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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 9 months

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Never Tell - a Malevolent fic

Arthur and Bella Lester are not in love. They came together as friends, to protect each other, to give one another the freedom to live—and love—as they pleased.

Having a child was supposed to be part of that—quieting the rumors, providing a shield. But it wasn’t one baby; it was two… and something is very wrong with their golden-eyed son.

A Malevolent AU.

Warnings for mentions of historical homophobia and medical practices. Also a deeply irreverent Bella.

AO3

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Arthur sat in the waiting room, numb, frozen; he could smell his breath, and the booze on it, but wasn’t in the mental space to care all that much. Bella was alive, but not by much; she’d bled badly, so badly, and that was before they had to do the C-section. And he hadn’t been here. He had not been here.

“Mr. Lester?” said the doctor. “Please come with me.”

Arthur just looked at the doctor, feeling dead-eyed, then followed him deeper into the hospital.

Here and there, babies cried. Laughter rose, or excited babble. People happy with their situation, with their mess, with their family. Arthur felt sick.

He was a fraud. He shouldn’t be here. This was wrong. He shouldn’t even be playing this role—

There she was.

“She should pull through,” said the doctor, “but it was touch and go for a while. She needs you, Mister Lester.”

Was that chiding, perhaps even condemning a tone? It should be, Arthur thought. Sure, they wouldn’t have let him in the room while she was giving birth, but that wasn’t the point. He should’ve been at the hospital, and he wasn’t. So. “Sure,” he said, and headed toward his wife.

She looked like hell. Bled white, her dark curls more than a little matted, her lips more pale than pink. Then she turned into blur.

Arthur wiped his leaky eyes, pulled the chair up to the bed, and sat.

She must have heard the chair. Bella’s eyes were shockingly blue in her pale face, like a painting done in only two colors. “Hello.”

Arthur swallowed. “Hi.”

They looked at each other, a wealth of secrets thick between them like glue. Bella sighed. Her voice was weak. “Both of them are okay.”

“That’s what they told me,” Arthur said.

“I was half-sure you wouldn’t show up,” she said, and there was no censure in her voice.

They both understood. He appreciated it, still. “I… I couldn’t just… leave you, not now, not while…”

“The good news,” Bella said like announcing a dinner menu, “is they sliced me up down there, not just my belly, so nobody will blame you for not making any more babies any time soon.”

Arthur choked. Put his hand over his mouth. And made a sound that was neither laughing nor crying. “Bella, what the fuck?”

Bella smiled. “Gotcha,” she said.

“You always do,” he said. “I’m so sorry I did this to you.”

“Hush. Kept us both safe.” Because it had. Quashed rumors. Calmed parental fears. Soothed ruffled societal feathers. “And now we’re done, and we don’t have to do it again.”

Arthur sighed. “You probably should be a bit more concerned for your own survival right now than whether or not I have to stick my prick in you again.”

“No,” said Bella. “Priorities.”

Arthur laughed weakly and took her hand. “I’m so sorry. Maybe we should’ve just faked it. Pretended a miscarriage.”

“This is better,” she said. “And it’s done, anyway. So.”

“Fuck.” He held her hand in both of his now. “I haven’t seen the babies yet.”

Her smile was amazing; a smile he'd seen when they were teenagers, in school, and thought they could get away with anything. “They’re beautiful.”

“They probably look like a couple of wrinkled potatoes,” he said.

“Potatoes are delicious,” she said.

He snorted. “What, we’re going to eat them?”

“Would it be any worse than anything else we’ve done?” she said, and then closed her eyes for a moment, worn out from joking.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said, soft.

“I can smell why you weren’t.” Again, no censure.

They’d been married for seven months, and was grateful for her forgiveness. She'd handled all of it so much better than he had. “I'm still sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be. In your place, I honestly might’ve been across the border already. Screw all of this. Let’s go make bootleg liquor in Canada in the woods for the rest of our lives.”

He almost laughed. “Don’t tempt me. We’d make more money than my jingles.”

“I like your jingles.”

“They’re stupid jingles.”

“They’re money-making jingles, so they can be as stupid as they need.”

He was finally able to smile—weak, but there. “I hate this.”

“Me, too. But… if it had to be someone, Arthur… you’re still the best option I know.”

It was wrong. This marriage was wrong. They both knew it; but they were both trapped. They hadn’t known another way to save themselves. He still didn’t. “Well. Survive. Get better. And when you’re out of here, we can all go to Canada and make booze in the woods.”

“It’s a deal.” Her squeeze was weak. She closed her eyes. “Could you tell them I’m thirsty?”

“Yeah.”

“Go see the kids.”

Arthur hunched.

She knew he did, even though she wasn’t looking. “It’s all for nothing if we don’t keep up appearances.”

“If we’re lucky, they got your brains instead of mine,” said Arthur.

“If we’re lucky, they got the best of both of us,” she murmured. “That Twilight Sleep shit is something.”

Morphine and scopolamine, given as a matter of course to mothers in labor. “Must be, if you’re cursing in a public place.”

“Fuck ‘em. They can handle it.”

“It’s all for nothing if we don’t keep up appearances,” he said.

“Ah, ha,” she mumbled, and fell back asleep.

He held her hand a moment more. He liked her; he really did. She liked him, too. That was the only reason this worked, and they hadn’t killed each other or someone else or actually run to Canada.

Arthur sighed and rose. It was time to go see the little parasites that changed the course of his life and Bella’s—protecting them both, providing “proof” that neither of them were queer.

It had been fun at first. Then it had been… sort of sick.

But they had to. Massachusetts wasn’t friendly to queers. This wasn’t Greenwich Village. A guy could go to jail for suspected sodomy, and he’d never get his life back even if he did get out; and just 1913, they’d gone publishing entire studies proclaiming women who loved women were perversions .

There were people pushing back, yeah; men who dressed pretty, women who wrote stories showing how good that love was. Musicians who were out, bold, brave.

Neither Arthur nor Bella felt inclined to do that. To take the heat. To be the faces people aimed for when they punched.

So they'd decided to help each other. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Fake it; make a baby, get married, quell all the rumors and whispers and pointed fingers. Then they could do what they wanted with their lives, and nobody had to know.

But then Bella’s dad had made it a big fucking deal (and Arthur suspected he knew , and did not approve). And Bella had not carried… well. She’d been sick most of the pregnancy; it had been a last-minute decision for her to go to the hospital instead of the usual home-birth.

He was glad they’d done that, now. He didn’t like this. Nobody liked this; this fake marriage, this forced situation. But he liked her. He didn’t want her to die.

Arthur dragged his feet on the way to the maternity ward, feeling a million years old instead of twenty-one. All around him, people talked, chattered, laughed; babies cried, and people seemed happy to hear that sound.

Arthur wiped his eyes. It had all seemed like such a smart idea. It felt like being trapped now. Trapped forever, the rest of their lives. Too late to pull out. In every sense of the word.

The hospital smelled awful. That was why he felt so nauseated, he decided. Sure.

They were waiting for him, smiling nurses, putting on a show (though he could see they were tired) for all the panicked, eager, hopeful, terrified dads who wandered in.

It felt like stepping up to a guillotine, walking through that door. Like this was what made it final, this was signing on the dotted line. This meant no going back.

“They’re healthy and beautiful, Mister Lester,” said one nurse. “Congratulations!”

“Twins,” said the other, unnecessarily. “A boy and a girl.”

“Your wife didn’t name them,” said the first. “She said you already knew what names you wanted.”

That bitch. That glorious, funny bitch. He’d give his left foot to be as funny as she was. His lips quirked. “Sure,” he said, mentally scrambling.

They reached into the bassinets and held the babies up. They didn’t look like anything. Squashed tomatoes. Eyes tightly closed, tiny mittens covering their hands.

“Your daughter,” said the one nurse.

And Arthur knew. “Faroe.” Because that was his grandmother’s name.

“And him?” said the other nurse, holding up his son.

That was harder. He didn’t know anybody he’d want to name him after. Eh. A generic name would do. An ordinary, strong name so nobody would look at him sideways. “John,” said Arthur.

The names were written on the dotted line. For better or for worse, it was done.

“Bella said she was thirsty,” he shared, and the nurse went to deal with that. But before she did, she handed him his son.

Arthur had no idea how to hold a baby. He took the squashed tomato, nervous, trying to support the head, surprised at the solidity of such a little thing, of his warmth.

Then John opened his eyes, and they were solid gold.

Not yellow, gold, gleaming like metal from lid to lid, like wedding bands still polished behind glass. Arthur froze.

The other nurse came up beside him, holding Faroe. “You’re in for it,” said the nurse with forced cheer. “Twins! That’s a whole other ballgame.”

Arthur gawked at her, then looked down again, but John's eyes were normal—blue, if abnormally steady on his face. “Oh,” said Arthur, because he didn’t know what else to say. What the hell had that been? Was he cracking up?

"Twins tend to be each other's best friend," said the nurse, standing close.

And maybe Arthur was cracking up, because these babies were very new, practically grubs with limbs, but he could swear they were trying to reach for one another with their tiny, mittened hands.

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NOTES:

I have plans for this fic. It's gonna be slow going, since I have several others I want to finish first, but I couldn't risk this seed getting lost. It's gonna be a fun ride.

#malevolent #malevolent fic #malevolent fanfiction #malevolent podcast #john doe malevolent #malevolent pod #arthur lester #malevolent AU #bella lester #faroe lester #john lester #never tell fic

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 9 months

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NEVER TELL, Chapter Two - a Malevolent AU fic

Arthur discovers he wasn't wrong about his son being weird with golden eyes.

And discovers there may be a cost to caring for him.

What is the price for helping the helpless? It's not a fun thought for a self-centered man to consume.

Listen, we are getting dark. Some body horror. Also horrible non-consensual things, though not too explicit. Dark. Please heed the warnings.

AO3

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They sent Arthur home with two babies, a recipe for breast-milk substitute involving malt sugar and cow’s milk, and instructions for diapers that went right over his head (but fortunately someone thought to write up for him). The basket-weave baby stroller was an older model, what they could afford, and supposed to be big enough for two babies. Arthur thought it was already too small.

The whole way home, Faroe cried. She cried as if she missed her mother, as if she knew this fake family was not complete. John never made a peep, but watched Arthur, more steadily than he felt a newborn should watch, but then, what did he know? This was the closest contact he’d ever had with children of any kind.

Faroe just kept crying .

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said to her. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

John huffed.

What an odd sound to come from an infant. A frustrated sound.

“Fuck, I never even had a puppy,” Arthur muttered to no one, and did what he could to soothe her as he walked.

What he could involved making faces (which did not work), holding her (which did, but made handling the carriage too hard), and finally, singing to her.

That worked right away. Maybe Bella had been right, and they’d heard him singing in the womb. They both stared in his direction when he did that; as long as he kept singing, they stayed quiet, so Arthur sang them home.

He stopped in front of his door to search himself for his keys. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

John huffed as if to say, no shit.

“Get used to me apologizing,” Arthur said. Finally, key located, he got their creaky, paint-peeling door open, and wheeled his babies inside.

His babies . He’d thought nine months seemed like such a long time when this plan started; now it didn’t seem nearly enough to prepare for a thing like this.

He stared at their single-family space. It had already seemed too small with just him and Bella rattling around in it. They were really good friends, and slightly less good roommates, but it would work. It would be fine. It had to.

Arthur looked at the sheet of instructions in his hand again and tried to calculate costs. They already paid $35 for their space in this triple-decker, including utilities, which was a steal. It even had its own bathroom, which was a new and neat thing. It cost about the same amount a month to feed just the two of them. Bella was brilliant and kept their clothes in good shape, so they didn’t have to buy more, but fabric was still a cost; and now this.

Now them. Now all of it. And they’d calculated, they’d budgeted, they’d figured it out, but… Bella obviously was fired once she started showing. The money she brought in now was through sewing, through word-of-mouth, and it was good, but not reliable. There wasn’t any way to predict how much work she’d get in a month.

Arthur’s job was no better. At least sugar was affordable these days. They were very lucky prices had dropped.

Maybe he should give up this music thing. Maybe it was time to stop dreaming and humming and get a real job, something with a steady paycheck. He made one, small sound of pain. To even consider that was…

He couldn’t do it. “I’m selfish, kids,” he said to them, wheeling them through the living room area (which was also the kitchen, which was just damned embarrassing). They had a Murphy bed. The pantry was bigger than the kitchen. The bathroom was just big enough for a tub and toilet. How was this going to work?

Faroe had worn herself out, and was sniffling now in a resigned sort of way.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, scooping her up. “I don’t know how to do this. But I guess you don’t know, either, huh? First time being a kid, right?”

Faroe stopped fussing. So that really was it: she wanted to be held.

His heart did a funny little jolt. He thought it might be a happy jolt.

These two were dependent on him. That settled in a weird way. A good way. He put Faroe down and picked up John.

John, who just… watched his face.

They were dependent on him. He’d spent his whole life staying away from that kind of responsibility (from what, he’d decided in his early teens, had driven his parents to suicide), but here he was.

It wasn’t their fault, these kids. It wasn’t their fault they’d been born to a selfish man. “I’m gonna do my best for you,” he promised John, and kissed his forehead.

John wriggled.

Arthur put him down. “Heh. Wish I had more arms. I’d hold you both.”

John wriggled as best he could in his swaddling.

“Okay.” Arthur looked at the paper. “You’ve been fed. Your diapers are fresh. They showed me you were burped, so… I guess… what do we do now? Wait?”

Faroe was fussing again. He picked her up, and she stopped. “I need to write, though,” he told her, bouncing her a little and supporting her head as he’d seen the nurse do. “I can’t do that if I’m holding you.”

John made a sound. Was it fussing? It wasn’t crying. It was a little ha of demand, somehow.

“All right, all right, you get a turn,” said Arthur, feeling a little more capable as he put Faroe down and scooped John up.

John seemed content with this.

“What am I going to do with you two?” said Arthur softly, maybe just a little fondly.

Someone knocked on the door, and he almost jumped out of his skin. “Who in hell…”

Faroe cried. Arthur put John next to her and answered the door.

“You forgot to pick up your milk today,” said Daniel with great disapproval, and held out the sealed jug.

For the first time all day, Arthur genuinely hoped the smell of what he’d drunk had faded. “Daniel! You came!” That two-cent phone call had been worth it.

“I was late,” said Daniel, who, for all his many flaws, at least never denied he had them. “May I come in?”

“Yes, of course,” said Arthur, reminding himself that Daniel had seen the place before, and had never drawn a parallel between it and his own fancy brownstone in New York, and had never directly done anything to make Arthur feel like he was failing as a man, o r that Arthur himself had done anything wrong.

Which he hadn’t. (Except according to society, sociology, the church—)

“Thank you.” Daniel wafted in, smelling of expensive tobacco, and paused taking off his coat. “She didn’t come home with you?”

“She… she’s in the hospital,” said Arthur. “She bled badly. Almost didn’t make it. She can’t come home yet.”

It was always strange to see real emotion cross that vaguely angry face. Arthur had decided three months ago that Daniel maybe wasn’t actually angry; that like a hound dog, his face just did that . Whether that was true or not, the concern there was deeply real. “St. Mary’s?”

“Yes.” The coat went back on; it hadn’t even made it past one freed arm. “Don’t you want to meet them?” said Arthur.

On cue, Faroe squealed. It was the sweetest sound Arthur had ever heard; so happy, so… free.

“Yes, of course, I… of course.” Daniel hurried over. “Oh…”

Arthur came at a slower pace.

Faroe was… well, she was being winning . Wriggling, smiling, one mittened hand against her dimpled cheek, squealing again as if to say hello.

John was just looking at Daniel.

At least, Arthur told himself, John’s blue eyes matched Faroe’s. What the hell had that gold thing even been?

Daniel’s voice was tight. “They’re beautiful.”

“Do you want to hold them? The diapers are clean, and all.”

“I will go see my daughter first,” said Daniel with dire condemnation (or, Arthur hoped, he just sounded like that). “I’ll return here after.”

Visions of the two of them sharing the Murphy bed briefly made Arthur insane. “What? Here? Now?” He reddened in response to Daniel’s (possibly) chiding look. “I mean, it’s a long trip back to New York, and…”

“I’ve taken a hotel.” Daniel’s tone was wry. “Do you feel particularly prepared to handle two infants alone?”

“No, not particularly,” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his head.

“I’ll be back later. Bella has not been an infant for a long time, but I remember some things.”

“Sure. Thanks.” Arthur knew he was being ungracious. “And thanks for picking up the milk. I forgot.”

“On a day like this, I wonder why?” said Daniel, and headed out. “I’ll see you soon.”

Arthur sighed and flopped into one of their two chairs.

Unable to see him, Faroe began to cry.

Arthur stood and picked her up, then sat again, and pulled the carriage closer so he could rest a hand on John. “I don’t know how to do this,” he told them again. “But that’s not your fault, is it? None of it is. You didn’t ask to be born. We did that. I’m going to do my best for you. I promise.”

John’s head was turned to him. His little face was so grim, but then he did an amazing thing: he reached, and wrapped one tiny hand around Arthur’s index finger.

Arthur stared, mouth open.

Faroe finally fell asleep in his arm, but Arthur didn’t move to put her back. “Guess that’s a deal, huh?” he murmured to John, moving his finger just a little as if shaking hands. “You’ll be the best babies you can be, and I’ll be the best dad I can be.”

John said, “Ah.”

Arthur smiled weakly. “We’ll get through this. It’ll be worth it. I swear to God, it will.”

John huffed again as if to find that oath dubious.

“All right, fine. I swear on my piano.”

That appeared to be acceptable to the four-hour-old child, who huffed, wriggled, and settled down.

Arthur was so godsdamned tired. Maybe it was all right to just sit for a minute. Maybe things would be okay.

The dream was a weird one.

Arthur played in his favorite speakeasy. The men here were always ready for a good time, and usually closer to his age than some underground places. The air was blue from smoke and bad ventilation; the low hum of conversation caressed his skin with promise, with anticipation for stress relief, and he couldn’t wait to finish his set and mingle a little (or a lot) before going home.

But something was off. Arthur couldn’t see anyone off-stage. It wasn’t like he could normally make out faces while he played, but there were always shapes—man-shapes, tables, candles on those tables. Servers moving around.

Tonight, there was only one shape. A single table, with a single male form, sitting there and watching him play.

Well, dream-logic said that guy mattered, then, so Arthur played to him.

Played with slow, crooning passion, played sensual jazz and smoky sounds. The beat he’d picked, the pulse, was fully intentional, a biological rhythm, referencing the easy and steady movement of bodies joining as one.

He played sex, and he hummed it, too, and he aimed it all at that lone table.

There was applause when his set finished. (There always was.) He grinned crookedly at the hands he could not see, and finally descended from the stage. There were people out there, logically; he knew there had to be—but he couldn’t see them, couldn’t feel them. Could only hear them, laughing and conversating beyond his view.

He reached that lone table.

The guy who sat there was white, attractive in a symmetrical way. Brown hair, medium-length, just long enough to look deliciously mussed. Skin that saw enough sun to avoid being pasty. The black suit was mid-range, not crazy expensive, but not daily worker poor, either.

Arthur couldn’t figure him out. If he was a cop. If he was here for the purpose of this place. If he was safe.

“Aw, I’m not that scary, am I?” said the guy, and grinned. “Sit. Down.”

Arthur sat without meaning to do it at all.

He went stiff. What had just happened?

“You know, you’re not who I thought he’d pick?” said the guy, leaning in, and Arthur blinked, and Arthur shook his head, because for one fucking second it looked like this guy was covered in blood, but he was not, he was not—“I thought he’d pick the dame, but he picked you. This might’a not been his smartest move, you know? But I guess having a baby brain will do that to a guy. Phenomenal cosmic powers… iiiitty bitty living space!” And the guy cracked up.

This… was it a dream? Arthur was no longer sure. “I… I think I’ve got to go.”

“Aww, and after you tried to seduce me and everything?” The guy clamped down on Arthur’s arm, and it felt like a vice, it felt like a metal cuff, it felt bad. “No, no, no. Not until we’re done. Cute, by the way. That was good stuff. Very catchy.”

“Catchy?” said Arthur, trying to wake up, trying to pull away, trying, again, to wake up .

“Catchy! An ear worm. It sticks in your head, drives itself in. Though I gotta say, Artie, as someone who’s had firsthand experience with real ear worms, it’s an unfair name. Ear worms writhe; they dig deep into the ear canal.” He moaned, and it was the most indecent sound Arthur had ever heard, and his body reacted even as his hindbrain said, RUN . “Biting and gnawing at the flesh… they’re near impossible to get out. It’s enough to drive someone mad!”

Arthur was turned on. Arthur was horrified.

“Mark you down as scared and horny, huh? Sure, sure, I get it,” said the guy.

“Let go,” said Arthur with more confidence than he felt. “This is a good establishment. You can’t just… it’s gotta be consensual.”

“Oh, is it, Artie? Is it? Because it sure seems to me that I can do whatever I want to you right now, and nobody’s gonna say boo .” And his fingers bit in.

Bit in, pierced the flesh, chomped right down to Arthur’s bone.

He screamed. Pulled back, or tried, but got nowhere.

Blood spilled over the table, sprayed on the candle. Poured out with such force and such volume that part of him knew this couldn’t be real, except he felt it , felt himself deflating, felt like he was going flat as his blood began to rise on the floor.

He whimpered.

“Oh! Oh, that’s a pretty nice sound. Huh. I like that,” said the monster.

“Let go!” cried Arthur, and for reasons he could not possibly understand, tried the weirdest volley ever: “I’m a father!”

The guy did let go. And started to laugh.

The laugh was worse. Worse than the biting grip, worse than the feeling of deflating , worse than all of this had been, and as Arthur tried to crawl away (shocked at how warm his own blood was, splashing up his limbs), the laugh followed like a knife, pounded into the ground on either side of him.

He was suddenly flung to his back, and the guy was right over him, pinning him down. “He picked you , buddy. That makes you fair game.”

“What?” said Arthur, afraid he was going to drown in his own blood. It tickled his chin, rose toward his cheeks, glopped and stuck and sloshed as he tried to get free.

The guy grabbed the back of his head and pulled him close. “Listen up, Artie,” he said, low. “I don’t repeat things, so this is the only time you’re going to hear it: dump the boy.”

Arthur stared at him. Stared, mind stalled silent.

“If you do, this all goes away. We don’t look for you. Nobody bothers you. You live your stupid, human life, short and pitiful, and maybe you make the tiniest ripple, but more likely, you don’t. But we leave you alone. If you don’t dump him…”

And the guy kissed him. Hard.

It hurt. It was fucking incredible. It was devouring, demanding, brooking no quarter, giving no choice , and Arthur struggled to break away from it and pull the guy toward him at the same time, smearing blood all over the guy’s hair and suit.

The guy broke the kiss, panting, and his eyes glowed fucking red. “Keep the kid, and you will suffer. Oh… oh! You will suffer , more than you knew a living person could. There will be no respite. No safe place. No one to pray to. Keep that boy, and every last second of your life will be spent cursing the day you spurned my favor.”

Arthur gasped, erection hard, heart pounding, trying fruitlessly to get away, unable to pull out of this guy’s iron grip. “Favor?”

“I warned you.” The guy grinned. “That’s how good you played. You earned a warning. ”

Arthur stared at him.

“Ciao,” said the guy.

And Arthur woke up.

Woke with a start, woke with a gasp, woke realizing almost too late that he had a baby girl in his arms, and he kept her, didn’t drop her, but she startled awake at his sudden movement, and the sour odor told him she needed her diaper changed.

Faroe bawled. She’d gotten scared.

He held her close, standing, walking, willing his erection to go down, willing his stomach not to upchuck, willing himself (without effect) to understand what just happened and to know it was not real.

“I’ve got you, baby girl, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, pacing with her, and glanced over at his son.

John stared at him, face long with fear. He was so still. Frozen. Hands unmoving, no wriggling. And his eyes were solid gold.

Arthur did not need to see a pupil to know that John was staring at him.

He paced, holding Faroe, bouncing her a little, trying to calm her down, but his gaze stayed on John.

This… this moment.

This moment felt bigger than any he’d ever faced in his life, and he didn’t even know why.

It was a dream . A fucking stupid dream , meaningless, born of stress and living a life of lies, nothing more than that.

John’s golden eyes watched him, and his baby’s breath came fast, tiny nostrils flaring.

Faroe had mostly quieted. Arthur kissed her forehead. “Sweetie. I need to deal with your brother right now. Okay?”

She was fucking six hours old and couldn’t possibly understand him, but she did , and sniffled, sort of bapping his cheek with one mittened hand.

He placed her in the carriage and picked up his son.

John was stiff as a board. Scared. So terrified.

That was okay. Arthur was, too.

He didn’t pace. He held John, looking at him. So warm. So solid. So real. “I had a weird dream, kid,” he said.

John’s already short breathing picked up.

“You know that, don’t you? Or you know… you know something happened.”

John whined.

On instinct, Arthur walked to the bathroom to look in the mirror, and discovered his lips looked bruised.

Red. Swollen. Like someone had fucked the hell out of his face.

This did not feel good. He took a slow breath and looked at John.

John was still. John was golden-eyed. John was… helpless. Whatever else was happening here, whatever fucked-up weirdness was going on… John was helpless.

Arthur had been helpless in his life. It wasn’t a good place to be. “You’re scared, huh?” he said softly. “Whatever just… whatever I dreamed, it’s got some effect in the real world. That guy wants me to just leave you outside to die, or something.”

John was beginning to cry, but not like a baby. Tears welled in his eyes, sliding down cherubic and rosy cheeks, but he did not make a sound.

John was helpless.

Arthur had been helpless. After his parents died. When he’d been handed from person to person, and finally over to horrifyingly abusive people, against whom he’d had no quarter, no way to say no , no guardian to hide behind.

Arthur hated that helplessness , more than he feared the guy and the blood and the pain. Far more.

“I’ve got you, John,” he said, low, and it was a vow. “I won’t toss you out. I don’t know what that guy was saying. I don’t know what’s in store. But I won’t…” he had to swallow. “I will not leave you helpless like I was. Okay? This… this queer guy has you. I don’t have power. I'm living a lie, and it's all... it's all bad. But whatever I have, it’s yours. I won’t leave you helpless and alone.”

John’s tears kept coming, but they changed. He gripped Arthur’s finger again, tight in one minuscule hand, and his eyes went back to blue.

Whatever this deal was, it had been accepted.

Arthur didn’t know what this deal was. He knew he’d pissed off that guy. And maybe… that was it. Tonight, when he slept, it would be over.

If it was, Arthur understood he would die with the knowledge he’d been true to himself, and what other way to be was there, really?

He kissed John’s head. “Don’t know much,” he said. “But I know your sister needs a change. Okay?”

“Ah,” said John.

Arthur put him down and got to work learning how to give a newborn a brand-new diaper, and clean up the mess he found inside.

Somehow, that seemed the perfect metaphor for this entire day.

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