irreversible actions. He can still taste the sharp tang of blood on his tongue. He can still smell the bathwater. “And will you be here? I-in this world, that is. Or should I expect to only see you when I dream?”

Arthur isn’t sure what he wants the answer to be. Now that he remembers John—properly remembers him—he finds that he misses him, like a part of him has been cut away and discarded. The control over his left hand and foot, the sight in his eyes, the solitude in his mind—it’s disorienting. But for the version of him that grew up in this world, it’s all he’s ever known. Perhaps that’s the disorienting bit—having two lives existing side-by-side, two sets of experiences so incongruent with one another.

One is the truth, the other a lie. But it certainly doesn’t feel so simple.

John looks at Arthur with those unreadable eyes. “I can be here if you want me to be. Nobody will think anything of me.”

“Because they’re all just a part of the illusion you’ve created.”

“… Yes.”

Arthur purses his lips tightly. “Right. Well. I suppose it’s your world; you can do as you like.”

“It’s your world, Arthur. Your decision.”

Arthur feels ill. “Yes. Fine. All right. My world. My own goddamn personalized fantasy land where everything’s great and I’m happy. How could I forget.”

“Arthur—”

“No, just.” Arthur puts one hand out, pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. “Just stop talking. Please, just stop talking, John. I need to think. Just … just give me time to think. Okay? And for now—I don’t know. Just. Give me some time. I’ll let you know when … I’ll let you know.”

“All right,” John says, and he sounds so goddamn reasonable, like he’s talking to a tantruming child, that Arthur wants to scream. “I’ll give you space.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” Arthur says, and maybe he means it to be cutting, but it just comes out tired. “It’s done, and I don’t even know if I’m upset about it yet, or mad, or relieved, or fucking ecstatic. I don’t know what to feel. So just … stop. Please.”

“Okay.”

Arthur exhales, long and slow. “I … I think I need to go home. I’m going home.” He looks at the book, then looks back at John. “If I leave this place, will it disappear again?”

“I … no. I don’t think so. Some parts of this world are unpredictable, outside of my control, but … I believe things have settled. You shouldn’t … there shouldn’t be any more instability or visions. Perhaps the dreams, too, will go away. I’m not sure.”

Arthur nods once, sharp and clipped. “Okay.”

He hesitates. Then, he turns and begins walking back the way he came in. There is no movement behind him, no indication that John is going to stop him. Just before Arthur reaches the door, he pauses. Without turning, he says, “For what it’s worth, John … I am glad not to have lost you.”

Then, he leaves.

John does not follow.

[Scene break]

Everything looks the same as it did before. Pelican Lane is still falling apart at the seams, rotting from the inside out. The streets are still dirty and bustling with commuters, and the sun still shines overhead through the sparse clouds. The door to Arthur’s apartment is still pale tan, with a rusted gold knocker in the center of it and a smudge of crayon near the bottom where Faroe got a bit adventurous.

And when Arthur opens it and steps inside to see Parker and Faroe sitting on the living room floor, halfway through building a house out of the Lincoln Logs Daniel got her for her birthday this year, they’re exactly as real as they’ve ever been.

Which is to say, not real at all. But, fuck, they’re here all the same. Sitting in his apartment. Sitting in their apartment. Looking at him while he stands just inside the doorway, trying very hard not to let the tight, choking sensation in his throat reach his eyes.

Parker takes one look at him—at whatever his face must be doing—and says, “Faroe, darling, I’ve got to talk to your father for a moment. Do you think you can finish the house by yourself?”

Faroe considers this. “Only if I get to make it reallllllly tall.”

“As tall as you’d like.”

Faroe grins and returns to meticulously selecting the next log.

Parker stands and walks over to Arthur, forehead creased with concern. “Hey,” he says under his breath, quietly enough that Faroe can’t hear. “Are you okay? I thought you were staying in to work on your composition.”

“I…” Arthur says, then stops. He can’t stop looking at Parker’s face. At the gentle rise and fall of Parker’s chest. At his unmarked throat. “I had to, um. I had to … go. Out.”

Parker’s frown deepens. He puts a hand on Arthur’s upper arm, and Arthur startles, nearly flinching away. It’s warm and solid and real. It feels like a hand that belongs to a person who was born and has lived and has continued living, and it’s impossible that this is all a dream. It can’t be, because Parker’s right here. He’s right fucking here.

It can’t be, but … it is. Because Parker is here, and he’s alive, but he’s also lying on the floor of their office, body slowly cooling after John wrapped Arthur’s hands around his neck and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

Faroe bumps the Lincoln Log house and lets out a gasp as it nearly topples, and Arthur’s eyes snap to her, and it’s just—it’s too much. It’s too much.

Parker must see his eyes going glassy because he takes Arthur by the arm again and says, “Hey, Art, hey, stay with me. Christ, where have you been—you’re a mess.” Parker’s whisper turns into a hiss. “Is that blood?” He looks surreptitiously at Faroe, who’s still completely enraptured with her task. “Okay, just—come on.” He begins leading Arthur toward the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

Arthur goes willingly. This, all of this, is just what Parker would do. The real Parker. Make sure Faroe doesn’t realize what’s going on, get Arthur cleaned up and calmed down, then see if Arthur wants to talk about it. Is Parker just doing what Arthur wants him to do? Does this Parker have any agency of his own, or are all of his actions controlled by Arthur’s subconscious desires?

But they’ve argued before. Parker has pushed too hard, and Arthur has been too cagey, and they’ve butted heads and snapped at one another. It hasn’t been perfect. If Parker were truly a figment of Arthur’s imagination, wouldn’t he just always do what Arthur wants him to do? Wouldn’t he be the idealized version of himself that Arthur likes to pretend he was?

They’re in the bathroom now. The door is closed, and the moment the lock catches, Parker puts his hands on the side of Arthur’s face and looks beseechingly into Arthur’s eyes. “What happened? Where did you go? Whose blood is that? Are you okay? It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Arthur can’t help it; he laughs. “I feel like I have,” he says, and it tastes bittersweet on his tongue. He never thought he would see Parker alive again, and yet. And yet, and yet, and yet.

Parker looks lost. “What does that mean? Please, talk to me. I know I said I wouldn’t push, but this is…” Parker trails off and rubs his thumbs along Arthur’s cheekbones. Arthur shivers. “Come on, Art,” he pleads. “I’m worried sick here.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, then another. He opens his mouth, closes it again.

How can he possibly find the words to explain? Even if he could, how could he say them out loud? He’ll sound mad. Sorry Parker, I just found out that you’re actually dead and this version of you is an illusion, created by a god who thought this was an act of kindness. There is absolutely nothing that he can say.

He shakes his head helplessly, and Parker’s lips pinch into a thin line. He studies Arthur’s face, eyes mapping out every inch of it in fine detail. Whatever he finds there, it’s enough for him to say, “Okay. Okay, let’s … let’s just get you out of those clothes and cleaned up, all right?”

Arthur lets Parker carefully peel off his suit. There’s vomit and blood streaked down the front of it, and Arthur briefly wonders how the hell he made it home without drawing attention before he remembers: dream logic. This whole place is built on dream logic. The stairs to the basement of Pelican Lane were intact, and he never seems to run out of money for food even when work is sparse, and nobody even gave him a second glance on his way home today.

Parker did, though. Perhaps Arthur wanted him to. Or perhaps the others are merely set dressing, here to look the part and nothing more.

John could probably explain. But Arthur doesn’t know if he wants him to.

Christ, John.

Arthur’s suit sits in a pile on the floor, stained and unsalvageable. His golden necktie sits puddled in the middle of it, winking up at Arthur accusingly. Arthur thinks of all the shades of yellow in his closet—ties and shirts and pocket squares, in hues of saffron and lemon and mustard—and shudders.

Parker mistakes it as a chill and ushers Arthur into the shower. He twists the tap, and hot water comes spilling out from the showerhead, making Arthur’s skin flush a pale pink that he knows will soon darken to a deeper red. He remembers the office he and Parker shared in the real Arkham—small, cramped, with a weak shower that only ever seemed to dribble out ice-cold water—and wraps his arms tightly around his chest.

Parker shucks off his own clothing—an undershirt and flannel trousers, plush yellow socks, yellow yellow yellow—and steps into the shower alongside Arthur. It’s a bit of a squeeze, but Arthur finds himself pressing closer and closer to Parker anyway, reaching out and resting his hands on Parker’s hips. They’re plush and firm beneath his palms, and he squeezes, and Parker sucks in a breath.

Arthur looks up at Parker’s face, slightly blurry without his glasses, and Parker looks back with wide brown eyes that search Arthur’s. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” It’s barely more than a whisper. The water beats down on Arthur’s back, seeping into his hair and making it stick to the back of his neck.

Parker puts his hands atop Arthur’s. Gently removes them from his hips. Laces their fingers together and squeezes. “Like I’m gonna disappear into thin air the moment you close your eyes.”

Arthur bites down on his bottom lip so hard he nearly draws blood. “How…” He swallows. “How do I know you won’t?”

Parker’s face crumples. “I won’t,” he says, and he sounds so sure of it, so confident, so unyielding, that Arthur wants to believe him more badly than he’s ever wanted to believe anything. “Jesus, Art, what—?”

That’s as far as he gets before Arthur leans forward and kisses him.

Parker seems, for a moment, like he’s going to pull away. Demand answers, perhaps, or refuse to engage with Arthur when he’s like this. But then he sighs and tilts his head, allowing Arthur to part his lips and deepen the kiss. The hot water is beginning to steam up the room, loosening the tension in Arthur’s muscles and filling the air with a thick humidity that sticks to Arthur’s skin and makes him feel flushed, even when his veins are full of ice.

Parker kisses like he’s real. His hands side up to rest on Arthur’s elbows, and Arthur’s hands return to his hips, squeezing so tightly he can feel the flesh dimple beneath his fingertips. The hot water will run out soon, surely, but then again, perhaps not. Not if Arthur wills it to run forever and ever, ceaselessly warming skin he does not truly have.

Fuck.

Arthur pushes the thought from his mind, pulls back, and locks eyes with Parker for a long, electrified moment. Then, he sinks to his knees.

They hadn’t ever done this, before. Arthur had seen Parker looking when he thought Arthur wasn’t, eyes curious and wanting. He’d heard, on the nights when his own tangled thoughts kept him lying awake in bed, the occasional muffled moan from the adjoining room that sounded suspiciously like his name. He knew where Parker went the times he came home late—those bars that catered to men who enjoyed the company of other men, hidden away behind shadowed doors in back alleyways.

And if Parker had asked … well. Arthur had been looking too.

Would it have been like this?

Would Parker’s hands have gently cupped the back of Arthur’s head, fingers threading through Arthur’s curls and keeping them tucked away from his face?

Would Arthur have rested his hands on Parker’s hips, guiding him until his back was flush with the slick tile wall, marveling at the way a man so strong and so capable as Parker could be moved by such a gentle touch?

Would Parker have groaned Arthur’s name like a prayer when Arthur first took him in his mouth, then again, “Art,” like a sigh, when Arthur wrapped a hand around the base of him and began to move?

Arthur will never know. Because that Parker is dead.

This Parker is built from the fragments of a thousand memories. And Arthur loves him so completely he feels like it may kill him.

The water trickles from Arthur’s hair, running down his cheeks. Perhaps he cries, or perhaps he doesn’t. There’s no proof either way. It all mixes together, swirling down the copper drain.

It’s over quickly. Arthur knows how to drive Parker to the edge when he wants to, and he does so now, working Parker with his tongue and his hand until Parker is crying out and spilling into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur swallows, only pulling off once Parker has gone soft and still. He stays on his knees, looking up at Parker. He’s flushed from his chest to his neck to his face, and he looks at Arthur with hazy eyes that—too soon—fill once again with thinly veiled concern.

Slowly, Parker gets to his knees as well. He reaches for Arthur, then hesitates. “Do you want me to…?”

Arthur shakes his head. He doesn’t think he could come right now even if he wanted to.

Parker nods. He hesitates a moment more, then reaches behind Arthur and retrieves the shampoo. “Here,” he says. “Turn around and sit.”

Arthur does so. He hears the click of the bottle opening, and a moment later, Parker’s hands are in his hair, fingernails scratching gently against his scalp. He rubs until the shampoo is fully lathered, then says, “Close your eyes,” and guides Arthur’s head beneath the spray of water.

Arthur closes his eyes and digs his fingernails into the tops of his thighs. When he opens them again, his head once again out of the spray, the shower is still there. Parker’s hands are still in his hair, this time applying conditioner. He then gets the bar of soap and begins scrubbing it along Arthur’s skin. The blood and dirt have mostly run off by this point, but Parker still scrubs and scrubs until Arthur’s skin feels clean and fresh and new.

Parker rinses the soap off, then the conditioner. Then, he turns Arthur gently to face him. He exhales slowly and gives Arthur a small, crooked smile. “There,” he says, patting Arthur on the knee. “Feeling better?”

No. Not even a little bit. If anything, Arthur feels worse than he did before. Every moment is a dissonance, a splitting pain in his chest. Parker is smiling at him, and Parker is dead. Parker is washing his hair, and Parker is dead. Parker is kissing the space between his shoulder blades, and Parker is dead.

Arthur smiles back, a small thing, and says, “Much.”

Parker towels off, then goes to fetch Arthur some clean clothing. Arthur dries himself as well, slowly, lingering on the sensation of soft cotton fibers against his skin. The room is hot, and the towel is soft, and his mouth still remembers the taste of Parker’s cock, and it’s all so impossibly real.

He’s glad that the mirror is fogged. He doesn’t want to see his reflection. He doesn’t know what he would find.

Parker returns, and Arthur dresses quickly. He inhales, exhales, then says, “Is Faroe all right?”

Parker frowns. “Yes, she’s still in the living room.”

Arthur exhales again, feeling a weight he hadn’t realized had settled upon his chest lift. “I suppose it’s gotten rather late, hasn’t it? I can put her to bed, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Parker studies Arthur’s face, then gives Arthur’s upper arm a squeeze and exits the bathroom.

Arthur pinches his lips together, then follows him out a moment later.

Faroe is indeed still in the living room, sat in the middle of a veritable explosion of Lincoln Logs. The house she’s created is a teetering monstrosity, narrow on the bottom and blossoming vertically into a mushroom-like tower that looks like it’ll fall and shatter if Arthur breathes on it wrong.

When Faroe sees Arthur, she lights up. “Do you like my house? It’s got so many rooms. To have lots of parties and stuff. Why don’t we ever have any parties?”

There is a horrible tightness building in Arthur’s throat and chest. He can’t stop looking at how Faroe’s curls spill down her shoulders, how her freckles scatter across her nose like constellations, how her fingers are starting to go long and slim, just like his, destined for the piano. The knowledge that this version of Faroe—seven and smiling and happy—is nothing but an extrapolated version of a four-year-old girl who is buried six feet beneath a bed of daisies is almost powerful enough to send him to his knees, and he clenches his hands into fists so tightly that his blunted nails nearly draw blood.

But still, despite everything, he smiles. “Well, if you think of anybody you’d like to invite, we can certainly have a party.”

Faroe beams and claps her hands together in delight. “I wanna invite Momma,” she says, “and Grandpa, and Tess, and Marigold, and the nice lady at the shop who always gives me free candy, and Bonnie Taylor, even though she stole my favorite crayon and lied about it. And you and Papa, of course!”

Arthur chuckles. Unbidden, he feels tears filling his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is slightly choked. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

Faroe squints at him, like she can’t quite decide what to make of his expression. Quickly, Arthur clears his throat and says, “Perhaps tomorrow, we can make invitations! But right now, it’s time for bed.”

Faroe puts up the usual fuss, clinging to her Lincoln Logs and begging for just five more minutes, pleaseeeeeeeeee? Arthur finally gets her into the bathroom to brush her teeth with the promise that yes, her house will still be there in the morning, and no, he and Papa will not work on it without her, and yes, he promises they can have a party, and no, nobody will break into their house during the night and steal all of her things.

Faroe stands on her tiptoes to reach the sink. She turns the water on, and something in Arthur’s chest seizes with panic. He grips the doorway so tightly it creaks and stares at Faroe, his breaths coming quicker and quicker and quicker, until she turns the sink back off again.

The sound of the water stops, and Arthur sags, a puppet with its strings cut. Faroe scrubs at her teeth with the brush, and Arthur feels a wave of intense protectiveness wash over him, followed closely by a feeling of intense anxiety.

It’s just a dream. All of this is just a dream. Faroe is just a dream. And yet, the thought of leaving her—of having her out of his sight even for a moment—is so intensely painful it leaves Arthur winded. He watches her brush her teeth, then spit—a bit too soon, really, but can illusions even get cavities?—then rinse her toothbrush off, then turn to him with eyes already drooping with sleep, and—

And, fuck, he knows it’s not real, but does it even matter? Faroe is here, standing in front of him, scrubbing at her eyes with the backs of her hands, and he can see her. He can talk to her and hug her and kiss her forehead and tuck her into bed and read her stories, and in the morning, he can make her pancakes and braid her hair and hear her babble about the latest thing she learned about plants. Even if it’s all a product of Arthur’s own memories, a carefully crafted illusion … how could he ever give this up?

How could he have Faroe, alive and well and happy and healthy, and possibly let her go?

This isn’t quite that, of course. The real Faroe—the one he raised, the one he loved, the one he lost—is still gone. But maybe it’s close enough.

Arthur tucks Faroe into bed and reads her a story from her bookshelf. It’s about a cruel father who locks his daughter away in a tower, only to return years later, remorseful, and find that she’s turned into a wooden doll. The prince’s kiss saves her in the end, as in all fairytales, but the story still rattles Arthur more than he’d care to admit.

Faroe doesn’t seem to notice, though. She burrows further beneath the covers, lets out a massive yawn, and Arthur’s heart melts. He leans over and kisses her forehead and says, “Good night, Faroe.”

“Night, Dad,” she mumbles, and, god, fuck, Christ, Arthur never thought he would hear those words again. He pats her knee gently, stands, reshelves the book, and leaves before the tears clustering in the corners of his eyes have a chance to fall.

Parker is waiting for him in their bed. There’s a notebook propped open on his knees, a pen clenched between his teeth, but he’s already looking at the door when Arthur enters. “All tucked in?” he says, taking the pen out of his mouth and capping it. He folds the notebook shut and sets it on the nightstand.

“All tucked in.” Arthur, already clean and dressed for bed and not in the mood for the rest of his nighttime routine, crawls beneath the covers beside Parker and lets out a weary sigh.

Parker gives Arthur a searching look, clearly debating whether or not he wants to bring up the elephant in the room. Eventually, though, all he says is, “Do you think you’ll dream again tonight?”

Arthur stares up at the ceiling for a very, very long time. “No,” he says eventually. “Not tonight.”

Parker nods. “Well, thank god for small mercies, I suppose.”

Arthur laughs, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. I suppose.”

Parker purses his lips, then leans over and switches off the lamp. The room goes dark, and in the moments before Arthur’s eyes adjust, it’s so achingly familiar.

“Night, Art,” Parker says.

Arthur stays on his back for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. Then, he turns over so he’s facing Parker and says quietly, almost to himself, “Good night, Parker.”

Arthur sleeps. And he does not dream.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Tess arrives to pick up Faroe, and Arthur nearly doesn’t let her. Parker’s pushing paperwork all day today, and Arthur doesn’t have to go out to meet any clients, so there’s no reason they couldn’t keep her here, safely tucked away in their living room with her Lincoln Logs. But…

Well. He’d never worried about Faroe when she was with Tess. It was when she was in the house with Arthur, after Tess had gone, that she…

Arthur lets them go.

Parker is in his office, poring over papers. Arthur has already cleaned up after breakfast. He feels quieter today, almost numb. He’d awoken this morning groggy, and for the briefest of moments, he’d been confused as to where he was. Who was next to him in bed. Why he could see.

Then, everything had snapped back into place. This was their apartment and had been for almost three years now. Parker was next to him in bed, still asleep but slowly waking with a series of stretches and groans. And he could see because this is a dream, and in his dreams, he is never blind.

Parker had awoken fully then. He’d given Arthur a slow, searching look before kissing him softly and climbing out of bed to get dressed. Arthur had watched him go, something churning in the pit of his stomach.

Arthur knows that Parker is aware that he hasn’t magically gotten better overnight. But Parker also knows Arthur well enough not to bring it up again. He probably thinks it’s got something to do with the dreams.

And, well. Arthur supposes he’s right. He’s just wrong about which parts are dream, and which are reality.

Arthur is sitting at the piano now. Half-finished compositions are scattered around him—bits of jingles, that concerto he always thought he would write but never managed to, a snippet of a bigger soundtrack project he’d recently been hired to do. It’s almost inconceivable that he’s still a composer in this life, but—well. Why wouldn’t he be? He never really stopped loving the piano. The problem was that he loved it just a little too much.

Arthur reaches for the keys. Hesitates. Slowly puts his hands down in a familiar configuration.

And for the first time in this false life, he plays Faroe’s Song flawlessly.

The sound of it grows and swells, filling the apartment. Arthur’s mind wanders to all those moments when this song was the only thing that kept him sane, a shining beacon in an otherwise pitch-black existance. Sitting at the piano in his office, newly blinded, picking out the melody at the request of a voice inside his head. Strapped to a table with an elder god attempting to strip away everything that made him Arthur Lester, kept at bay by a single precious memory. Sitting at the bottom of a pit, the taste of blood and sinew on his tongue, humming to himself with a voice cracked with thirst.

Kneeling on a stone plateau, knife gripped tightly in one hand, raising it to his throat as the last notes of the music box faded into nothing.

The song finishes. Arthur keeps his foot on the pedal far longer than is necessary, long after the air has finished swallowing the final chord whole. Then, slowly, he lifts his foot, lifts his hands, and sets them—trembling—on his thighs.

A soft voice from behind him says, “You finally finished it, then?”

Arthur doesn’t startle. He’d felt Parker come up behind him partway through, hovering a few feet away. Parker doesn’t approach any closer now that Arthur is finished. He simply stands there, just out of reach.

Always just out of reach.

Arthur nods. He plays those five notes again—B, F#, E, D, C#—then curls his hand into a tight fist.

“I’m glad,” Parker says, and he sounds so painfully genuine. If he takes note of the tension in Arthur’s shoulders and hands—which he probably does, private investigator that he is—he doesn’t comment on it. “I know it was bothering you for a while. Not knowing what you were missing.”

Arthur inhales sharply, then exhales on a huff of wry laughter. “Not knowing what I was missing. Yeah. I … had a moment of inspiration, I suppose.” He laughs again, this one short and clipped. “What is it that Daniel’s always going on about? Divine clarity?”

“You’ve been praying? You? Jeez, something really must be up.”

“No, no, no. Not … not as such.”

Parker does approach then, close enough that he can put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur leans into it without thinking, exhaling as some of the tension leaks out of him. It’d be a relief if it didn’t leave behind an aching hollowness, like his heart has been scooped out and devoured whole. “Then what?”

Arthur’s hands clench and unclench on top of his thighs. He stares down at the black-and-white piano keys, letting them unfocus and blur together into a swirling mess of contrasts.

He shouldn’t be able to see them at all. Parker’s hand shouldn’t be warm and firm on his shoulder, and he shouldn’t be sitting in this wonderful home with his wonderful family doing work for his wonderful job and living this wonderful life. It isn’t right. None of this is right.

But, god. It is, isn’t it? Wonderful. So fucking wonderful.

“If you knew,” Arthur says slowly, “that none of this was real. That you were dead and your entire life was just an … an illusion. A dream. An afterlife created just for you, filled with things and people that make you happy—people you’ve lost, people who you thought you would never see again—but none of whom were real. A-and you had the choice: stay and live in the illusion, or move on to whatever comes next. What would you do?”

Parker gently tugs on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur obliges, turning on the piano bench to face him. Parker’s face is pinched, mouth tilted slightly askew. “I didn’t think you were the kind of man who went for hypotheticals. Or afterlives.”

Arthur sighs. “I don’t. I’m not. Just—humor me, please. What would you do?”

Parker inhales, then exhales slowly through pursed lips. “Yeesh, Art. Asking the tough questions. Is this a time limit sorta situation? Or can you stay however long you’d like, then choose to move on whenever you’d like?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No time limit. But once you’ve left, you can’t return.”

Parker nods once, decisively. “Well, then, that’s easy. I’d stay as long as I could.”

Easy. It doesn’t feel easy. But Parker seems sure of himself, like there’s no question in the matter. Arthur picks at that assuredness. “But wouldn’t it bother you? Knowing that all of the people you love are still dead and the people you’re living with now are just figments of your own imagination? They’re not alive, they don’t—they don’t have souls. They’re not real.”

“Jesus, Art.” Parker scrubs a hand across his face. “I don’t know. Maybe? But they’re still the people I love, you know? Like, if you were there, and you still talked like you and acted like you, and if we could touch and stuff, then—hell, would the difference even really matter?” Parker sighs. “Besides, all of that—real, not real, human, illusion—it’s not what’s really important, you know?”

“I … I don’t understand.”

Parker shrugs. “I mean. Death is it, right? The final frontier. Nothing left for you after that—no forward, no backward, no choices, no days or nights. Just … death. It’ll always be there, waiting for you. If you’ve got the chance to be somewhere else between life and death—a nice place, where you’re happy and loved—then, well. Enjoy it while it lasts, right?”

Arthur looks at Parker’s hand where it rests on his shoulder. Slowly, he raises his own hand and lays it atop Parker’s, feeling the warm, familiar shape of Parker’s fingers beneath his. “I suppose,” he says quietly.

Parker gives Arthur a considering look. “What’s this about, Art? It isn’t like you to get all existential on me. Did something happen?”

Arthur sucks in a breath. He instinctively wants to deflect—to say that nothing’s wrong, that everything’s fine, that Parker should get back to his work and he should get back to his. But the words die in the back of his throat, swallowed by the frustration and anxiety and fear that’s been gripping him like a vise ever since he woke up in that horrible basement with the memories of two parallel lives existing side-by-side in his mind.

He needs to tell Parker the truth. All of it. He needs to see what Parker will do.

Arthur takes Parker’s hand from his shoulder, tangles their fingers together, grips tightly, and says, “This isn’t a hypothetical. These dreams that I’ve been having, they’re real, and they’re memories of the life I used to have before I died.”

“Art—”

“No,” Arthur says, steamrolling over whatever Parker is going to say, “just—just listen, okay? In my real life, before this, I was a private investigator. We had an agency together, and one day, somebody delivered a book to our office. I read it, and the fragment of a god who was trapped inside of it—John—got into my head and took over my body. He made me attack you, and … and you died.

“I—I ran, trying to figure out what had happened, how to separate from the entity that now controlled my eyes, but I—I encountered so many monsters along the way. A-and then we were brought to this place called the Dreamlands, controlled by the god that John used to be a part of, and we realized there was no way to win against him, no way out, so I…”

Arthur raises his free hand to his throat. “I killed myself,” he murmurs. “It felt like the only way to prevent the King from winning, from becoming whole again. But I don’t even know if it mattered in the end. Because now I’m here, and it’s because the King—John—has put me here. He gave me you, and he gave me Faroe and Bella and my parents and everyone else I’d ever lost, but—but I still remember, Parker.” Arthur runs a hand through his hair, feeling slightly hysterical. “I still remember finding you dead on the floor of our office, and I still remember F-Faroe, in the—and I remember Bella, and my parents, and I … I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!” Quieter: “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Parker gently takes Arthur’s other hand in his, then pulls Arthur to his feet and into a hug. Arthur lets him, burying his face in Parker’s shoulder and breathing in the clean scent of Parker’s aftershave. Parker grips Arthur tightly and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the dreams had gotten so bad. But I promise you, Arthur, they’re not real. This is real. I don’t wanna—well, you know what happens if you go to the doctor and say you’re having trouble distinguishing between what’s real and what’s not. They stick you in the looney bin. But it sounds like things are getting bad, really bad, and I wanna help, okay?”

Arthur pulls back, stepping out of Parker’s embrace. “Parker, I’m serious. I’m not confused or—or mad. None of this is real.”

Parker lets out a small, uncertain laugh, like he can’t quite tell if Arthur is joking or not. “Come on, Art. Be serious. Neither of us is dead!” He holds his arms out and turns around in a circle. “Alive and well, thank you very much. And so are you.”

“But you’re not,” Arthur insists. He wants to take Parker by the shoulders and shake him. “I know you think you are, but you’re not. You’re an illusion.”

All of the humor bleeds out of Parker’s face. “Arthur, cut it out. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not joking! For Christ’s sake, why won’t you listen to me? None! Of this! Is real!”

Parker stares at Arthur, wide-eyed, like he doesn’t quite recognize the man before him. And then—

It’s only for a moment. A second or two at most. But as Arthur looks at him, chest heaving and frustration and desperation coiling in the pit of his stomach, Parker … glitches. His face twists and distorts, mouth going slack, eyes glazing over with the glassy-eyed stare of the dead. His skin leeches of color, turning pale blue and bloodless, and his clothing rips and tears, revealing beneath it a sterile white hospital gown. Bruises blossom across his neck like an oil spill, dark and purple and lurid.

This Parker, finally, is real.

This Parker has been dead for a very, very long time.

Arthur staggers back, horrified. When he blinks, his vision clears and Parker is standing before him again, skin unmarred and breathing and looking at Arthur with concern. “Look,” he says, taking a tentative step forward and wrapping a hand around Arthur’s wrist. Arthur lets him. “Whatever happened yesterday to rattle you like this, let’s just … let’s talk about it, okay? I know you said you don’t want to, but please, Art. Let me help you.”

Arthur feels like he’s going to throw up. Mutely, he nods.

Don’t push, John had said. Don’t ask questions. Don’t investigate. Don’t try to break the illusion.

Don’t push.

Arthur pushed. He couldn’t help it. And he’s going to keep pushing, and he’s going to push too hard, and he’s going to break this place into a million little pieces, because he knows now. He knows that it’s all a lie.

How can he stay here, knowing that?

Parker squeezes Arthur’s hands. “How about I make lunch,” he says gently, “and you go out for a walk. Clear your head. Then, when you get back, we can eat, and we can talk. Okay? Just a talk. Nothing bad, nothing stressful, nothing threatening. Just the two of us and some tea. Yeah?”

Arthur nods again. He can’t bring himself to speak.

Parker offers Arthur a small smile, then lets go and heads towards the kitchen. He calls over his shoulder, “I hope you’re in the mood for tuna fish sandwiches, because we’ve got about a million cans of tuna and the most massive jar of mayonnaise known to man in our pantry.”

Arthur doesn’t respond. He hears Parker clattering around in the kitchen—probably making a mess of the place, bless him. Amidst the ruckus, Arthur makes his way to the door. Puts on his shoes. Looks at his keys. Reaches for them. Hesitates.

He glances back over his shoulder at his apartment. At the thing that is pretending to be his apartment. At the thing that is pretending to be Parker Yang moving about in the kitchen, humming to himself and nudging the cabinet door shut with his hip.

Arthur closes his eyes, exhales shakily, and leaves. His keys still hang on the peg by the door, glinting in the sunlight.

Arthur exits his apartment building, looks down the street in the direction he knows will lead him to Pelican Lane, then turns and walks the opposite way. There’s a park close by that he’s taken Faroe to in the past. The thing pretending to be Faroe. She liked pointing out all the little mushrooms growing at the bases of trees, watching the squirrels leap from branch to branch, lying on her stomach and poking at the pillbugs that crawled through the stalks of grass.

Arthur goes to the park. It’s a beautiful day outside, partly cloudy with a gentle breeze that cuts through the burgeoning heat of spring. Arthur stares up at the sky and wonders: if he wished for rain, would it come? Does this place respond to his active desires, or is it programmed to provide whatever it thinks he needs at any given moment? Is it evolving or static? Arthur’s seen it change—hell, he grew up in it—but he also died kneeling on a stone plateau in the Dreamlands, so who knows how long his soul has actually been here. It could have been decades, or it could have been days.

Arthur walks down the dirt path, further into the park. There are birds singing in the trees and insects humming in the grass and the laughter of children a fair distance off, and it’s more peaceful than anything that waits for Arthur in the real world. He hasn’t known peace like this in … well. Perhaps ever.

This could have been his life, he thinks. If things had been different. If a lot of things had been different. And he knows it still could be, if he lets it. If he allows himself to pretend.

There is a bench, nestled against the base of a tree. It’s shaded from the sun, dappled with the occasional burst of light sneaking through the leaves of the tree. On the left-hand side sits a figure, much too large to be a man, with glowing yellow eyes set into a pallid, featureless mask.

Arthur sits on the right-hand side and stares straight ahead, watching the clouds slowly roll past the horizon. For a long moment, neither of them speaks. It’s a surprisingly companionable silence. It’s not that Arthur isn’t angry anymore; it still simmers in his chest, ready for an outlet if he provides one. But it’s nice, being able to walk away from John and take some time to himself to sort things out.

It really is peaceful out here.

“I get it,” Arthur says quietly, breaking the silence. Next to him, John shifts but remains quiet. “Why you did it. Why you put me here. I don’t know what I would have chosen if I’d had a choice, but…” He closes his eyes. “Thank you. For giving me the chance to see them again.”

“… You could stay,” John says. Out here, in the park, he sounds smaller somehow. Less cosmic horror, more … human. “You can stay as long as you’d like. This place will exist as long as I do, and I am … well.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “Immortal.”

“Functionally, yes.”

Arthur exhales, then looks over at John. At the shape John has taken. At the god John has become.

He’d pictured the King taller than this, when he’d been breaking Arthur’s legs. The size of a small house, perhaps, or a five-story building. Certainly not small enough to fit on a park bench. But he’d also seemed taller in the caverns beneath Pelican Lane, so perhaps his shape is in flux, ever-changing to suit his needs.

But it’s still him. It’s still the King. They’re merged now, and John is … John is the same, but he isn’t. He’s different somehow—bigger. Arthur can’t put his finger on it. John still seems like himself, at least in all the ways that matter, but … well. Arthur can’t help but wonder.

John is in control now. What happens to Arthur if that changes?

“I can’t, though,” Arthur says. He wasn’t sure until now, not really. Not until he was sitting here beside John, seeing him again in the light of day. “I can’t stay.”

John turns to face him. His face—the blankness of it, the utter lack of features—should probably terrify Arthur, but it doesn’t. It’s just John. “I don’t understand. You can stay. Even if it’s only for a few more months or a year, you can stay. You can have a life with Parker, with Faroe. Don’t you want that?”

“I do,” Arthur says, and his voice cracks. He swallows and clenches his hands into fists. “Christ, John, I do, so badly. But this … this isn’t that. This isn’t them.”

“But they’re made from your memories.”

John genuinely doesn’t understand. Arthur supposes that makes sense. He doesn’t even know if John would have understood before he merged with the King. Now…

“They might seem real to me.” Arthur swallows. “And they might act like themselves, a-and … and hell, maybe I’d even believe it. They feel real enough, and I have memories with them, and I know, if I stayed here, that I could be with them a-and it would be wonderful.” Arthur laughs, and it’s strangled. “It would be so, so wonderful. It’s already been wonderful. To have these moments, to … to have this life. I’m … grateful that you’ve given me the chance. Truly, I am.”

“Then why don’t you stay?” John sounds frustrated, the tendrils beneath his cloak beginning to lash in agitation. It almost makes Arthur smile—a glimpse of the John he knows best, the one who doesn’t understand why Arthur does the things he does sometimes and is quick to anger about it.

Arthur doesn’t smile, though. He pinches his lips together and looks down at his lap, away from John. “Because that’s just the thing. You’ve given me the chance. Faroe, Parker, Bella—they’re still…” Arthur closes his eyes. “They’re still dead. They’re still gone. And being here, living this life, playing—fuck, playing pretend with things that you’ve created for my benefit, that look like them and act like them but aren’t them … it’s not right.” Arthur digs his fingernails into his thighs and looks up at John beseechingly. “Why should I get to have this if they can’t?”

“That’s not how this works, Arthur.”

“I know!” Arthur snaps. “Fuck, I know. I get it. But they are dead. This isn’t them. This is like—like you’ve stuffed their bodies with sawdust and wax and puppeted them around for my amusement. And I can’t—I can’t stay here knowing that. Knowing that I’m talking to a memory, and Parker is dead, and Bella is dead, and Faroe is dead.”

“Then what do you want?” John growls. “I can make a world without them—would that make you happy?”

“For fuck’s sake, John, no. You’re missing the point! This isn’t right. None of this is right! I’m grateful for what you have done for me, truly, but I—”

“What, then? Do you want to die?”

“No!”

Arthur is breathing heavily. He glares at John. “No, John, I don’t want to die. I’ve tried so hard to live, all this time. Yes, I—I’ve thought about it, in the past, but … fuck. I want to live.” At that, Arthur deflates, sagging back against the bench and letting his hands fall open and limp by his sides. “I want to live,” he repeats, like a desperate prayer.

There’s a long silence. Arthur feels something brush against his ankle—cool and smooth, tentatively grasping. He lets John wrap a single tendril around his ankle, allowing the clumsy attempt at comfort. “But you don’t want to stay here.”

Arthur shakes his head. “This isn’t living.” He looks out over the green grass, the blue skies, the perfectly peaceful veneer of a park in Arkham, Massachusetts. “This is … this is decay.”

Overhead, birds sing to one another. In the distance, a child shrieks with delight. Wind blows through the tree branches and a few leaves flutter to the ground, pale green and full of false life. Like one of the painted storybooks from Faroe’s shelf.

Arthur is never going to read to his daughter again.

The tendril around Arthur’s ankle tightens for a moment, then loosens and retreats back beneath John’s cloak. “Okay,” John says. “I … I still don’t understand. But I can’t make you stay here. Not if you don’t want to.”

Arthur scoffs. “Yes, you could. And that’s part of it too, isn’t it? This place, it’s all under your control. You made it for me. You merged with the King, and you’re in control now, but what if a day comes when you’re not? If the King takes over again?” Arthur inhales slowly. “Or … or what if we argue, and you decide that the best thing that you can use against me is the image of my daughter dying in front of me all over again?”

John goes very, very still. “Arthur, I wouldn’t—”

“Don’t,” Arthur says, clipped. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You are my friend, John. That hasn’t changed. But I also … I’m sorry. But I don’t trust you yet. Not completely. Especially not like this.”

John is tense, and Arthur can tell that he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. He says nothing, lets the silence stretch out between them.

Then, quietly, so quietly it’s almost carried away on the breeze: “All right.”

Arthur nods. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, and he tries to keep them at bay, but—well. John has seen him cry before.

So he lets them fall. He sits on the park bench, beneath a tree, on a lovely sunny day in Arkham, with Parker waiting at home with tuna salad sandwiches and Faroe off spending the day with Tess and Bella sitting in medical school lectures and his parents writing letters to him on the other side of the pond, and he buries his face in his hands, and he weeps.

Arthur doesn’t know how much time passes before his tears dry up—long enough, though, that the sun has begun to sink towards the horizon. Long enough that Parker is surely beginning to worry, checking the clock and thinking, He should have been back by now. If Parker does anything at all while Arthur’s away, of course. For all Arthur knows, the moment he’s gone, their apartment simply … ceases to be.

It probably does. Parker probably sags like a puppet with its strings cut, or dissolves into static, or simply vanishes, forgotten about until the next moment Arthur needs him. The thought makes Arthur shudder, and he feels nausea briefly crawl up the back of his throat.

It makes sense, though. That this place, so perfect and so wonderful on the surface, is rotten at its core. The King’s power is manipulation, hallucination. Distorting reality into new and unrecognizable configurations and driving people to madness.

It was never something that was meant to be kind.

“I’m sorry,” John says. “I’m … I’m so sorry, Arthur. I thought this would be … I thought this is what you would want. I’m sorry.”

Arthur shakes his head. Don’t.

John looks over at him, then looks away again. “Do you want to say goodbye?” he asks. “Before you … while you still have a chance?”

Arthur almost starts crying again. He bites down on his knuckle for a moment to suppress it, then shakes his head. “No,” he says, his voice thick and choked. “That’ll just make it worse.”

If Arthur has to look into Parker’s eyes—fuck, into Faroe’s eyes—and say goodbye to them, knowing that he’s never coming back, that he’s never going to see them again … no. He can’t. It would break him utterly. Instead, he closes his eyes and remembers the smile on Faroe’s face when she left with Tess this morning. The feeling of Parker’s hands clasped in his. The smell of pancakes and coffee and fresh strawberries. Parker’s lips on the curve of his jaw, Parker’s hands on his waist, Parker’s hips heavy atop his. Waking in bed with Parker next to him, Faroe nestled in the space between them, watching the sunshine stream in through their window. Faroe’s thin fingers and curling brown ringlets and wide brown eyes and the way she would shriek with laughter whenever he teased her.

The last time he told Faroe he loved her, and how it sounded when she said, “Love you too, Dad.”

Arthur bites down on his knuckle again so hard it splits open and begins to bleed. Then, he looks at John. “Please,” he says, voice cracked and shattered. “Please, let me go.”

“Okay,” John says, and his voice is cracked, too, but with a different sort of grief. “Okay.” He shifts to face Arthur, a few tendrils reaching out and wrapping around Arthur’s ankles and calves. Arthur doesn’t resist. “When I take you away from here … your body is already dead. This place will disappear, and I … I don’t know where you’ll wake up. If you’ll wake up at all.”

Arthur nods. “I know. I—I don’t care. I don’t care. Just—please.”

“I think—” John hesitates. “I don’t know for certain. But I think you’ll probably … even without me with you, I think you’ll end up in the Dark World. I’m sorry, Arthur—I can’t come with you. I don’t have the power to leave the Dreamlands, not yet. But I’m working on it.” A tendril wraps around Arthur’s wrist, threading between Arthur’s fingers. “I promise you, I will figure out a way to get to you. I will find you. I will not abandon you. I promise.”

“John, it’s okay.” Arthur hesitates, then gently squeezes the tendril that’s twined with his hand. “It’s okay. We’ll make it through. We always do.”

John looks at Arthur. Then, slowly—carefully—he reaches out with a black, claw-tipped hand. He cradles the side of Arthur’s face with the same sort of tenderness Arthur occasionally felt in the pit, when John’s hand would rest between Arthur’s cheek and the ground, just the slightest bit of protection from the dirt and the grime and the dust. The best source of comfort he could provide.

Then, John turns Arthur’s head so he’s looking into John’s eyes—bright golden eyes, like collapsing stars, burning brighter and brighter, blocking out the sky and the ground and the trees and everything that isn’t yellow yellow yellow. Arthur’s vision goes white, then brighter-than-white, then rainbow static, then black, like a television screen turning off. The bench drops away beneath him—or, no, it simply ceases to be, and Arthur is falling, because the ground has also ceased to be, and his body is twisting, stretching, distorting, curling through time and space in ever-thinner ribbons, pulling him apart until he’s nothing but atoms scattered in the wind.

He has no mouth with which to scream, and he has no hands with which to grasp, and he has no lungs with which to breathe. But John’s hand still rests on the side of his face, anchoring him, pulling him in and in and in and in and in and in and—

And the world, for just a moment, narrows to a single infinitesimal pinprick of existence. A heartbeat. An exhalation. A giggle. The press of a piano key.

“Goodbye, Arthur,” John says.

The world explodes.

And Arthur’s mind goes dark.

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes gasping, lying on something very cold and very hard. His head feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton, removed from his shoulders, kicked around for the entire duration of a football game, then reattached with a staple gun. He aches.

He sits up with a groan and almost immediately falls prone again. He braces his hands on the ground behind him—stone, almost certainly, rough and cold and a little bit damp—and, after a few moments in which he waits for his head to stop spinning, he opens his eyes.

Ah. Right.

The dreamscape. John, merged with the King. Him, slitting his own throat, winding up dead.

Parker. Bella. Faroe.

None of them are here now. Arthur can hear creaking, like that of trees in the winter, and the whistling of wind through a myriad of holes and nooks and crannies in what must be miles and miles of barren wasteland, if the lack of any signs of life is anything to go by. There is no sunlight. There is no birdsong. There are no blue skies or soft beds or lazy mornings or pancakes or picture books.

There is only this. The Dark World.

Arthur is dead. And this is so horribly, awfully, painfully real.

Arthur takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and stands. He staggers, only just managing to keep his balance. There is nothing to tell him if the ground continues on before him, or if he is standing inches from the edge of a cliff. John is gone. Arthur is alone.

Arthur exhales, then looks up at what might be the sky, if this place has any sort of sky to speak of. “Okay,” he says. His voice is nearly swallowed by the wind, but it still seems far too loud. Far off in the distance, he hears something shriek. It is not human, not even close. He shivers. “Okay. Whenever you’re ready, friend. I’ll be here.”

He turns around. He picks a direction. And he begins to walk.