Chapter Text
“Ground floor,” coos the elevator; the doors scrape their way open, and Jack doesn’t move.
I’m sorry, Father, he thinks. It’s not the first time. It seems to be the only thing he’s capable of anymore; impotent apologies, all regret, no action. Four hundred years and he couldn’t come up with a cure. Defensive force fields, yes. The world’s most powerful jail cell. A weapon with which to murder his captive. All this and more, but a cure was beyond his abilities.
He doesn’t know how he’ll break the news to Mother.
At loss for anything else to do, he steps out into what used to be his office, when his work still required it. Some two hundred years ago. One tends to lose track, when the years begin blurring, and he has so few good memories of this place. So many difficult decisions made. So many failures that could have been avoided.
“You’re back.” It’s a sign of Jack’s distraction that he doesn’t immediately register the not-quite question, the uncertainty in Edward’s tone that suggests he both wasn’t and isn’t sure it was a possibility.
Jack turns to blink down at him. Edward. On the floor. Edward on the floor with the dust and dirt and god knows what else. Mice droppings. Insects. “You’re still here.”
“What, is there someplace else you wanted me to be?” Edward doesn’t roll his eyes, because of course that would be uncouth and very much beneath him. He doesn’t move at all, except to incline his head a fraction. He looks Jack up and down, clouded blue eyes hazed with worry. “You get everything sorted out downstairs?”
He asks as if he doesn’t already know. As if the failure isn’t carved into Jack’s face already. Edward’s never had problems reading his feelings. His secrets, all the things he couldn’t say; Jack himself can’t manage a similar astuteness, but Edward has never held that against him. Has always seemed to know when to comfort, to sympathise, to apply sarcasm like the surgeon’s scalpel until cancerous discouragement peels away.
You’re an easy read, Jack, he once said. Can’t lie worth a damn; your face gives you away every time.
A Rosetta Stone to my inner thoughts, Jack joked weakly. Careful what you do with that knowledge.
What I always do. Make sure no one gets to hurt you, or the family.
Jack staggers over to the wall at Edward’s side, slumping against it. He feels so strange. Weightless. He looks around the room and finds it hazy. Like peering through a curtain. The truth is veiled. And it seems his legs don’t want to hold him up any longer; he can’t blame them for demanding a break, after everything. He leans against the wall and lets himself slide until he reaches the ground.
Edward is conveniently within leaning distance. Thoughtful of him. He’s always like that. Jack props himself up against his bodyguard’s shoulder and stares up at the ceiling.
Filthy. Maybe he should give some thought to hiring a maid service of some kind. Though Mother would begrudge the expense, and Emogene would laugh at him for being finicky. Maybe Edward can find someone on the sly, as they say. With proper discretion and plausible deniability and all that. Given how good he is at hiring people.
“Edward,” Jack begins, and then forgets what he was going to say.
He feels Edward raise his shoulder slightly. “Hey, Jack. How’re you doing.”
“Exceptional,” Jack says. “I just murdered my father.”
There is a period of silence after that. Seconds, maybe; hours maybe. It’s hard to keep track of time. Edward said that, sometime earlier. He was right. He usually is. Somewhat ironic, given that Jack is supposed to be the man of science, and Edward is his equal in neither intellect nor social standing.
Not that either of them has ever cared.
“Damn,” Edward says eventually. Seconds; hours. Doesn’t really matter, and Jack feels himself smiling slightly. It’s a rare occasion that Edward doesn’t know how to respond to something.
“In cold blood, no less,” he says. “Or…maybe not? He was still in his cell, but it was a close thing. Terribly close. Lucky that new hire of yours was around to pull the appropriate levers; I must remember to give him some sort of bonus. Do you think he’d like an interesting new gun? He seems the type. Anyway, he assisted me, but I pressed the big, red button, as it were. Cold blood. Or not. Does it count as cold blood if Lorenzo was very graphic in his desire to murder me and everyone I care about? He’d have got to you eventually, I don’t doubt, though I’m also sure he would have wanted to take his time with me. He’s certainly said so on many occasions.”
Edward breathes out heavily. “In that case, I want to revise my reaction.”
“Noted,” Jack says. “What did you want to change it to?”
“About damn time.” Edward lifts his head, and Jack finds himself fixed in place by a particularly cold expression. He wants to protest that he doesn’t deserve it. But maybe he does.
“I suppose I-“
“You should have asked me to do it centuries ago,” Edward tells him. “If he was that much of a risk, if one screw-up was going to get you killed- yeah. You should have asked me to take care of it.”
Something very warm blossoms in Jack’s stomach; a stark contrast to the cold that seems to pervade the rest of him. “I was going to save my father,” he says. “The risk was worthwhile. The real Lorenzo would have forgiven me. He’d have told me he was proud that I never surrendered, even in the face of insurmountable failure. He was very much the same himself, you know.”
“I don’t give a damn what he was like,” Edward says. “It’s his son I’m concerned with.”
His son is nothing, Jack thinks. In four centuries, his son couldn’t manage to free him from his curse. And now… it’s over.
Quite aside from his bereavement, there are more practical matters to consider. The Serum, for one. The antidote to age itself. He has enough stocked away to keep himself in his current state for another century; less that, if shared with Emogene and Mother. Thirty years each, give or take a few. The merest blink of an eye compared to what they’ve lived so far.
He wouldn’t mind another century. It’s not as if he’d be alone.
“I never gave much thought as to what I’d do after Lorenzo,” Jack says. He fumbles for one of Edward’s hands; his own are so abominably cold. He thinks his teeth might be chattering. In the end he finds one wedged under his thigh, holding up most of Edward’s weight; the other is wrapped tight across his abdomen and doesn’t seem inclined to budge.
Jack settles for resting his hand on top of Edward’s free one. He’s somewhat disappointed to find that neither of them is particularly warm.
“I spent so long having nightmares about that man,” he confesses. Squeezes Edward’s hand; the texture is bark-like, rough. Mummified. He’s never minded. Some people do, or so Edward tells him. “I’d see him escaping in the night. A fault in my systems, a flaw in my defences. And there he’d be, standing over my bed, waiting for me to wake up and realise. Like the monster from the closet. I can’t even remember what I dreamed he’d do to me, but I was frightened nonetheless. So many nightmares.”
“I know,” Edward says.
“So you do.”
He does. More often than not, he’s the one who ends the horrors early. There can’t be many people in the world who enjoy waking up to faintly glowing ghoul eyes in the dark; old-parchment fingertips stroking their scalps; hoarse voice driving fear away by virtue of being a greater monster by comparison. There can’t be many who’d appreciate that.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Jack says. “You will be staying, won’t you? Even now there’s no Parsons to worry about?”
“Depends,” Edward says, more roughly than usual. “I might just bleed out all over your office. That’d be a shame.”
For the first time, Jack notes the laboured sound to Edward’s breathing. The way he presses hard on his abdomen, the way he avoids any unnecessary movement.
The hem of Jack’s laboratory coat clings to the ground. It feels damp, heavy.
“You’re hurt,” Jack says. Edward chuckles, a crackling sound like twigs in the fireplace. “Did…you want me to look at your wounds?”
“Nah,” Edward says lazily. “I’m happy to sit here and bleed. It’s fine.”
“Your sarcasm, while usually refreshing, is unhelpful at this particular juncture.” Jack forces sternness into his tone; it comes as easily as worry, and only now does it register how wrong it is that Edward is still sitting here. On the awful, filthy floor, like a common beggar. He’s been here some hours, for sure. He shouldn’t have. He should be ensuring that the way to the exit is clear, for when Jack decides it’s time they go back to the main house.
If Edward is shirking his duties, then the damage is truly dire.
“Edward,” he says, swallowing hard. “Let me.”
“Don’t trouble yourself on my account, Jack,” Edward drawls. “You never have before.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. You know full well how much trouble I’ve expended over you- if trouble is the right word, and I’m not altogether sure it is. You might as well be family. You are family. In my eyes, at least. And Mother’s terribly fond of you, she’s always calling you ‘Dear Edward’. She’s never called me Dear anything.” His hands are busy as he talks, plucking at the straps of Edward’s armour, tugging them free of their buckles. He’s a lot better at this than he used to be. The first time was a disaster that doesn’t bear thinking about. Edward still laughs about it occasionally, although, being Edward, he’s never unkind in his laughter.
“You know she only does that when she’s trying to piss you off,” Edward says patiently. He submits to having his chest plate peeled away. Underneath, his clothes are sodden.
“You should have said something,” Jack mutters. He’s not a medical doctor, by any means, but four hundred years of living means an awful lot of time to acquire all kinds of useful knowledge. And bullet wounds aren’t even a novelty anymore.
“You’re kidding me,” Edward says. “I should have said something? You mean, Jack, I can’t stand up, they shot me full of more holes than your favourite cheese wasn’t obvious enough for you?”
“I was distracted-”
“Always nice to know you care,” Edward says. The sarcasm weighs heavy on his tongue; twice as cutting as it was before his transformation. Something about his altered vocal chords. Jack’s never managed to work out what.
The wounds don’t seem to be bleeding any further. He didn’t expect they would be; ghouls heal fast, and faster still when the skin is broken. Radioactivity is beneficial, after all, and ghoul blood is a Geiger counter’s walking nightmare. Edward’s healing process is drastically accelerated the moment he starts bleeding; a sort of mutant feedback loop. A beautiful thing.
“You’ll be alright,” Jack says. He finds himself disinclined to make eye contact. Not shame, of course; not at all. He’s busy tending to Edward’s wounds.
“Usually am,” Edward agrees.
“It’s wonderful, really. The human body is a miracle of adaptation. You’ve managed to create a sort of closed circuit, where your own wounds actually work towards healing you faster. Magnificent. And I never did manage to work out how you do it.” He gives Edward’s forearm a clumsy pat. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to your aid sooner.”
“Yeah, well, “ Edward says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to make sure you didn’t have to kill Lorenzo yourself. That’s rough. You alright?”
An interesting question. Jack gives it proper consideration.
He’s cold, still, and somewhat dazed. Still not altogether certain of what’s going on; there’s a dreamlike quality to his surroundings that is starting to upset him. Hopefully not some kind of last-ditch revenge on Lorenzo’s part. Could just be the shock. It really has been a very trying week.
The problem, he thinks, The real crux of the matter is, I’m no longer sure what to do with myself.
“I’m a bit lost,” he admits. “If that makes sense.”
Edward reaches for his hand, squeezes it. “Yeah. I get that. You spent four centuries trying to fix him.”
“Despite the constant death threats, the taunts, the- everything.” Jack slumps back against the wall, trying to limit the amount of weight he’s leaning on poor Edward. Dear Edward, who so rarely complains about anything. Steadfast, thy name is Edward. “Perhaps I should have surrendered a long time ago. Too many people suffered because of my family’s secret.”
“Finished now,” Edward says. “So. What are you going to do? Where are we headed next?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Jack leans his head against the wall. He’s back to staring up at the ceiling, the water damage and stained plaster. He’ll be glad to be rid of this place. So many terrible memories.
This is where I left you for dead, he thinks idly, squeezing Edward’s hand hard enough that it must hurt- but ghouls are less sensitive to pain, as Edward has told him on countless occasions. Though, to be fair, you practically ordered me to leave. For the family. Always, the family before anything else. Before you, before us. If I were a better man, I’d have done something about that a long time ago.
He leaves the ceiling alone for the moment, turning his head to look at Edward.
“If you could go anywhere, wherever your heart desired,” Jack says. “Within the limits of planet Earth, for the moment. Where would it be?”
Edward closes his eyes. “Anywhere apart from that goddamn house.”
“Cabot House?”
“That’s the one.”
“But why?” Jack asks. “It’s a better situation than most unfortunates have, these days. We’re all safe there. Yes, I’ll admit there are certain disadvantages to sharing the space with Mother and Emogene, not in the least is the considerable difficulties we- oh, alright, it’s mostly you. Though I’d like to point out that I do occasionally undertake the moonlit journey down the stairs to visit you instead.”
“Brave of you,” says Edward. He has the nerve to grin about it. As well he should; those particular encounters have a certain atmosphere to them that is lacking in daily life. A sensation of the tables being turned. A new balance of power, on Edward’s home turf. Jack is particularly fond of it, for reasons he’s never really investigated.
“Mother would tear me limb from limb, as you well know.”
“You realise you’re trapped, don’t you?”
“I-what?” Must be in shock, Jack thinks. I’m not hearing things correctly. Misunderstanding Edward, even, which is just ridiculous. He’s always very concise. Always clear about what he wants.
He’s aware that Edward is looking at him, and with an expression that might be considered pitying, if that wasn’t so thoroughly inappropriate in the moment.
“You really need me to point out how much you hate that place?” Edward asks gently. “I will, but you won’t thank me for it.”
“Why in god’s name would I hate Cabot House?” Jack asks. Sputters, even; he realises his mouth is hanging open, and closes it.
“You’re not happy.”
“I have my work, my books, my family-”
“Emogene’s around maybe half the time,” Edward says. “Rest of it, she’s anywhere but at home. If she didn’t need your Serum so bad, I don’t think she’d ever come back. It’s not like I could find her if she didn’t want me to. And as for Wilhelmina- she runs that house like she’s the goddamn queen. That’s her right. I get it, you all come from a different time, and she just never adapted. I don’t mind. But it’s crushing you.”
A difficult subject, Mother. Alone of the family, she misses the time before the bombs fell and rewrote history; the wealthy neighbours and dinner parties, clear-cut class system. Jack’s aware he can tend towards the imperious when he’s otherwise distracted. On occasion, he’ll order Edward around like a common lackey- but he can always be reined in by a pointed, Yes, Mister Cabot. He’s only ever domineering for the duration of Edward’s patience.
Mother never did allow him to step up as man of the household. He’s borne four centuries of constant reminders that Lorenzo’s return was just a matter of time. A matter of his skill. Caustic comments over dinner, masked as enquiries into his (lack of) progress. Reminders of his failure.
Jack tip-toes around his laboratory after ten in the evening, for fear of maternal reprisal. Yes, he hates that. He’ll admit it. Has done on numerous occasions to the ever-patient Edward, who has only ever been a rock of support. Despite the indignities forced upon him.
Tip-toeing around a laboratory is one thing; having to muffle himself in his own damn household is ridiculous- and after two hundred years, he really shouldn’t have to hide that on the rare nights he does sleep, he isn’t sleeping alone.
“You’ve never complained before,” Jack says. He wishes he could think clearly. Can’t seem to snatch a coherent idea from anywhere. His mind is stuffed with cotton wool. “Is this new?”
“Been there from the start,” Edward tells him. “But I never wanted to rock the boat. It’s your life, you live it however suits you. Or doesn’t suit you, whatever.”
“And you think I’m miserable?” Jack considers it. He doesn’t need all that long. “Yes, I suppose I am. Typical of you to notice before I did.”
Edward rolls his shoulders, stretching slowly. Testing the yield of newly-knitted skin. Miraculous. “The first time we met, I told you I’d take care of whatever it was that made you look like you couldn’t even remember what happy felt like. I haven’t done that. I failed you, Jack, and I regret it. Can’t tell you how much.”
“You didn’t,” Jack protests. He sits up, jabbing Edward’s shoulder with a finger. “I’m the failure here; you’ve never done anything other than exceed my expectations. I mean, there’s- There’s never been anyone like you in all the history of the world! You mustn’t say such things about yourself, Edward. I won’t let you.”
“Can’t a man have his moment of self-pity every now and then?” Edward asks; he smiles as he does. All is forgiven, he doesn’t need to say. He’ll let Jack off the hook for leaving him behind.
If he knows Edward at all (and more than two hundred years after their temperate first meeting, they know each other better than anyone else), the issue wasn’t ever Jack abandoning him. Edward approves of abandonment in extenuating circumstances; centuries ago, in this very building, he ordered Jack to leave him behind. Crippled by radiation. Unable to even wave goodbye. But strong enough to make sure Jack left, before the land became a hunting ground for desperate men with more guns than mercy.
Radiation. The silent opponent; he gave it some thought, back when Edward’s life, and then Edward’s continued sanity, depended on the science. But Lorenzo was always the first priority, and Jack hasn’t so much as glanced at his old research in decades. Shame, really. He enjoyed it. The challenges it posed, easily as satisfying to his mind as those of the Serum and the Artefact- but with none of the emotional turmoil. What a shame, to leave good research incomplete.
“What’s it like?” Jack asks, turning to lean his chin on Edward’s shoulder. It’s very solid. Just the right height, with the way he’s slumped. Very considerate. “Being a ghoul. Is it…nice?”
Edward snorts with laughter. “Way to go change the topic. You know, you’ve never asked me that before. No, Jack, sticking me with all kinds of instruments doesn’t count.”
“Yes, but at the time I was terrified of losing you,” Jack says. “I thought, with science- I did the only thing I knew to do. Forgive me.”
“Done.” Edward goes quiet, expression grown thoughtful. “It’s not so bad. Hurts like a bitch at the start, and that lasts for a few years- but you get through that, things pick up. Shame we all look like shrivelled up raisins, but that’s life. The rads immunity is nice. And not getting old. Means I can actually keep up with you.”
“You’ll overtake me, soon enough. Now the Serum’s gone.”
“I was trying not to think about it. Thanks.”
“It wouldn’t be that difficult to make a new one,” Jack says carefully. He’s relieved to find that one portion of his mind still functions. The science is simple: radiation in controlled, diluted doses, carefully targeted, and he’s run thousands of simulations based on all the ghouls who have allowed him to examine them over the last few centuries. He’s certain he could make it work. “The entire process would take about a month, in a laboratory environment- but really, there is so much more I have to offer the scientific world, it would be a shame to let a simple thing like a human life span stop me.”
Edward stiffens. “You want to go ghoul.” His tone is abruptly blank, empty of emotion.
“Is it so strange?” Scientifically possible, and beneficial to the world as a whole. Jack believes this. He pushes against the solid steel wall that was Edward ten seconds ago, looking for a chink in the armour. “There’s so much I haven’t done yet. So many places I haven’t seen, experiments I haven’t run- I could track down Father’s ruins, in Arabia. Or venture out west and search the wasteland for ancient cities. Or specialise in some way; I’m sure there’s much to be learnt from radiation, if one is possessed of a clear head and a good laboratory.”
But, of course, Edward doesn’t like Cabot House. He wouldn’t want to remain there. He may never want to return there again, laboratory or not.
“I could make a new one,” Jack amends. “That might be for the best. A new work space, somewhere I’ve never been. No need for interruptions from our work when Mother starts rounding up players for a game of faro, eh?”
“Go back to the part where you turn yourself into a ghoul,” Edward says rigidly. “Jack. This isn’t another experiment. You can’t fool around with this and then put it aside; you can’t reverse this. It’s serious-”
“Well, obviously I’m aware of that,” Jack says. “And if you’re about to start listing side effects at me, I’d like to point out that I was probably the first person in the world to document them in a scientific manner. I know what the changes will be. You needn’t lecture.”
“It’s more than losing a bit of cartilage off your face,” Edward says.
“Yes, I know-”
“The world changes too. You ever been treated like a second-class citizen, Jack?” Edward’s expression is all distaste, bordering on the bitter. “People like me are less than human, and the neighbours let us know. Everyone does. It’s not an easy life, and especially not for someone like you.”
“I just killed my father,” Jack says.
It might not have been the right thing to say. But it’s his first reaction, a knee-jerk to the implication that difficult is not something he might be able to overcome. It angers him more than he would have expected. Yes, Edward has spent more time out in the world than him; more time among the rougher specimens of humanity, and maybe that justifies something of his caution.
But the first time he asked Jack to learn the ways and means of a gun, Jack obeyed. Assigned himself regular practice sessions, and stuck to them. Obeyed all of Edward’s orders during their travels, including the don’t talk to that man and stay behind me, and the ever irksome don’t touch that. He can learn. He’s spent lifetimes learning.
“Sorry,” Edward says quietly. “You’re right. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the thought of looking at you and seeing a ghoul.”
“Would it be that much of a problem?” Jack touches Edward’s hand, smooth like parchment. Skin stretched tight over his bones, like catgut violin string. He’s sketched these hands a few hundred times, over the centuries. They never cease to fascinate him.
“Just picturing Wilhelmina’s reaction,” Edward says. “There’s a pretty good chance she’ll kick you out. Emogene won’t care, but Mrs Cabot’s more…traditional. Took her long enough to get used to me. What are you going to do if you don’t have your family anymore?”
“Well,” Jack says. “I’ll have you. That’s an excellent start in my books.”
It’s so rare to see Edward stunned. His eyes widen in a truly satisfying way, and Jack is not much of a photographer, but he wishes he’d thought far enough into the future to capture this moment. Edward, staring at him like a man with two heads.
“Assuming you’re amenable, of course,” Jack adds, for fairness’ sake.
“I didn’t say no,” Edward snaps at him, and his tone has all the bite of a toothless adder. “But we both know that’s not something you’ll get away with. You go ahead and tell your mother you’ve been screwing the help; see where it gets you.”
“Technically, it was ‘the help’ screwing me.”
“Tell her that too,” Edward says. “I bet she’ll be really gracious about it.”
What a frightening idea, Jack thinks. There must be something terribly wrong with him; he’s actually tempted by it. Mother would never forgive him, but she’s unlikely to do so anyway. He killed Lorenzo. Murdered his helpless father, and he can’t even muster up much in the way of sincere guilt.
The light-headedness is passing; now, he mostly just feels light.
“We could always elope,” he says happily. “I have enough Serum to last me until I can set up another laboratory, if you’d prefer to marry me as I am right now. I have no preferences on the matter. I’ll even let you choose the venue.”
“Nowhere with too many flowers,” Edward says. He still sounds dazed. “You have allergies.”
“And you have an aversion to anywhere too ornate.”
“That’s just my lower class prejudice talking,” Edward tells him. “Goddammit, Jack. You had to go and spring this on me.”
“You’re welcome to think about it. We have all the time in the world.”
“Oh, I’m saying yes,” Edward says. “Obviously. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that you proposed to me in a pool of my own blood. Classy, Jack. Has you written all over it.”
“I can always ask again somewhere nicer,” Jack says. “Maybe I will. On a hillside, under the stars.”
“Risky.”
“Yes,” Jack agrees. “But it would make us both terribly happy.”
They’ll move when they feel ready; stagger out into the evening, and Edward will watch their backs while Jack locks the front door to Parsons for the last time. The lock won’t last, but the lock doesn’t matter. It’s the gesture. Gestures are important to people. Locked doors and night-time proposals. Taking the slowest route to Cabot House so they’ll have time to negotiate the fluid form of their new relationship.
The details are still hazy. But what is life without adventure? Science without curiosity? Freedom isn’t such a frightening concept after all.
“We’re free, Edward,” Jack says. He feels almost giddy. He grins at Edward, and gets an eye-roll and a resigned smile in return. “We can do anything we please. How marvellous.”
“It’s not a bad feeling,” Edward agrees. “Be nice to try something different for a while.”
Wonderful, Jack thinks, as Edward squeezes his hand with parchment-fingers. A promising concept. I look forward to exploring it to the best of my abilities.
First things first: he needs to find a suitable hill.