Chapter Text
All Jon had wanted was a decent end table for his new apartment. Since he'd taken on the Head Archivist role, there was a decent increase in his pay, enough to justify a new place. It was closer to work, which was nice, but also smaller, which was acceptable. It had been a long time since Jon had needed space for another person in his life.
Also the new apartment allowed cats, which was very exciting. Not right now, as Jon was settling into his role, but once some of the… stress of the new position had faded, then certainly.
The point was, Jon needed a decent place to put his glasses and water and books at night, so he was spending his day off trawling through the antique stores, hoping for something nice, but not expensive. He'd even retrieved a small fold of money from the ATM to ensure he wouldn't overspend.
The store he was pecking through was in dire need of better lighting, at least a third of the tubes overhead faded or broken. This, in his opinion, boded well for the search; a more run down shop probably wasn't taking too much of a profit off the top, if they couldn't afford new fluorescent tubes.
There were old electronics (including some rather niche games he would have gotten very excited about if he were still sixteen), a lot of old books (nothing that looked terribly impressive, the place had probably already been picked clean by collectors), and a truly extensive collection of intricately glass-blown clowns (no thank you). All the usually detritus that an antique shop was contractually obligated to accept, like the unwanted kittens of the interior design world.
There were, thankfully, a selection of short tables and drawers that were worth browsing. Jon turned his body at angles to walk between the entirely too narrow paths made by the furniture, tiptoed and bracing himself to keep from falling.
A smear of dust remained on his hand. Sighing, he tried to blow it away, then impotently patted his hands together to clear the worst of it away.
There were plenty of dated and terrible pieces to wiggle past before he found the one he liked. Immediately, it felt good to him; a very dark stained wood, a locked top drawer, no visible water stains, and what he hoped was genuine brass hinges and knobs. He liked it immediately.
As he bothered the shop clerk (who seemed to be the only person on duty right now) to unearth the squat little table, he explained the benefits of brass fittings, how they acted as a natural antibacterial barrier, and that was why they patina'ed so swiftly.
Jon thought it was interesting. The clerk didn't seem as enthralled.
"We don't got the key to it," they told him brusquely.
That was disappointing. "You don't have a, a thing, a narrow metal bit to…" The clerk gave him a flat look. "Well, I'll see to it myself once I get it home."
Out of curiosity, Jon shook the table. Something inside rattled, but it sounded very small, bouncing off the angles.
It was probably the key, with his luck.
Getting it home required a very sympathetic cab driver, but was infinitely better than the alternative. The very idea of carrying the heavy wood down into the underground was harrowing to consider. Instead, Jon was dropped off by his new building, and tipped the cabbie extravagantly for the trouble.
The ordeal took the entire day, but Jon chose to think of it as worthwhile. The dark wood looked very stately next to his bed.
There was the matter of the drawer. He really wanted that lock. There wasn't even anything Jon thought of as so valuable he needed to hide it, but having the possibility available had its own allure to it.
So he put on the news in the other room, cranking the volume a tad so he could listen as he sat in front of the end table with a butterknife, a longish nail file, a few unfolded bobby pins, and his phone open to a page with helpful pictures of how to pick a lock.
He sincerely doubted that an antique drawer lock would be complicated. The nail file slid into the lock, and worked well enough as a handle to start to pull the keyhole to the side as he did his best to push the pins up with his hair pins.
Three pins later, and the locked turned, and Jon let out a crow of delight. It was eminently satisfying to pull off.
Pulling the drawer free, Jon found a brass key (perfect) and a ring.
The key he moved to safety outside the drawer. The ring was cool between his fingers as he examined it. It seemed very simple, a gleaming metal that seemed equidistant between gold and silver. So white gold, perhaps? He had no idea, but the surface was beautifully whorled with curves and lines that brought to mind the inside of a tree.
He slipped it on his finger. It fit his middle finger immediately.
A little too well. As Jon put away his improvised lockpicking tools, he tugged at the ring. It slid up to his second knuckle and refused to move beyond it.
Sitting on the sofa, Jon watched the news while gamely attempting to take off the ring. Before long, his attention slipped, and he left it there, adorning his hand. After all, it wasn't hurting anything, and when he looked at it, his gaze would often slide off to focus on anything else.
He forgot about it.
Like a deep frost slowly beginning to thaw, the ring woke as it nestled in against the warmth of a living thing.
These things took time.
Faced with the reality of his new position, Jon knew he had a tremendous amount of work to do.
The former archivist had left the records in a terrible state, for a while, Jon had literally no idea where to start. For a while, he simply looked through the boxes of files, sometimes sorting an individual box by date. But then it was a singular microcosm of what could eventually be a sense of order. In truth… fuck, what was he supposed to do?
For the first time, he had people answering to him. He was head of department now, and there was no one to go to, to ask for a plan of attack.
He sat in his office, looking at the new, so far empty file cabinets he intended to fill with sorted files. Gnawing his lower lip, he reached down and spun the ring around his finger idly.
To hell with it, he'd digitize everything. Putting things into order in a cabinet? Pain the the arse. Hitting a button to sort by statement giver name or statement date on his computer? Easy, beautiful, elegant.
With a plan in mind, Jon's anxiety ebbed, thankfully releasing him as he opened a new document file and started to outline a standard operating procedure to share with his team.
Movement stirred it further awake as it took in an awareness of the world, one built of sensation.
The ring had another vessel. That was true.
The vessel was alive. That was true.
They had a somewhat erratic heartbeat. Tension and worry thrummed through them as they moved and curled their fingers and did their work. The ring could feel the spikes of anxiety from its throne around the vessel's right hand.
Some things were eternal, however; when they were upset, when their hands were idle, they always returned to giving the ring simple attention. Their fingerprints lingered on the ring's surface with every anxious spin.
The ring was so relieved to have a vessel who needed protection. This was what it was here to do.
Unfortunately, while it felt the steady heat of life withing it, there was dry cool air around it. It wouldn't do to be caught in its work. So, it waited.
All vessels had to sleep eventually.
There was so much to do, doubly so now that Jon had created a plan to work with. As he passed out copies of the new archival Standard Operating Procedure, Sasha had seemed skeptical, her attention on the page arch and foreboding in a way that made Jon fold his arms behind his back, fingers pressing into the ring on his finger to idly turn it.
He had to prove this would work. So, he wound up staying later than everyone, trying to make some headway on the plan. He brought in a laptop (he could requisition a work computer later if he wasn't sacked in a month) and got to work.
Martin scanned papers for him, and Jon grouped them as needed, adding metadata, willing this to work, to be a hard, necessary turn for the archives.
It also meant he stayed late, later than anybody.
By the time he staggered into his apartment, Jon was drenched in exhaustion. Remembering to lock the door was an ordeal, and he whined softly as he retreated to the entryway to slide the chain in place.
After that, he shuffled to the sofa, abandoning his shoes.
He needed sleep. He had a bed just one room away.
It was one room too far. Jon sank onto the sofa, toed off his shoes, and fell over. Even with only a throw pillow shoved under his head, he was asleep in moments.
This is what the ring was waiting for. Finally, its vessel was still and quiet, their blood settling into the languid pump of slumber.
With every spin of the ring on that finger, more tension and excess energy was siphoned away. It was plenty to start with.
The strands were thin and light, extending out from the ring to explore the dry, warm human skin around it. They crept silently over the back of the vessel's hands, stretching cautiously to find the hard bone of his wrist. There was the perfect point to secure, spinning and weaving more strands until the completed a band around the vessel's wrist.
As they slept on, it spun more threads, opalescent and invisible under the dim light from the window. Across the palm ran more threads, and outward, wrapping around more of their fingers.
It took all night, the work meticulous and exploratory. In the end, an illusory fingerless glove stretched from the ring, the ring that was now the start of something more.
As the vessel slept on, it flexed, pulling on its disparate lines, and felt how the vessel's hand bent in response.
It was perfect.
There was so much more work to come.
Some of the statements were refusing to be digitized and Jon was doing his best to be as calm and professional about that as possible.
Why there weren't obediently recording to the laptop, Jon didn't know. He didn't want to know, either, as the idea filled him with dread.
Because the thing was, the statements that resisted the digital microphone were… odd. They got under his skin in ways he didn't like. And nothing felt worse than having to re-record one of them because the audio file dissolved further into static as the statement went on.
It was… eerie.
Jon cupped his face with a palm and rubbed idly at his skin, trying to keep himself under control. The last thing he needed was for— for Tim or Sasha to ask him about the statements that resisted the process. If he implied there was something the matter, then…
They might know how out of his depths Jon truly felt.
Closing his eyes, Jon pushed his glasses aside and covered his eyes with his palm. Sitting there in the dark, his skin smooth against his face, was helping. It did something.
He'd need another solution. Another way to record.
God, he might have to ask Martin of all people. Martin, who wouldn't gossip and who might know of a method that was a little more… analog.
Dragging the tension out of his face, Jon sat up and breathed. He could do this.
The vessel's cheeks were a little rough with prickly stubble as they dragged their finely meshed glove against their face. Underneath, their jaw was nice, their skin was smooth.
The ring looked forward to touching it more, but for now, the vessel was asleep, sprawled across their bed in a boneless mass of limbs.
The poor thing was exhausted every day, their life grinding them down. They were of great fortune, to come across the ring before so casually endangering the tender components that made their body.
The ring could at least do something about the trouble.
As they slept soundly through the night, more threads began to tentatively grow, stretching gossamer filament upward. There was the incredibly vulnerable span of their inner arm, the decadently soft skin covering the fact of their pulse. The ring-turned-glove-turning-more pulled lines over that tender spot, and spun the lines together, forming another pearly mesh under the cover of night.
The path upward, under the soft flannel material of their pajamas, was a long one, and the vessel's heartrate slowly increased as they began to traverse the sand-soaked path back to the waking world.
As they licked their lips and began to stir, the threads pulled, tightening, the loose mesh coming together into a solid layer of silk.
Just as it finished, the vessel rolled over and rubbed their face. In moments they were rubbing their neck, letting out a low, drowsy hum at the sensation.
The array of recorders that Martin sets out over the desk all share a few characteristics. They are all heavy plastic, the sort that isn't used much anymore, that feels like it could survive being run over by a lorry. They are all adorned with weirdly satisfying buttons that made loud cli-unk noises. And they were all devoid of packaging and showed some signs of wear.
"There— there weren't any at any of the stores I checked. Actually, the clerk at Maplins had a laugh about me even asking," Martin said, his voice that tense gripped fist of nervousness. "So I tried some antique shops, and lucked out, I think?"
Jon picked up one of the recorders, a smaller one that fit in his hand just barely. "It's amazing what you'll find in an antique shop," Jon murmured. "They all function?"
"Yeah, yep! I checked them all." Martin smiled sunnily. His face had a round softness to it that seemed out of place in the dour academia of the archives. "Going to start with the, ah, the Watts file?"
"It's a longshot that this even works." Jon clicked the buttons, from the rewind to play to pause all the way down to the red record button, where his thumb lingered. "Tapes?"
"I have tapes! I bought a box of them! If this works then, maybe then I'll— I'll buy some more."
"Make sure you keep the receipts," Jon intoned, and took the box as Martin handed it over. "Take the other recorders, make sure they're available to the pool."
"Sure, sure." There was that smile again before Martin picked up the rest of his antiquated AV haul and left, shutting the door behind him.
The breath went out of Jon all at once. Progress. As he pulled the Watts file closer, Jon rested his cheek in his hand. His good hand.
It was all the long hours he was pulling in, working to make a serviceable system on the computer. The cramp in his right arm started it seemed like under his shoulder blade, like he was smuggling a pebble under there, and twinged all the way down to his thumb as he rotated it around. What was particularly vexing was his left arm was fine. Actually it was loose and limber to such a degree he felt almost lopsided.
Reaching over, he tried to massage his aching hand, pulling the fingers one by one backward to stretch them. He could feel the tension down his forearm.
He couldn't sit there forever. There was work to be done. Probably another late night for him again.
At least while he read the statement to the tape recorder, he could keep trying to press some of the knots out of his arm. His palm skated smoothly up and down his skin.
The ring eagerly waited for the vessel to return to their home and to give into some relaxation.
This part, it knew, was paramount. It had fully sheathed one arm, but there was another still wild. More than once, a vessel had gone feral too soon and forced the ring free. Once, the ring had held on too tight, and a knife had been involved. It still remembered the terrible agony of the vessel, the pain it felt as they cut the finger loose.
And it remembered the end of its awareness as the digit bled out.
This vessel would be different. They were less astute, for one. Through their days, they stroked their hand against the silk, spun the ring in moments of anxiety, unthinkingly pouring more attention into the weave.
Now, in the quiet of the night, the vessel laid their head back against the sofa and dropped into a deep, calm sleep, like a stone into a pond, faltering and falling after two skips.
The thread raced across their back, speed over beauty for this singular important moment. Finding the junction of their shoulder, it looped threads around, drawing into position. Braiding a loose band there, the spread continued, encompassing their bicep, down to the wrist.
It had just managed to secure a hold on the wrist, with an extra loop around the thumb for safety, when the vessel stirred and woke suddenly.
The ring did not understand fear, but it stilled in anticipation. This was too soon, the threads were haphazard and loose, not thick enough to force the issue yet, to tighten the mesh to seal shut.
However, it was very late at night. All the vessel did was go attend to their teeth before wandering to bed, flopping gracelessly onto their back with their arms draped around their head, one hand tucked under the pillow.
And then, they were asleep again.
The weave continued. It threaded through each finger, coated the palm, filled out the shape of the sleeve. As the boundaries were pushed and taken, the threads retraced and thickened until it was time, and everything pulled together. Taut, laid flat to the skin, the other arm sealed safely.
The vessel's arms enveloped, it pulled slowly down, testing the grip. Together, their arms bent, shoulders drawing down. Then, back up, pushing them against the bed until the vessel's back arched slightly. Not enough to jostle them from their sleep, but testing.
Pleased with their slumbering carrier, the weave settled in to indulgently repair the hurried stretch of threads that spanned their back, between the shoulders. The opal panels widened, filled out into something delicate and impenetrable.
And between the shoulder blades, the silk reworked itself, loops and points coming together to form an ornate filigree. For now, a secret. Someday, a beautiful emblem pressed to the vessel's skin, demanding admiration and attention.
Tentatively, Jon thought he was making this work.
As of yet, he wasn't sure to do about the taped statements. They refused to be added to his new catalog thus far, but at least he could separate them out and sequester them into their own file cabinet, getting them out of the way as he continued to work through the archives.
But there always seemed to be more boxes. More file boxes with more files with more papers to read through. Mostly absolute drek that was wasting his time.
However, it did give him a break from the more stubborn statements.
Speaking of, Sasha found him in the stacks, trying to divine which of these boxes wouldn't require a tape recorder to process. She brandished a sheaf of papers at him, at the same time reaching out to turn him with a light hand on his forearm. "Weird one here, mentions that Gerard guy, I think?"
Jon turned, bending his neck to look at the page. "By name?"
"Well, no," Sasha admitted. "But there's a man with poorly dyed black hair who really wants a book."
"I didn't think Leitners were widely known," Jon remarked, taking the statement from her hands to start skimming through the pages. "Have you tried to digitize it?"
"Yeah, nothing but static." She gave him a thin smile, and her hand ran slowly along his arm to his wrist, her fingers gliding over his skin.
He shivered, and Sasha's hand whipped back. "Oh. Oh my god, uh," she said, pained.
"Sasha—"
"I don't know what came over me, I'm so sorry." She put her arms behind her back, face flushed. "That was inappropriate. I just, this is not an excuse by any means, but you have very smooth skin? Oh no, that's not better," she finished, expression agonized.
"It's not, no," Jon said. "But, I think we can let this slide? Mutually?"
"Thank you. It won't happen again. Really sorry." Backing up, she shot him a tense smile, and vanished beyond the stacks.
Right. Jon took the new statement and retreated to his office, reaching down to rub his arm where she'd touched it.
It felt warm.