Chapter Text
Dr. Henry Jekyll really has come to enjoy being a Gothic Whore, despite the band’s unfortunate name.
Originally, the good doctor had only agreed to join the group to buy himself time. It was a convenient ladder to escape the hole he could only ever seem to dig himself deeper into. He had an infallible plan. He would do the bare minimum to pay his dues to the Host, and spend every waking moment not spent performing searching for a way to destroy Mr. Hyde, return to England, and be an upstanding member of polite society until his dying day. Not the perfect, no-loose-ends solution he had been hoping for, but far better than suicide.
But then he found himself growing attached.
It began with his other half taking a liking to the vampire maiden, Countess Carmilla. They’d run amok together after Jekyll fell asleep, his only evidence for their escapades being the splitting headache he’d wake up with and the weight lifted off his heart. Soon enough, the vampire began seeking him out when he was his ‘boring self,’ as she calls him, as well, and the pair would spend hours chatting over tea.
Then he took to tutoring that pirate boy, Jim. It was never meant to be a long term affair, but he was painfully aware that no one else was anywhere near qualified for the job, and the idea of the boy’s education being left to that
asshole
unpleasant
vampire
Vlad
made him more than happy to take up the mantle. It helped that Jim also happened to be a miracle student, soaking up information like a particularly dry sponge, and had his own lot of stories to tell that captivated the doctor just as much.
The final nail in the metaphorical coffin, (Dracula would kill him if he touched a real one,) was one Winston Smith. Dr. Jekyll had tended to the man during the weeks following his… arrival , and during the extended period of time it took to heal his broken bones and get his body to stop eating itself from starvation, they talked. They soon found themselves being the other’s beacon of normalcy in an increasingly strange cast of characters, and thus became very close friends. Their Host had brought plenty of truly fascinating technology along with Winston, and once he was healed the man was more than willing to explain (and demonstrate!) their functionality.
With each day that passes, Jekyll finds himself belonging more than he ever had in 19th century England. With each day that passes, he finds himself wanting to leave less and less, and his work on eradicating Hyde has drastically slowed because of it.
He sits in the common room one quiet evening, (or what he assumes to be evening based on his drowsiness, the sun never rises in their Host’s little pocket dimension,) Winston across the room, diligently tapping away at his keyboard, and flips through an interesting textbook that was undoubtedly stolen from another reality. Months ago, he’d have staunchly refused to even touch such an item, yet alone use it, but nowadays he finds himself willing to be a bit more problematic, at least among friends.
Of course, no good thing can last forever. The relaxed atmosphere is promptly destroyed by their Host throwing open the doors, an unconscious man hanging limply from one arm, and an ethereal, glowing trident being twirled around in the other.
It was going to be one of those days, it seems.
“Good evening, gentlemen!” The Announcer cheers as if he isn't carrying a dubiously willing man around like a toy, “I’d appreciate some assistance, here!”
Dr. Jekyll immediately rises, abandoning his book to steal the man from his Host’s arms and check his pulse. Steady, thankfully, if a bit slow. He lifts the man’s head to get a look at his pupils, and his breath catches in his throat.
The newcomer looks incredibly similar to the Host. Remarkably so. Slightly younger, and with only half of his face drenched in that eerie, shadow-like substance, but still visibly related. Brothers, possibly? The doctor glances up at the Host, concern marring his features.
His Host waves a hand dismissively. “Ah, he’s fine, I assure you, just a tad difficult on the walk back.” The Announcer attempts to answer Jekyll’s silent question. He whistles, catching Winston’s attention from across the room.
“Winston, friend, would you please pick a room for our new friend and set this down inside?” He asks, holding out the deadly weapon he had been playing with a moment earlier.
Winston pulls off one side of his blocky headphones, obviously having not been listening, and-
“Oh, bloody hell, you have got to be kidding me.” The frail human curses as he walks right up to their taller, stronger, demonic Host, snatches the trident from his hand and baps him over the head with the blunt side of it like a misbehaving cat. A far cry from his initial wariness of the local authority figure. Jekyll can't help but feel pride well up in his chest.
“Ouch!” Their resident eldritch abomination whines, clutching his head. “What was that for??”
“You said you were done kidnapping people! ” Winston barks, pointing the trident at their Host in an accusatory manner.
“This one was justified, I swear it! He was in mortal danger, we all agreed that I'm allowed to step in if someone is in mortal danger!” The Announcer frantically defends. “Besides, he’s- he’s- he’s my brother! I had to!”
That gets both humans in the room to pause. Jekyll’s eyes meet Winston’s, engaging in a silent conversation going something along the lines of ‘Is that a remarkably stupid lie?’ ‘Who knows?’
After a tense moment, Winston sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, allowing the trident to rest in his grip.
“Fine.” He concurs. “But you're on time out once he’s settled.”
“Not fair!”
As Winston continues to chew out their leader, Dr. Jekyll slinks away to tend to the newcomer, their enigmatic Host’s questionable younger brother. The resemblance was there, no doubt, but something about the way the Announcer admitted to it seemed haphazardly made up.
‘No matter.’ The doctor thinks as he gently carries the man (creature?) into the bedroom he had converted into a makeshift clinic, ‘I can always ask once he’s conscious.’
Dr. Jekyll gently sets the newcomer on the bed and sets off to work, tidying up the strange bite, claw, and electrical wounds that litter his arms. The tedious work is typically comforting to the doctor, the repetitive motions can actually be quite calming, but the variety of wounds makes him more concerned than he would be otherwise. He knows from firsthand experience that the Announcer can get violent on his escapades, but these didn't look like his work. Just what had this young man gotten himself into? His eyebrows crease with worry.
The next few minutes are spent doing all he can to ensure his patient’s swift recovery, and soon enough, the only other thing he can give the young man is the time to heal and, hopefully, wake up.
His work finished, for now, he picks a book off the shelf, sits in the plush chair across from the bed, and waits.
With any luck, he’ll be conscious by dawn.