He disapparated, pressed his back against the brick of the alley wall and gaped at his wand. For weeks nothing and now this, experimentally he lifted his arm, “Conicio.” The garbage can lid he had been aiming in the general direction of was suddenly lifted from its position and thrown against the alley wall; it clanged and ricocheted, before falling to ground. The sound echoed through the alleyway, but was quickly muffled and then swallowed up by the sounds from the street. Cars, and shouting, and just people, people going about their lives.

Atlas turned and watched the activity happening no more than 100 yards ahead of him. A woman walked by pushing a stroller, chatting to an older woman beside her. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but then again he wasn’t hearing much of anything. It was just white noise, a low frequency persistent buzzing. Someone had once told him that was the sound of the air pressure adjusting in your body, someone else had said that it was what happened when you lost the ability to hear certain sound frequencies, someone else had told him it was the sound that the ocean made when you pressed a shell to your ear.

No, he shook his head, turned from the mouth of the alley and stalked down the opposite direction. No time for that now, he couldn’t allow apophenia to distract him. Couldn’t waste time, time, he pulled his pocket watch from its place in his right breast pocket, it had recovered nicely from Jasper’s ill treatment….No, he shook his head again, focus, not the time, later, later. 5:00 time when families sat down to dinner together, he had called his mother to tell her he wouldn’t be able to attend. He was busy, work to do, things to attend to, she had understood, and he had ignored her when she asked what was wrong.

In snatches of lost and repressed conversations he had learned where Calixtus lived, small unassuming apartment, in a small unassuming neighborhood. Atlas wondered if his neighbors could sense something was wrong. That inert warning against danger that you felt in your gut. Muggles had places where you could identify thieves and murderers and where they lived in your neighborhood, Atlas wondered if they might make a system to classify Calixtus’s kind of monster. His fingers sought out and found the buttons of his coat, he did them up with deft quick little movements. When that task was complete he replaced his watch and then adjusted the fingers of the gloves covering both of his hands.

He breathed carefully in the cold air, eyes closed, he saw Darien’s face and he opened them, blinking rapidly until the image cleared and he was left looking at the lack luster graffiti coating the walls all around him. He swiped his sleeve over his nose, as he came to the other end of the alley and climbed the steps to enter the building. He stood outside the door, muttering concealment charm after concealment charm, building the spell until it hummed. Muggles didn’t see things they didn’t want to and so they wouldn’t see him. The hallways were narrow and dark, but the apartment was easy enough to find. He removed the highlighter that wasn’t a highlighter from his pocket, pressed it to the door. The ink turned a sickly yellow. One heartbeat, one occupant, good, best. Another flick of his wand and he was in.

The world shrank, compressed, nothing but a hallway and doors, all closed, except one. Time, time got very short the longer you stood in one place. So he didn’t. He was through the door before he realized he had moved, Calixtus was only half turned toward him, not enough to see him yet. Atlas rushed him, he couldn’t see Calixtus’s hands, the man could have a gun, what a silly thing to be afraid of. One arm extended into the chemists line of sight, hovering before Atlas clamped it down against the mans throat. He used the grip to pull himself flush against Calixtus, he snaked his second arm around Cal’s chest. Atlas could feel his heartbeat, and it only made the anger worse.

“Don’t move.” Was the only advice he gave before he apparated away from the place. Atlas waited until he felt the world reforming around him, until the aparate was almost complete before he let Calixtus go. The force of the spell propelling the man forward and hard against one of the stonewalls of the basement. Atlas stood stoically, undoing the buttons and shrugging out of his jacket. He threw the item aside in disgust his skin crawled as if he had touched a leper. The hand not holding his wand flexed around the parchment, crushing the fragile material, his other hand he held with his wand aimed downwards at Calixtus. “Look at me.”

Dark blue light filtered into his lab. The television flickered in one corner, a spot of brightness against the cold, like a banked fire. The remains of a pop-tart lay on the counter, scattering crumbs onto the floor. Beside it, a straw rolled fitfully back and forth beside the traces of black powder on a curling bit of cardboard. His iPod still sang in one corner, in a tinny, tiny voice. He had long since discarded these shells of distraction, the incidental gateways into a focused world, sorted according to no particular moral or epistemological order, but sorted nonetheless.

The current potion, a titanium and unicorn's blood alloy, bubbled restively. He needed nothing, now, to focus on the equations at hand. Shallah had given him all the pre-spelled ingredients he could wish for. Sometimes he forgot to breathe and remembered, lungs working shallowly, some seconds later. He focused on the blank world of mathematics. Pure form comforted him until he realized it had quite enough room for human frustrations (his own) and Meaning and so on and so forth.

After some span of time, he wasn't sure how long, he set down his pencil and snaked his hands carefully around behind his neck. Lacing his fingers together, he cracked a few vertebrae, then lurched forward, catching himself on the edge of the lab table. Right. He had filled tweny sheets of paper with his latest calculation. Was it time to add the dragon's claw? Up toward the clock; no.

Some noise. Jasper? Cal half-turned. He had expected--

Sudden movement. He glimpsed a blur of sleeve and flesh and then someone's arm was locked around his neck, had him in a chokehold, Who was it, who--

“Don’t move.”

Cal's breath had caught. He swallowed and felt he had swallowed part of his throat. Slime and lemon and a blade and the sharp breath of panic. Atlas wouldn't--was it Atlas? Had to be, was it--someone from Shallah--Atlas--what did he--

The apparition, when completed, sent him sprawling. He landed with a meaty smack against the wall and fell, slid, tried to catch himself on one leg, fell. Huddled, arms up, warding Atlas off.

"C--" He couldn't speak, all the wind had been knocked out of him. He gasped, chest heaving, arms up, still, arms up, it was futile anyway, damn him. "Wuh-What do you--"

“Look at me.”

Cal flinched behind his fingers but slowly lowered his hands--a hair--and looked.

He had never seen Atlas looking like this. Not when he had broken his wrist. Not. It was something. Was it him? What did he want? What did he know? His heart fluttered in his chest like a caught bird. Sh-t. Garrow. Did he--how did he--Cal's breath heaved and raked his lungs and larynx. "You can't--" He flinched again, blinked, body contracting defensively, half up on one knee, but where could he go--

One of Calixtus’s hands was against the wall, his fingers nails white from the pressure of digging into the plaster. The other was up and protecting his face, Atlas hadn’t moved yet but he wouldn’t have to, not now, he could feel all the magical ability that had left him pulsing through his body. His hand twitched around his wand as he watched Cal writhe, the motion of similar to knight crawlers when you put them on hooks. The squib seemed to be determined to do anything other than what Atlas had commanded and Atlas had no intention of repeating himself.

So he waited as Calixtus curled in on himself, tried to stand, stumbled, and then finally looked at him, through his fingers like a child checking for the boogey man. Calixtus eyes roved over Atlas face, always moving never stopping to stare for to long. His body jerked, back pressed into the wall breathing rapidly and looking for a way out, no such luck. When he spoke the words tumbled into the air and collided with one another, he said no more than a clipped and desperate, You Can’t…. before he lost his nerve and folded back into himself.

“There is nothing I can’t do, Ferox.” He aimed his wand. “For example, traho.” The spell wrapped its way around Cal’s wrists and Atlas angled the wand downward, dragging the man’s hands away from his face, holding them to the side. He flicked the wand again, lazily and watched as the muscles in Cal’s neck strained, fighting the binding spell as Atlas tried to force him to make eye contact. Atlas remembered the bruises on Jasper’s neck, his eyes narrowed and he wretched the wand ignoring the grunt that came from the other man.

“What did you do Cal?” He asked, tone mirroring the one he had used in the alley. “Did you think it was funny? Was it wonderful? Was it good? Was it fantastic? Did it make you feel a part of something?” His voice stayed level, he never shouted, he needed his energy, he could use the fury to fuel it. “I was starting to doubt myself, I thought maybe I was wrong. I was tired and grief stricken and crazy so maybe I was prejudiced to. Deflecting blame onto the squib.” He folded his arms, wand now resting in the crook of his arm. “But I wasn’t wrong. How could you?!”

He took a moment to collect himself, deep breaths; he rolled his shoulders feeling the cathartic pleasure of the bones cracking. “You almost got away with it to, Law Enforcement doesn’t even know you exist….but I do. And you made everyone you came into contact with accomplices, spread your filth around, me, Jasper, we helped you kill a man and tear a girls soul out of her body.” Atlas crouched, coming to Cal’s eye level. “His name was Darien Holywell, he was a medi-wizard with a bedside manner to combat Hypocrites himself, who never lied. Her name is Kate Derum, a kid chosen at random, and left in an alleyway in the middle of London. Did you know them?”

“You hid yourself well,” He stood up suddenly, letting the binding charm go. Turned back to the table at the other end of the room, glancing over notes. So many little places where Cal had dug in and masked his hand in things. So many places where it seemed he had intentionally let others take credit. “I know what you did….” He turned back to the trembling man who had made no effort to move thus far. “But I’d like to hear you say it. So Calixtus,” Atlas folded his legs one over the other and leaned against the table tapping the tune to ‘oh danny boy’ on the side of the table. “What did you do?”

Cal didn't realize he'd bitten his tongue until he tried to speak again, and tasted pain. He shouldn't be so afraid of Caedmon. He was Atlas, after all. He was--he--

“There is nothing I can’t do, Ferox.”

Suddenly he had become a spectacle. Cal extracted his teeth from the mass of his tongue and felt, for the moment, numb. It was only Atlas. It was only-- “For example, traho.”

Inanely, Cal noted the suave nonchalance of his wand movement. It echoed Jasper. When had everyone begun to echo Jasper? Then his hands were wrenched to one side, his whole body jerking in the grip of a spell. He hated this one. He hated it. He felt like a fly in a spider's web. Scrabbling legs and very small and black. His body jerked. He tried to rip his eyes away from Atlas (give him the satisfaction) but the spell caught his jaw and throbbing skull in cold fingers and wrenched him in place. He felt tendons stretch with minute popping sounds.

For just a second he felt the triumph of the absolutely powerless. Hot anger welled in his stomach. He tasted righteousness and the it was eclipsed by the more accurate fear.

"What did you do Cal?" Atlas looked nearly as strained as Cal felt. Nonetheless his face retained some of the eerie expressionlessness--as though he didn't quite control the rubber mask of its features--that always put Cal off. He knew his own face was all writhing jaw muscles and squeaking teeth and snot. What was Atlas talking about?

But of course he knew.

But if he pretended not to know--what should he--what was Atlas capable of? He was mad, maybe more truly mad than Cal was--he didn't know. Garrow, it was abput Garrow, somehow he'd gotten proof...

“Did you think it was funny?"

Cal felt disgusted at the question. It had so little to do with--taunting. Caedmon was taunting. He sounded eerily calm, but his tight grip on the spell that held Cal's body taut belied the tenor of his words.

"Was it wonderful? Was it good? Was it fantastic? Did it make you feel a part of something?”

Rote, rote, a kind of cliché. A terrifying kind of rote--the words, frivolous (wonderful, good, fantastic) held overtones of something horrible and pool-blue and rot-brown. Something of ordinary socialization and also completely--not. Cal panted through clenched teeth. It wasn't worth answering. It wasn't. He glared.

“I was starting to doubt myself, I thought maybe I was wrong. I was tired and grief stricken and crazy so maybe I was prejudiced to. Deflecting blame onto the squib.”

Cal's back, twisted into an unnatural shape, sent a neon ray of pain up his side. He hardly noticed, but he did notice that when his body tried to jerk itself out of position it couldn't. Stronger than Leo's binding spells, then.

“But I wasn’t wrong. How could you?!”

"You seem to have no trouble crossing ethical--" He panted again. Atlas wasn't listening. He was off in his own world, terrifyingly. He cracked the bones in his shoulders. For the first time Cal was aware of just how large Atlas really was. Larger than Cal, Jasper, even Leo...

“You almost got away with it to, Law Enforcement doesn’t even know you exist….but I do.""

"What are you going to do to me, Caedmon?" The words dropped into the chink of a pause and disappeared. He held his breath.

"And you made everyone you came into contact with accomplices, spread your filth around, me, Jasper, we helped you kill a man and tear a girls soul out of her body.”

Atlas came and crouched beside him. Cal met his gaze but thought of something else. He thought of--accomplices? Jasper had--that's right--the first thing he'd helped him with. Cal realized (and he didn't know why he hadn't realized it before)--Jasper would--he wouldn't accept that Cal had been a part of--it hit him like a hammer. He'd lost Jasper. That was it. Suddenly nothing made very much difference or very much sense. He felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to his guts.

"--name was Darien Holywell, he was a medi-wizard with a bedside manner to combat Hypocrites himself, who never lied. Her name is Kate Derum, a kid chosen at random, and left in an alleyway in the middle of London. Did you know them?”

Now Cal was crying. The spell seemed to have worn off a little, because his chest jerked back and forth in the air. He didn't know why he was crying, exactly. Jasper. Jasper and the people Garrow had killed. But of course he hadn't intended--he hadn't cared--it was all to--it was all for his goal. Magic. And Garrow would have worked his mischief anyway. He had only given him the equations. But the Mediwizard, a young girl... Cal tasted salt, spit, snot. He wasn't crying because he felt guilty. Something was rotten, or withered, internally; he couldn't feel that way. He was crying because he felt trapped and he had lost everything and he was susceptible to Atlas's sudden attack of the maudlin. It was all sensory. It was all... Tears dripped off his jaw.

“You hid yourself well.”

Suddenly he was free. Cal fell forward onto all fours. The floor was gritty and all over dust and stone. They were in Caedmon's basement. He hung, head down, for just a moment, then wiped his face with one sleeve. Where had he put the vial? He always kept it somewhere... one of his pockets. If he started to pat himself down, Atlas might notice. But no; he'd turned away. Cal groped frantically through the inner pockets of his coat. Sh-t. Where--there. His fingers closed on the cork of the flesh-melting potion and he worked it loose, tucked his hand into his sleeve, went back to hands and knees

“I know what you did…." Atlas turned back. "But I’d like to hear you say it. So Calixtus.” Eerily, Atlas tapped a tune out of syncopation with his words. And then. He. Stopped. “What did you do?”

He struggled for breath, and, slowly, sat up. He kept one hand in his sleeve. Slowly. Slowly, he raised his head and looked Caedmon in the eye. "I." He paused to wipe his mouth and nose again, with a crosswise swipe. "I sold my formulae. To anyone who asked. I created refinements. I provided additional potions. I worked for Garrow. This isn't your... what are you going to do to me, Caedmon? Are you this--this f-cking blind? Are you--do you think taking me apart w-will--" He paused to gasp out a breath. "--you've already, anyway, already--you--" He sank back, unable to say Jasper's name. "Let me go. Just let me--anything. Doesn't matter."

Calixtus was slow to move making small shuffling motions as he continued to cry into the floor. He supposed a display of grief was something, but rather than causing any of Atlas’s righteous anger to dissipate it seemed to make it worse. Unexpected…Cal racked a sleeve over his face, rearranging the dirt and spittle from the center of his face to the side. The man’s head was bowed, all Atlas could see were his eyelashes fluttering as he blinked rapidly, the vertebras in Cal’s back were visible every time the man took in a shaky stunted breath. Everything about Calixtus was stunted, like some Igor, maybe that was why Garrow had worked with him. Mad scientist and crazed assistant all in one.

I. Atlas stopped tapping, leaned forward. Calixtus was looking him in the eye with no spell to facilitate the motion, progress then. The sleeve of his right arm lifted again and Cal scrubbed at his face before letting the hand fall back and take the job of supporting his weight.

I sold my formulae. To anyone who asked. I created refinements. I provided additional potions. I worked for Garrow. This isn't your... what are you going to do to me, Caedmon? Are you this--this f-cking blind? Are you--do you think taking me apart w-will— Cal took a breath and Atlas took a moment to stop his teeth from grinding together. Confessions from Calixtus mouth, a list, a litany and still the persistent question, ‘What are you going to do to me?’. It was a good question, difficult to answer. But something was missing from his admission. There was no motivation; no crowing about some master plan, what Cal has said was simple but overly so.

Fletcher and the other Unspeakables had been under duress to do as Garrow said, he was their employer there boss, it wasn’t the same with Calixtus. He would have had to be willing to work with that man, eagar… and what would he have continued to do?

Let me go. Just let me--anything. Doesn't matter.

“No.” He said automatically, an easy answer to something that hadn’t been a plea.

“I don’t think that’s an option.” Atlas took a slow step forward, in his head ticking off a list of spells and enchantments that he hadn’t had cause to use on anything except target dummies and rather uncivilized duels. Some of them he discarded others were added to a mental queue, waiting their turn. The shook of a broken bone had caused speedy unconsciousness last time, that wouldn’t do. “I am going to adjust the air pressure in your chest cavity.” He said in a soft tone that didn’t match his words. “And you’re going to tell me why you did what you did. It’s a series of four spells, fairly elementary but dangerous when combined. You could deflect it, a basic block would do. A molase, modassa, a stripdo. Or you could just disarm me, expelliamus. They teach it to wizards in first year.”

Cal looked as if he might try to curl up again but this wasn’t a spell where aiming was very important. Atlas didn’t have to utter the first two incantations the later two he enunciated clearly, carefully. The balance inside the human body was a delicate thing, any mucking with it could lead to disaster but if there was one thing Atlas could be it was meticulous.

Of course not. Cal, through the shifting, panting screen of dread, knew it at once. He'd been there. Everyone had an edge, beyond which they stopped functioning rationally, beyond which the clear, hard shapes of human decision blurred, streaked, and disappeared. The edges to Atlas's world were probably always murky. Cal was beyond his own. They were in the midst of a marsh of mist and dark rocks together, Cal in despair, Atlas in anger. He could scream for help, but it would only echo out and vanish.

“I don’t think that’s an option.” Atlas stepped forward. Inside his sleeve, Cal closed his fingers carefully on the potion vial's top. Slowly, slowly, he began to unscrew the top. Half turn. Single turn. Two turns. It took four. If he could just get out--if he had--did he have the button St. Mungo's had given him? Did he--no--in a flash he saw it left behind in his overcoat pocket.

“I am going to adjust the air pressure in your chest cavity.” Cal was momentarily surprised. The way Atlas had begun speaking (I am going) he had thought, maybe, he was going to say something pointless and innocuous. Cal recalled, in hideous detail, what air pressure adjustments could do. The equations were visibly present, as was the image, in bright relief, of what had happened to a marshmallow in a vaccuum.

“And you’re going to tell me why you did what you did." Breath out. Was it his imagination, or was it already harder to breathe? No, he would start the other way if he wanted Cal to talk. How could it be Atlas, really Atlas. It was as though a television killer had put on that rubber mask. "It’s a series of four spells, fairly elementary but dangerous when combined," he continued, still ghoulishly calm. "You could deflect it, a basic block would do. A molase, modassa, a stripdo. Or you could just disarm me, expelliamus. They teach it to wizards in first year.”

Cal's breath caught again. Atlas or someone who knew the same touch-points. As Atlas, as Jasper. He had lost Jasper. He had to--It would have hurt more to--hurt--it had begun to hurt. Something pressed outwards in a way that it shouldn't have, above his liver, spleen--bladder--he jerked to one side--it hurt. Spots began to form in front of his eyes.

Atlas would not do this, he wouldn't--he stared up the long tube of perspective and saw only a black outline. If it were not. If--Jasper--

"N-no. I didn't--"

Half turn.

"--I didn't--"

Half turn. The lid popped free, and, through the crippling, squidlike pain, Cal jerked forward and threw the vial at the figure in front of him.

Atlas kept his hand steady as Calixtus jerked on the floor in front of him. Moving really only made it worse, pressing the air into new and different cavities of the body, even if you knew that it was nearly impossible to stay still. It was a gut reaction, automated and foolish but the mind could only overwhelm so much of the body’s natural whims.

N-no. I didn’t— Atlas increased the pressure, if Calixtus didn’t have anything constructive to say why should Atlas spare him the breath. —I didn’t—. He was making little fumbling movements, the exaggerating ones of his torso and legs but Cal seemed to be exerting a great deal of effort to keep his arms from following the motion. Why?.

Cal looked up at him, his eyes glazed but alert. Something in the room made a popping sound, Atlas faltered wondering if he had misjudged. The body had a few non vital organs to space but not that many…if the spell had reacted in the stomach or the intestines they would have a problem, he moved toward Cal, left arm out to try and steady the man when he jerked and from the corner of his eye Atlas caught site of a liquid, bright chartreuse, acid. Atlas moved back but not fast enough to avoid contact, the area below his elbow lit up, the acid tearing away at the minimal fabric covering his arm and then went to work on the skin. He hissed, almost clamped his right hand down onto the wound, to scrap at the potion, but he knew that would be irrational.

Growling he turned away, he could smell his own skin burning, unpleasant, like burnt fat and gristle. There was no way humans tasted like chicken. Something crunch under his foot, he looked down to see the vial, 100 ml max…. enough to burn, to hurt and to scar, but not enough to eat through the whole arm. An extraction spell wouldn’t work; the liquid was already bur roughed into the skin and without knowing the exact composition of the potion it would be hard to treat accordingly.

As was the case with any burn the incorrect treatment could be worse than none at all. Forget it. Atlas turned back, blinked at Cal’s prone form, the man was silent but writhing hands clasped against his chest. He’d forgotten about the spell, he watched with detached fascination as Cal’s chest caved, then he let the spell go. Waited a moment while Calixtus gasped and refilled his lungs.

“That didn’t answer my question.” Atlas grated out. He summoned the body bind up without having really thought about it, approached and surveyed the mans pockets. He didn’t find any other nasty surprises. Atlas reached down with his right hand and tugged Cal upright, considering for a moment before turning his arm and driving the burnt patch against Cal’s neck, there wasn’t enough acid left on the surface to eat through more than the first several layers of skin, but it seemed only right that Atlas should share the pain.

He almost thought better of it, the contact sent a wave of nausea through him, but the way Cal’s eyes watered and the way that his hands twitched trying to break the bond made it bearable. Atlas pressed the tip of his wand against Cal’s stomach. “Tero.” The spell was a stronger version of a punch, a favorite among those who weren’t particularly physically powerful. Atlas dropped his arm but kept the blows coming only letting up when Cal was back on the ground.

Atlas hissed as he shook out his arm. “Why?” He crouched next to Cal, tilting his head until he could make decent eye contact. “If you don’t answer me with something coherent I’m going to use a bone charm. Increase the growth speed of the bone in your femurs exponentially until bone spurs tear out of your legs. I’ve only ever seen it done once. Girl grew horns right out of her skull, it took six minutes for her head to crack open and another ten for her to die.” He went back to tapping with his wand.

It didn't work--it might have worked--Cal had a moment of elation and then the world went black and blue edges. He. Could. Not. Breathe. Amidst the strobing, blinking dark light, nonlight, nothing, everything, he glimpsed Atlas again, back up, hadn't gotten his face, couldn't--

couldn't--

breathe.

Suddenly he could again. It hurt the way unaccustomed things did, as though his body had been crushed and built anew, out of painfully rigid sticks. He gasped. His lungs filled. Something hurt; his ribs, had he broken something... he remained conscious only because he was filled with the eerie expectation of something worse. And. He had to. Keep thinking of Jasper. It would distract him and it was painful enough to let him ignore the rest of it.

“That didn’t answer my question.”

Atlas sounded pained, but not enough so. Cal growled out an inarticulate, rasping response and then he was in a full body-bind, fingers splayed, pinkies at their utmost uncomfortable extension, lungs and ribs aching. He thought of the non-physical. Why? Why was this. Why. Why was he so angry. Now Atlas had lifted him, hiked him up by his collar, and his arm--

Cal caught a bloody, slimy, meaty glimpse of what had happened to the skin and flesh and then warmth against his neck. And then acid pain. Skin. It was only the skin. How much was left? How much--what would--it couldn't eat through to his windpipe but maybe it could get to a major artery and then it was gone and only a stinging, burning, stinging, creeping--it would continue to eat away at the flesh until he performed the innergo charm.

"Tero." Something smashed into his gut, and Cal felt his body double over. Tero again, convulsion again, right over the ribs. Atlas let him drop.

Tero. What kind of person could--he could not even imagine his current situation. It was unimaginable. It was off the class of things too horrible to be true and therefore it wasn't true. He would get through it on the clear, cold fuel of rage. After this he would kill Caedmon. It was quite simple. That was all. Tero. He doubled over again. The body-bind had half-worn-off, perhaps the result of a lapse in attention. He gagged and spat blood.

“Why?” Atlas knelt beside him, face still in a falsely bland rictus. He had Cal by the hair, head tilted back. His neck twinged and he let the pain collect with all the other pain in the burgeoning fuel-store of his anger. His teeth squeaked and slipped. He wanted to spit on Caedmon but he had never mastered the skill of spitting, he had only--seen it in films--he hadn't--

“If you don’t answer me with something coherent I’m going to use a bone charm. Increase the growth speed of the bone in your femurs exponentially until bone spurs tear out of your legs. I’ve only ever seen it done once. Girl grew horns right out of her skull, it took six minutes for her head to crack open and another ten for her to die.”

Atlas's eyes looked dark and utterly steadfast. Inhuman. Like.

Heee. In. Huuuh. Out. Breath. Heee. In. Out. Don't react. "The potion I used... needs a counterspell... or it'll... it.... ull... eat through your arm. My neck. Need to use innergo. Use... look. I didn't--I worked for him. He commissioned spells I had been... interdimensional spells. My purposes were--I didn't--" He paused to swallow and tasted blood. "--I didn't finish the spell, that was him, the other... F-fletcher. I didn't mean... I didn't... I wanted to work with dimensional rifts, not--souls--that wasn't my. I didn't. All I wanted was--magic, I thought--use the spell on me, damn it, what would Jasper--you can't kill me, you--please--" His mouth contorted around these last and his voice, despite his best efforts, cracked piteously.

Cal breathed in stunted gasps every breath out sent patters of blood skidding across the stone floor in a neat little pattern near his mouth. A dislodged rib might have pierced through lung, sending blood into the respiratory tract, painful but not yet life threatening. The potion I used…needs a counterspell… He wheezed again, and glancing at his side Atlas could confirm the broken bone, Cal was doing remarkably well. or it'll... it.... ull... eat through your arm. My neck. Need to use innergo. Use... Atlas shuffled away and sat down, placing his hands around his knees, wand dangling idly in his fingers. He hazarded a glance down at he burn, the skin was still peeling away, slowly, the pain was still intense, if he let himself think about it he could feel the liquid working its way down. Really there was no reason for Calixtus to lie about it.

look. I didn't--I worked for him.. The burning was forgotten, Atlas’s head coming up from the ruin that was his left arm to look at Cal. For his part the other man was remaining remarkably level headed, stopping only to take in a wet sounded breath and swallow. Cal looked somewhat surprised when he did so but pressed on.

--I didn't finish the spell, that was him, the other... F-fletcher. I didn't mean... I didn't... I wanted to work with dimensional rifts, not--souls--that wasn't my. I didn't. All I wanted was--magic, I thought--use the spell on me, damn it, what would Jasper--you can't kill me, you--please—

Dimensional rifts? Atlas let his wand go, reached his right hand up and onto the table and searched through the papers, pulling some of them down, discarding others. He kept an eye on Cal’s neck, wondered how long he could hold off doing the charm before it ate down to the more vital and fragile bits. Long enough….he finally came up with what he needed. The formula that Calixtus would have needed the unicorn blood for, he reexamined it. It was possible that it could have developed into the more experimental areas of magical theory that Cal seemed to be so fond of. Atlas looked at him again, hesitated before picking up his wand again.

“Innero.” The burn fizzled on Cal’s neck, new skin pushing through the damaged to reform itself leaving a angry red looking patch in its place. Atlas had waited too long, it was bound to scar. Having determined that there weren’t going to be any adverse affects he followed by turning his wand on his own arm.

All I wanted as magic. Atlas looked at Calixtus, lying there prone on the ground, looking as if he might soon be on the verge of tears again. When he had said Jasper’s name something had wavered. “What would be say Calixtus? If I went to him right now, with everything I have what would he say?”

This is what he had wanted, for a very long time. To have Cal right where he wanted him, bleeding, admitting to every terrible thing he had done but it was missing something. Atlas had expected some kind of self righteous diatribe, something about how he would have gotten away with it if not for those meddling kids. But this, he had just wanted magic? Really?

you can't kill me, you—please

No. Cal didn’t get to set the limits, he didn’t decide the rules, he certainly didn’t decide that. People were dead, others were traumatized and who knew if Calixtus was even telling the truth. His entire being was constituted on lies and envy, he’d say anything, he’d do anything, had done everything. Atlas didn’t remember standing but suddenly he was up his breaths coming hard. He could see Cal that night after the Ministry, asking him what happened, repeatedly, he had to have known. He had known about Darien so why was he there? To taunt him, to attack him, to determine how much he knew and then get rid of him.

“Make me believe you.” The next word out of his mouth seemed to come up on its own. He hadn’t been thinking it…hadn’t even considered it but once he said it, it felt right, like he meant it. “Crucio.”

At one moment Atlas Caedmon was looking down at him, dazed, hapless, blank. And then he said a word and the world turned inside out.

What some people didn't realize was that all of the Unforgivables had to do with the soul. Avada Kedavra merely banished it. Imperio merely controlled it. The Fourth Unforgivable merely harnessed its power. But Crucio rent it to pieces, and did not always put them back together.

Cal hadn't fully understood the nature of pain. He didn't now (he only felt it). Later--much later--when he could think about what the pieces of himself had experienced--he would say that the spell had taken some volatile combination of things he felt most shaming, things he tried to hide from himself, ways in which he was insignificant and hideous, all the worst physical pains he had ever felt, physical pain so intense that it broke through and when it did there was nowhere to hide. It glared out, it overturned all rocks. It sunk tendrils into bare, parched earth and tore them apart. And there was nowhere to hide because the pain was of his soul, it was him, it was the beginning and ending of him.

Probably he screamed. Maybe he bit through his tongue. Maybe he soiled himself. Maybe he thrashed, or choked, or did himself the damage the spell itself was too delicate to perpetrate on its own. He didn't know because he wasn't there. And that was maybe the worst pain. Trying to hold things together felt like holding apart the pieces of a dying star, with light and energy pouring through their cracks, but it was all pain, the holding-together was pain.

With lesser agonies he might have seen white or green or red or yellow flares. Now he saw nothing. Nothing.

He didn't realize, at first, that it had ended. Dead needle sensations rushed through him. His lungs ached and gurgled. One hand, spiderlike, opened. Shut. Opened. All on its own, disconnected. Nothing was there. He was thinking only one word, over and over, dully, behind his teeth, echoing in the painful chamber of his skull. Jasper. Jasper. Jasper. It had ceased to refer to anything, but now that came back in flashes. That was all. There was. Himself. It wasn't quite there, but there was something, some edge of a smile, some warmth of skin. Color returned. He didn't want to die.

It was dark and he was on the floor. Why was he on the floor? Atlas looked around, chest heaving, all over his body had the feeling of having just been inside outed, cored. A few seconds ago the room had been green, everything in it tinted like Atlas had been wearing glasses with tinted lenses. He had been standing a few seconds ago, maybe a few minutes maybe a few hours he didn’t know, couldn’t tell. What did he do? His vision was blurry, a hand (his hand?) scrubbed over his face, it didn’t help. What did he do? He felt something wet run down his face.

He tried to blink away the tears; it was a shock reaction that was all. A silly manifestation of the body, of the mind, he dropped his head down onto his chest. He could feel his heart beating rapidly, looked down to see his wand lying next to his hand, he must have dropped it when Cal stopped….

Cal! Atlas’d head came up and directly in front of his was the squib. He had moved, well…convulsed so that he was now facing the wall. He was still seizing, the after shocks of the spell winding through the frail body. Atlas moved, scrambled on hands and knees until he was over the other man. “Calixtus.” His voice sounded paniced and small. What did I do?.

“Calixtus!” Gently Atlas reached forward, ignoring the bloody handprint on the wall where Cal had tried to claw a hole, tried to get away, and turned Cal onto his back. The other mans eyes were open, Atlas waved his hand in the mans line of sight, Cal’s pupils didn’t follow. Sh-t.. Atlas’s hands hovered over Cal’s supine form, undecided about what they should do. Ignoring the fragile skin covering the burn Atlas pressed his fingers to Cal’s throat, a pulse thready, weak but there. Did Squibs have weak hearts? Did Cal have a weak heart? Some strange little part of his brain chided him for not asking.

“Cal!” This elicited some response, the chemists eyes fluttered, roving as if looking for someone. They didn’t find it apparently because a moment later they fluttered closed again. There were tear tracks on Cal’s face, where the water and salt had worked its way through blood and dirt. Atlas didn’t want to move him…didn’t trust himself to touch him but…he was rubbish at healing magic, he didn’t even know what was wrong.

Jasper.. He turned, flailed for his wand and sparred Cal one last look before apparating away from the basement.

Ition. Sen. Tep. Shun.

Sensation. Natation. Shun. Sin.

Pause. Pause.

Jasper.

Words came back first; they bloomed in the dark. Or perhaps words were all that came back. His body hurt but much less. At least he had a body. He had a body, and it was Jasper's. Or rather it was him, and he was Jasper's.

But Jasper was gone. Cal opened his eyes, moved his head an inch up. Down. He breathed with bubbling difficulty. Pneumothorax? Probably. Atlas had left. He didn't think of it. He could move his arms and legs. He had the mirror in one pocket. It would have been the next part of his plan. Would she? He had to. Atlas had gone away but he or whoever had taken his skin might be back. Slowly, with novocaine needles running up and down his arm, he reached down his side, down over surprisingly painful fabric, down to the gape of his pocket and felt cold metal. Slowly, slowly, he pulled it out, and, with an effort, pressed his other palm to the back.

"Shallah Kosa. Shallah Kosa. Shallah Kosa."

As incantations went it was simple. If she wasn't available she wouldn't answer; but she did. Blur raced over the mirror, and bits of lightning, and then it clarified into her face. The hand holding the mirror up in front of his own twitched, sagged.

"Please come," Cal rasped. "I'm sorry. I'm in Caedmon's--" He had to suck in a painful, whistling breath. Croaked: "SHOP. I'm sorry." He had trailed off into a whisper. The mirror shook. Afterimage, foreimage, negative image--raced over his field of vision. He had to let the mirror drop and for a long moment he saw nothing but buzzing purple.

“Am aware of what you do and do not do…” She stopped and lifted a hand, fingers splayed out, stopping Deacon from retorting with another interruptive utterance. Someone was saying her named, over and over like a litany, like a prayer. Her forehead creased, she sat back down onto the coverlet of her bed and opened the drawer at its side. Four two way mirrors lay at the bottom of the drawer each covered with a handkerchief, the one bearing Cal’s name neatly needle pointed, glowed, the words stopped. She removed the covering and lifted the mirror to her face in one smooth motion.

Please come. I’m sorry. I’m in Caedmon’s… Cal’s face shimmered in the mirror for a moment she thought she had lost him. She stood but then Cal’s face returned weak through the link, it was dark wherever he was, SHOP. I’m sorry.. Then he was gone, truly gone, the world in the mirror swayed and then returned only her reflection.

“Do you know this place?” She questioned Deacon sharply, everything about her forbidding decent. He nodded. “Then you will come with me. Armed.” They stepped into the hallway, Deacon taking up point behind her, one of the men passed and Shallah took a hold of his shoulder, instructing him that preparations should be made.

She dispensed with her cloak, if the one responsible for this was still near Calixtus it would matter little if he saw her face. She allowed Deacon to wind himself around her waist and then added the privilege of allowing him to apparate them. They were behind some establishment in Diagon alley…Moving to the front, Shallah frowned at the ajar door, but entered the building with no more thought to it. Deacon moved silently behind her, making sure nothing untoward occurred. Sweet man.
They found the basement with little trouble; the door there was also still swinging on its hinges. She smelled blood and sweat and pain, she clicked her tongue, the muscles of her vocal chord retracting, it made a sound similar to the purr of a cat but the meaning couldn’t be further removed.

She didn’t need to look long to find Cal, her movement to him was quick, she didn’t need to be cautious, Deacon wouldn’t let anything happen. He was on his back, eyes closed, with a thin trail of blood down one side of his face, pooling near his ears on the stone. “Carry him.” Deacon, who had been examining the paper scattered about the place, froze, almost protested.

Her throat worked again, and she fixed the full force of her gaze onto him. He relented, muttering curses about filth and cotangents as he hefted the man from the ground. They returned to the estate, to the room Shallah had appropriated. Zora stood by the bed, potions at the ready, she shrank back from the three on the other side, Deacon deposited the unconscious man and then stormed from the place, muttering about the baths.

Shallah rearranged Cal’s deadened limbs, reached for the first of the potions and tipped it into Cal’s mouth carefully. It would dull the pain. He stirred, “Calixtus Ferox. Where are you hurt?” She pressed a compress to the half healed area on his throat.

Cal woke up again on something soft. A bed. Not his own, not Jasper's. Above he saw mottled molding, painted a docile antique pink, and from above that he heard the creak of old rafters. The room was dark, it had a sense of being dark even though it was brightly lit. It was--had to be--Baldur's mansion. A face. He licked his lips and tasted the residue of a pain-killing potion.

“Calixtus Ferox. Where are you hurt?”

Shallah Kosa loomed close over him, breath on his skin. She shone as if backlit, her hair mottled white and lion-colored, a glow around her skin. He thought, and it must be an illusion, that he saw kindness in her sharp, hawkish stare, or at least the absence of revulsion, which was, to Cal, much the same thing. She pressed something cold to the place on his throat where Atlas has pressed his arm. The pain had lessened, and he hardly felt that anyway.

"My lungs," he said at last, with some difficulty. He tasted blood and bile. His breath whistled around the words. "I think he broke my ribs. He used a pressure spell on my chest cavity, I don't know what it..." Whistle, the need to cough and the inability. "And--" He blushed and turned his head aside. "Just--clean--" He subsided and now only wanted to be unconscious again. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

He blinked, eyes closing against the light and Shallah turned away long enough to douse the lamp closest to the bed. With it dimmed his eyes stopped their restless motion and settled onto her face and didn’t leave it. She arranged her face into something she recognized as being maternal and therefore comforting.

My lungs. I think he broke my ribs. He used a pressure spell on my chest cavity; I don't know what it... Her hand convulsed in his hair, she slackened her grip, hoping that she hadn’t caused him further injury. There were few spells that could have done such a thing, all of them painful. And… Her eyes flicked back down to his face, his cheeks were red under his ghostly pallor. Just--clean— She sniffed at the air….oh It was a smell like burnt peanuts, which she had mistaken for any number of other smells that were drifting through the mansion at any one time. I’m sorry.

“Of course. This will not be comfortable.” She warned before nodding at Zora who made a series of elegant curved motions with her wand. She Striped Cal and then removed the vestiges of blood, and embarrassment from his body. Shallah took the opportunity to discard the top layer of the bedding, leaving it unceremoniously on the floor; she kept her waist bent and her head down until she noted the dip in the mattress that indicated Zora had finished. Shallah straightened up and carefully lighted onto the bed at Cal’s side. His legs must have been uninjured because he was now covered from the waist down

His chest was another matter, the spell are no doubt caused internal bruising which was now making itself apparent in the way it colored Cal’s skin. She laid a hand flat along his side, pressing lighting, and feeling for the breaks. She finished with one side and moved to the other, leaning over Cal and making occasional small soothing sounds. 3 on the right, and one embedded into the spongy tissue of the lung, 4 to the left but the organs seemed to have avoided injury. Anger cloyed in her, she placed one hand along his face, steadying his head, making sure he didn’t have the opportunity to look down, sometimes humans panicked.

Zora could be doing this, but her methods were human and slow, Shallah could feel the after effects of dark magic radiating off of Cal’s skin. She opened her palm and then gently rested it over his left side, the easy part first. The magic moved from her hand to his skin, seeping in. “Who did this?”

Shallah stepped back with a warning. Cal, already half-numb from spells and the vestiges of the Crucio, had no time to react; but in any case it wasn't bad. It was surprising how bad it wasn't. The Healer Vanished his clothing and he had the sudden, fresh-water sensation, head to toe, of a cleaning spell. His body shifted--pain again--and then shifted back. He coughed and tasted blood again. His breath whistled oppressively in his ears and he thought he could probably no longer speak. Ordinarily it would have embarrassed him terribly, even further, to be seen naked, but Shallah averted her eyes, and the Healer looked him over silently and then drew a sheet over him, to the waist. He felt it settle; he couldn't look down, he didn't want to see what his chest looked like. It hurt all over, all through. He imagined himself, for just a moment, as that painting--the woman with a hole straight through, held up with sticks--what was it, his brain felt fuzzy, he couldn't quite recall...

Shallah had her hands on either side of his chest. Through the numbness and the horrible, stabbing pain, dulled now to the feeling of a blade in your mouth, digging into the spongy, thick stuff of your cheek--through the numbness and the pain he could feel the warmth, overlaid with cold, of her fingers. They moved up and down. He flinched and saw spots again when she got to his right side and then she'd pulled away and one hand lay alongside his cheek. The gesture comforted him--it comforted him surprisingly. In fact the moment felt quite lifted out of the relief of it all, the sublime moment anyone postmodern would recognize as the fundamentally empty, timeless euphoria of sensation that is universal and lazily unspecific and false, at the bottom of it, but moving nonetheless. He searched her face with his. What was human and what wasn't? What combination of planes and angles, what shape inscribed by some combination of x squared and y squared, reminded him of Jasper?

Jasper, whom he might never see again. He swallowed convulsively.

Shallah had looked away now and put her hand on his side. And then: the gradual lifting of pain. The stabbing soaked away. She started on the next side. He could breathe with less difficulty, and tasted menthol and dust in the air and the smell of Shallah, which was vaguely musty, birdy, mealy, and also overwhelmingly floral.

“Who did this?”

Cal cleared his throat. He could still taste blood, he could still feel only half of his chest lifting while he breathed, but it felt better. It seemed he couldn't quite imagine the hatred he wanted to convey with the words. At last:

"Atlas Caedmon," he said, slowly, and somehow the hatred was there without his trying. "I want to kill him."

She worked silently, allowing Cal the moment to collect himself. She finished with the left, commenced with the right; greater delicacy would be required here. It was the top rib that had pierced into the lung; she adjusted her hand, watching Cal’s face. He would frown and then hiss sometimes but otherwise he stayed silent. He was doing well. The rib came free, molding back to its proper shape but there was still a hole in Cal’s lungs. Best to deal with that the old fashioned way.

Atlas Caedmon. Shallah stopped as Cal spoke up. The words were spoken around a gargle, Shallah wiped the mixture of blood and spittle from the side of Cal’s mouth. She could taste the revulsion that Cal applied to the name. She tried it in her own tongue, she didn’t like dipthong…she didn’t like this person. He had hurt something not his to hurt, for reasons that Shallah did not know but could not justify. It was one thing when it was business when the killing and the torture was civilized, that was what humanity had taught her. Their world was one of dichotomies, and twos. Good and evil. Black and white. Male and female. Pain was the same way, there was business and personal. This was very much personal.

I want to kill him.. The hand along his face began to stroke his cheek in slow lazy motions. She extended her other hand, fingers flexing back and forth, the girl handed her a vial, it would work faster than her own ministrations. “Then you will.” She uncorked the bottle and held it to his lips. “And we will help you.”


”Tell me about this man?” Her hand still moved against his skin.

He'd half-expected it--he was talking to a terrorist, after all--but he'd been playing a game, after a fashion. Playing a role. So it surprised him when, taking a bottle of potion from the Healer, she said--with apparent equanimity--or was it a little satisfaction?--

“Then you will.” She uncorked the vial and tipped it against his lips. He swallowed, painfully; then less painfully, blinking in surprise. His eyes ran at the taste. “And we will help you.”

Her hand moved against his cheek, and Cal swallowed again, harder. The pain had already begun to lessen, but it was replaced by a dull, hammer-strong sickness, in his head, in his chest. Jasper. What, precisely--

”Tell me about this man?”

Cal cleared his throat, pressing back on the tremor of his headache. "Atlas Caedmon. He's--mad, or apopheniac. Paranoid. But he might know more about Garrow's spell, or about the things I was developing and how they--I don't know what he knows, but it could be--" Cal paused for a brief, insincere, conspiratorial smile, then went on, his voice now drained of affect. "His SHOP, you saw it. He has a skeleton called Rudolph. He--" Cal trailed off, too sickeningly reminded of Jasper to continue. Shallah's hand paused against his face and something about the way her fingers rested on his skin, warm, dampened beyond their usual sandy dryness, reminded him of Jasper, too. He shifted awkwardly, drawing up one knee. He'd lost him.

What exactly would Caedmon tell him? He could tell him Cal had worked for Garrow. Fine. That he'd made Jasper--but would Jasper really object? He'd hardly done anything. He'd been coerced. Fine. And Atlas had tortured him. He could still feel the crouching black cat, or Horla, of the Crucio on his chest.

There was nothing to do about it. Either he'd lost Jasper or he hadn't. The weight of secrecy suddenly bore down (not black, but white and instantaneous) and he felt abjectly helpless.

He had no idea what Jasper would think.

Did he know Jasper at all? Or was Jasper Atlas's... was he...

No. He would come down on Cal's side. Cal loved him; it was simple. Simply put and put simply, there was no need--but things weren't simple.

He reached up and caught Shallah's hand and held it against his jaw, which worked rapidly and uncertainly. He looked up at her.

"And he destroyed things. He's going to tell him what I did for Garrow, and I'm going to lose my--the--the--person I love." He paused, eyes tracking left, then right.

Cal opened his mouth and swallowed obligingly. She watched his chest as he continued to drink the liquid down, the plane where the flesh moved in where it should have moved out and out when in was lessening. His breathing was improving, though it still sounded wet and slushy, the excess blood within the lung would not be reabsorbed. It was likely that Cal would be coughing up blood for several days after this. She could wait to inform him of that later, for now she was listening.

He told her about the man, who was paranoid and possibly mad. Shallah knew the precision it took to do what had been done and knew that paranoia did not always equate to madness. He told her about the man who might know something about Edward Garrow, who might know a lot of things that posed a danger to them. She watched Cal’s face upside down; and it took her a moment to realize he was smiling. It didn’t last. He told her about a talking skeleton and then she smiled. Silly thing to keep about, humans were usually so mindful of death.

He had trailed off and she looked down, stopped moving her hand and just let it lay there. Silence didn’t make her uncomfortable. One knee twitched underneath the covers before drawing up toward Cal’s chest. She almost advised against the movement but he looked so lost, he didn’t wince and his breath stayed constant, Shallah exchanged a look with the healer and said nothing.

His hand coming up to press hers closer to his face was unexpected, as were the mans next words. And he destroyed things. He's going to tell him what I did for Garrow, and I'm going to lose my--the--the--person I love. Love?. She hadn’t done much research into Ferox’s personal life, she had looked at him, observed him and seen no reason. Full of surprises, something would have to be done about this but it could wait.

“How perfectly horrible.” She moved her thumb to hook it carefully into Cal’s fingers. “He might know something of Garrow’s work? Could he pose a threat? We will have to do something horrid to him,” she looked down. “Won’t we? How could he rob you of someone? Surely your love will believe you over the words of a torturer.”

“How perfectly horrible.”

Cal was reminded of some dreamy Victorian gardenscape, a tea party, prim women with parasols. Of course; Shallah was of an older generation of--Veela--she had been alive for an era that only existed for him in its own representations, white and yellow glazed, sunny, filmic. Of course every historical memory he didn't own himself was powerfully filmic. Even the present was overlaid with genre and affectation. Did it make anything less sincere, or more?

Her thumb moved over his fingers and then tucked itself in, between index and middle finger, gently. The gentleness betrayed some deeper, inner tendency toward its opposite. He'd known she could be terrifying. He hadn't known she was terrifying (if beautiful) even when she evoked the warmest lights and threadiest breaths of comfort. He felt comforted as he hadn't since he was a child. He felt comforted as he rarely had even in Jasper's embrace. That, after all, had the merit of inexhaustibility; it was never enough. This was--not enough--but warm and close enough to trick you into thinking... into believing... that for the moment it didn't matter. It didn't matter.

"He might know something of Garrow’s work? Could he pose a threat? We will have to do something horrid to him,” she looked down. “Won’t we?"

"Yes."

The look in her eyes changed to something like surprise. Or curiosity. "How could he rob you of someone? Surely your love will believe you over the words of a torturer.”

Cal let go of her hand abruptly and, groping for a handhold on the sheets, pushed himself up onto his elbows. He paused to cough again, wetly, then fell back against the pillows, half-upright. He turned back to Shallah.

"He's his friend," He wiped his mouth with one hand and swallowed. At the same time hope swerved wildly in a hand-cart through his aching chest. "And Caedmon knows, he must have proof--but I don't want him involved in this." He grabbed for her hand again. He had the feeling he had made a terrible mistake, but the potions and the Crucio and--his thoughts were moving too slowly, dominated, in the looming background, by the image of Jasper. He might be able to get him back. For a second, wildly, he thought--could she kill Atlas now--and then he was ashamed and sickened and thought no, no, Jasper would believe him, he had to, he might. He had to keep him safe. "He knows nothing, about anything, I promise. Can you--" He stopped to cover a cough with his free hand. "--take me home, I need to--to see him--I have wards, I'll be safe, I'm working on your potions," he added, as a justification, and loosened his grip on her hand once again. His chest moved in and out. In. Out. Liquid rattled inside, but he hardly cared. It would be more proof, wouldn't it--proof that he was the victim--

Their hands separated. Shallah drew back as Cal struggled up onto his elbows; he swayed eyes rolling in his head and she prepared to catch him if he should pitch in a direction that wouldn’t result in his safe return to the mattress. There was more blood at the side of his mouth, she pursed her lips then lifted the side of the sheet to dab at it.

He’s his friend. He? Well, so many little surprises. Deacon would crow something dreadful if he heard, this would change how this was to be dealt with. He was a friend of the SHOP mans helpful, she began to compile a personal file on this Caedmon and this other man Cal seemed so endeared to. Both would need to be investigated. And Caedmon knows, he must have proof--but I don't want him involved in this. Cal groped for her hand and she provided it to him. That was impossible now of course, but he need not know that, needn’t worry.

He knows noting, about anything, I promise. That would need to be determined by someone more removed from the events than Cal himself. Can you— She knew what the request would be before he asked, her fingers tightened around his. --take me home, I need to--to see him--I have wards, I'll be safe, I'm working on your potions. His grip on her slackened and he sank back to the pillows, pale and ill, and looking nothing like someone who should be doing anything but staying where he was, where she could watch him.

“Your home could be compromised and potions can wait.” She laid her spare hand on his chest, pressed ever so slightly. When he gasped she had proved her point. “You are still bruised, in no condition to defend yourself should you be attacked again. There is no saying that this Caedmon has not reached your heart yet.” Cal’s face fell and she softened, adjusted her hand to cup his chin and lift his head. “But I will do as you desire, with a condition.”

Disentangling herself she stood, spoke to Zora who was standing on the other side of the bed. “Go and get Tuatha, tell him to be armed and that his children can rest one night without their father.” The girl didn’t react but moved silently out of the room. Shallah watched her go before bending over to assist Cal in sitting up. “You will have an escort and guard until I am assured that you are safe.” She brushed the hair from Cal’s eyes. “Enough harm has come to you.” She propped him against her and wrapped a second blanket around him, secured the one at his waist in an attempt to save him from further embarrassment. She brushed some of the hair from his forehead and just let him lean against her.

An unknown amount of time passed, but it couldn’t have been long before there was a rapt knocking at the door. Shallah stood, steadied Cal to make sure he didn’t topple over and waved her hand to open the door. The Irishman looked first at the sides of the doors, as if marveling at her rather elementary trick before he stepped into the room proper. He was dressed in overalls, a blue button up shirt and that hat that Shallah had been certain was obliterated in that job they had done in Kyoto. Apparently not.

“Sent for me?” He asked, glancing down at Cal, “We alright then?”

“No.” Shallah said, standing and lifting Cal up with her, he wasn’t looking at either of them. “Calixtus was attacked this evening, he wishes to be in more familiar surroundings but I have doubts about his safety. So you will go as escort and remain in a guard capacity until you feel the situation has settled.” She noted his look, one more of concern than anything else and beckoned he approach. “I do not anticipate danger, this is a precaution. If you are attacked, you are not to engage. Retreat.”

“Be getting no objections from me on that front Ms.” Tuatha stepped forward, keeping an eye on Cal who seemed to be doing anything but look at him. Man looked wretched. “Takin him now then I suppose?”

Shallah nodded, as she shifted Cal over. She smiled at him one last time, tucked the blanket more securely around him. “Be well, we will speak soon. The best course of action will be decided and you will have what you asked.” She pulled away, gave Tuatha his final instructions and then watched the two of them vanish. Zora was standing by the door, one hand on the knob watching the place where they had been. “Send me Claire.” Shallah said and then went about remaking the bed.

"There is no saying that this Caedmon has not reached your heart yet.”

The phrasing was odd--it put him off and at the same time lanced immediately to the center of things, the possessive core. Your heart. As if Jasper were a part of his body. But then what did Cal have, if not the essential muscle of Jasper? That was all he'd been able to think of when he tried to piece himself together. He hadn't even thought his own name. Shallah noticed his flinch--her hand came to cup his chin--he hadn't had so much contact with--

She offered to let him go, then, thankfully, tucked around blanket around him. Her summoned henchman appeared. Cal remembered him as one of the more tolerable and helpful of the group; he showed up looking remarkably mundane, casual, relaxed. His flicked look at Cal didn't evince any judgment; Cal looked away nonetheless, down at the bruises on his hollow chest, speckled with blue and a few hairs and totally unmuscled, puny. Next to Tuatha's workmanlike sturdiness and Shallah's--glamor--he felt like a withered simulacrum.

“We alright then?”

“No.” Shallah pulled him upright. Cal had to grab for the sheet wrapped around his waist and pull it up into a sort of knotted skirt, which didn't help, and it--he felt ridiculous, had to hike it up again, fumbled to tie it up but the movement, his arms crossing closely, constricted his still-aching lungs.

Shallah shared the narrative of the day--Cal found himself preoccupied with his towel, suddenly shamed. Amazing how shame had direct physical corollaries. Earlier he'd felt none, with Shallah's hand warm on his face; now, now that this external gaze had come in, now that he saw how weak and absurd and unable to defend himself he looked...

She looked at him one more time, a smile lingering around the strange corners of her face before it disappeared. She fixed his sheet--Cal felt his belly flutter inward away from the gesture, and, befuddled, he let her hand him over (and that was what it was, wasn't it, hand him over--) to Tuatha. “Be well, we will speak soon. The best course of action will be decided and you will have what you asked.”

"Yes," Cal said, tipping his chin up at last, aiming to steady his none-too-solid resolve and establish a rock of certainty underneath. "Yes." He glanced at Tuatha, and, bolstered by his playacted revenge (in the moment he was thinking of nothing so much as Jasper, Jasper, Jasper--not that the revenge wasn't real--it was--somewhere--everything was all compartments, and all shaken out of them, still), nodded, took his arm, and let the man Apparate them into his foyer.

They landed. Cal grabbed for his sheet immediately and pulled it up, blushing. He didn't like feeling so exposed; and he still hurt. Back in clothing the pain would sink to the background of bruises behind fresh fabric. Tuatha, for his part, looked around the apartment with an engineer's interest. Cal could tell from his expression that he could feel some of the magical currents in the place, which he'd explain later.

"Well," he said, shifting from foot to foot. He nearly stumbled and fell, but caught himself on the corner of a table. "I'm going to--go--clothes--" He jerked a thumb toward his bedroom and let Tuatha follow; he leaned on the wall, dragging his forearm along it, for balance. Once there he shut the door firmly before going to the closet. Jeans, Leo's old jeans. T-shirt. He didn't have the energy for socks and when he was done he sat down on his bed to recover. Jasper. He'd have to owl. Somehow. What to--

Tuatha's knock brought him back.

"I'm done." The door opened; Cal wondered what of incrimination he had in here. Almost nothing. A half-finished portrait of Jasper in a corner, but it was all but unrecognizable. A few spellbooks, reams of notes, a baggie of doxy powder, a brimming ashtray... James Bond porn... maybe he wouldn't notice that. It was only a DVD case. "Could you--do you mind--Accio my owl, it's in the kitchen." A spare notebook lay on his bed, and he took it up, grabbing a nearby pencil.

Dear Jasper... What should he put?

"Sorry. You wanted--she sent you to fortify it or--because I already have quite a few wards and spells, he just managed to grab me and Disapparate." He didn't mean to sound defensive but probably did, his pencil caught fitfully between his teeth.

Well. Tuatha let go, carefully kept his hands out to catch him if needed. I'm going to--go--clothes— Calixtus ricochet off the walls until he reached his bedroom where he promptly closed the door leaving the Irishman alone in the hallway. He leaned his ear to the door for a moment, didn’t hear any thuds that might have been the man falling to the floor. Good then. He wiped his hands on the thighs of his pants and took a cursory look around. Several counter curses were floating around in the air, bound to the floorboards and some of the wood of the walls. Going up on tiptoes he ran his finger along the top of a doorframe.

All that came off it was dust. Who didn’t secure archways? They were so important. He turned and found himself looking at another door. Rather closed quarters in here, terrible for a fight. Time for this later he turned away from the second door back to the one that his charge was holed up behind and knocked.

I’m done. Tuatha stepped back politely as Cal opened the door, the man looked unsettled and haggard. Tuatha placed his hands in his pockets, rocked back and forth on his heels waited for Cal to speak first. Could you--do you mind--Accio my owl, it's in the kitchen… Cal retreated back, snatched up a notebook and then a pencil. Accio an owl? Silly notion, get feathers everywhere. Sorry. You wanted-- she sent you to fortify it or--because I already have quite a few wards and spells, he just managed to grab me and Disapparate..

Tuatha leaned against one side of the door frame, rapped his knuckles against the other. “Now it seems to me that what your problem is, is you have power routing all through here,” He leaned across the expanse and lay his ear against the door. “But its not doing anything….do you mind?” He pointed at the door frame, removed his wand from his pocket. “Some simple isomorphic modifications, I’ll need a sample of your hair if you don’t mind?” He stepped a bit further into the room and opened his hand.

“Cruciatus? I don’t mean to cause offense its just, you have the look about you.” The man nibbled his pencil, looking like some sort of great rabbit. “Takes everything right out of you. You should lie down, leave that for later.” He indicated whatever the other man was writing. A thought occurred to him and he dug in his front pocket for a moment before pulling out a flask, offered it to Cal. “Whiskey, might warm you a bit. Won’t interfere with the potions they’ve given you.”

Cal regaruded the flask then lifted a hand to push it away gently. Tuatha shurgged then turned back to open space of the room, hands out like a conductor. “What’s that resonance? Something strong, counter curse….” He smiled back at Cal. “Clever…its welding right into the wood…how did you do it? Varnish? Sanding?”

Cal tried to pay little attention the man pacing the edges of his room. He measured handspans, slapped the walls, eyed angles, and made mental calculations with all the finesselessness of a builder. Cal, meanwhile, tried to focus in on the square of paper, fuzzy around the edges, that he'd ripped from his notebook.

Dear Jasper

It took him a few minutes to realize, struggling through the syrupy, cold stuff of his inattention, that he was still high. Still detached. Still numb from the pain potions and the spells. His core still ached from the Crucio, as though it were still trying to drag him apart. The ache pulsed in; out; in again. It was on the whole difficult to concentrate. The walls blurred into the floor. Meanwhile Tuatha rapped out a mundane, all-too-concrete counterpoint to his confusion.

“Now it seems to me that what your problem is, is you have power routing all through here." He put an ear to the doorframe. Cal waggled his pencil tiredly in his direction and sank back onto the bed, bracing his back against a pillow.

Dear Jasper,

I'm alive. I thought you might like to know. If

“But its not doing anything….do you mind?” Cal looked up to find Tuatha gesturing toward his doorframe. “Some simple isomorphic modifications, I’ll need a sample of your hair if you don’t mind?”

Somehow he couldn't get his facial muscles to syncopate with the neurons that wanted to draw forth a smile, a sigh, a sound, anything. He couldn't move. His fingers went limp around the pencil; it took him a few seconds to shake the spell off. It was as though some central core of agency had simply shut down, and Cal lacked an autopilot. Usually he had an autopilot; sometimes he wished he didn't, but more usually he loved the abandon of it. Now it had gone away.

He looked up, at last, craning a painful neck and spine and skull. Down to the paper. He crossed out the 'If' and, in a loose, looping, utterly unfamiliar sprawl, signed his name.

Tuatha stood above him, staring down. Cal blinked, the pencil moving, after some thought, to his mouth. “Cruciatus? I don’t mean to cause offense its just, you have the look about you. Takes everything right out of you. You should lie down, leave that for later.”

"No. Thank you." Closer to automatic again. The words came out only a beat too late. He set aside his pencil and folded the note in two. Picked up his pencil again. Its octagonal edges shone bitten yellow, with glints of bronze and blue. He scratched Jasper's name onto the outside and looked up again to find a flask in his face.

“Whiskey, might warm you a bit. Won’t interfere with the potions they’ve given you.”

Cal snorted and stood up, balancing with one hand on the bedpost. "Alcohol merely shunts blood to the--" He stopped to suck in air. Heee. Flash. Yellow-white light and the memory of pain. Flash. A breath out and it was gone again. "--to the extremities. It does not warm you." He straightened and began to wind his painful, bent way out of his room, down the hall, into the kitchen. Beside him, Tuatha kept up the patter of the rude mechanical.

"What’s that resonance? Something strong, counter curse…." They turned the corner into the foyer. Tuatha, briefly in front, glanced back with a grin. “Clever…its welding right into the wood…how did you do it? Varnish? Sanding?”

Varnish. Sanding. They dropped in, meaninglessly, and lay scattered across some internal floor. Jasper had to pause to make them fit. No. Wait. Cal. Cal had to pause to make them fit. And then he felt weary contempt.

"Varnish. Sanding," he repeated, now amidst the streaked green paint and fluorescent light of the kitchen. He made his way to the owl's cage, opened the door, and carefully handed over the letter. The owl snapped at his fingers, as usual, and Cal turned back--swung around--collapsed, sideways, against the kitchen table and stayed there, as if it had been on purpose. It was not so much the pain. He had felt curiously divorced from pain for a long time. A long time. What kind of time? Nothing time. Jasper time. Cal time. Empty time. He watched the owl flutter off. A feather settled at the bottom of its empty cage, moved in an invisible breeze, quieted.

"Varnish. I think not," he said, at last, head sinking between his shoulders. "How horribly Muggle." Whose construction? Not his. He had limited material for verbal pastiche. He didn't know where any of it came from. "No, I had a few people apply spells in layers to the building superstructure. It's a loop--" He paused for breath again, one hand on his sternum. "--it rebounds certain spells on their casters. The Unforgivables. Well. Rebounding is--the energy can transmute. Usually a Stunning Spell." He stared up at Tuatha. "I know. It's ingenious."

Cal realized what was missing. He wasn't angry. He wasn't angry at Atlas. He felt sick. He felt of nothing.

Man should be staying put, that was what Tuatha thought as Cal pushed himself up, eyes going wide and body going rigid mid sentence. Shell shock, that’s what they used to call it at least, had some fancy new name to it now lots of big words that medical folk threw back and forth over the heads of the men they were treating. Great lot of use it did just standing around re naming things you’ve never experienced.

It does not warm you.. Tuatha glanced down at the flask, unscrewed the top and took a sip. Warmed him just fine, but who was he to argue with a man of science. He trailed Cal as he pin balled around the hallway, talking about what he knew. They made it into the kitchen, Cal still hadn’t spoken looked as if he would fall down at any moment. His business if he wanted to exhaust himself further.

Varnish. Sanding. Tuatha glanced back, lowered his hands. “Aye, that’s what I said.” His tone wasn’t condescending; he didn’t want to cause Ferox any offense. It might mean causing his feral employer offense. The others talked of their opinions of this Squib, whispered when they thought no one would be around who would care. Tuatha knew better and kept his mouth shut, firmly.

Ferox was dispatching his letter, as he turned away from the cage he sagged. Tuatha took a quick step forward, one arm out ready to catch him if he had to. He didn’t thankfully; Cal caught himself on an edge of the table, hung there precariously. His arm shook where it supported his weight.

Varnish. I think not. How horribly Muggle. Tuatha smiled briefly, picking over a few things lying on the counter. He wondered what on earth a ‘pop tart’ was it sounded vaguely obscene. No,. He made an about face, folded his arms over his chest and listened carefully. There was liquid in his voice whenever Cal spoke. I had a few people apply spells in layers to the building superstructure. It's a loop--"--it rebounds certain spells on their casters. The Unforgivables. Well. Rebounding is--the energy can transmute. Usually a Stunning Spell. Cal must have seen the stupid grin on his face before a moment later he added. I know. It’s ingenious.. And it was….it really was. He was tempted to find a fly, a mouse, something try it out, test the reaction. A glance at Cal told him that this wasn’t the time to indulge himself. Besides it could be dangerous. Something running the whole of the building and Unforgivables were nothing to toss about.

“Its f—kin brilliant Mr. Ferox! Absolutely so! Any other defenses you think you’d have use for? Shallah wants you safe then there are measures to be taken. Whatever you like. But might I say that you should sit, or better get back to your room. Takin a fall won’t do anything good for you sir.”

Cal leaned further over the table. Further. With his free hand he pulled out a chair, swung it in an arc around one leg, and sat in it backwards, straddling the seat, knees up, elbows and forearms spilling forward onto the linoleum top of the table. He hated waiting. The plastic throbbing in his chest vibrated out, and out, humming in his limbs and in his head. He had no idea what Jasper would say. Maybe he'd agree with Atlas. Maybe. Or maybe he 'd pity Cal, which was--was--

He'd take it. Cal let his head drop to the insides of his elbows, nosed forward, and came up, finally, to pillow his chin on forearms he arranged after some thought into a parallel arrangement. He looked sideways up at Tuatha.

"I don't advise trying it," he said drily, blinking away blear. "I can give you the spellwork later, if you can pay. If that's the etiquette."

He paused, lips moving stickily against each other. Now that he'd had time to catch up with himself, he'd begun to notice a creeping nausea. The taste and smell of blood made him ill. If he focused too hard on it it sent bright slide-shows of mold scattering across his field of vision, and he didn't want to faint. He licked his lips and rearranged his arms, turning to look sharply, through matted lashes, at Tuatha. He wasn't really curious, but he had to pass the time. Somehow. Had to jouer un rôle. Come cheek. To cheek. God. He needed him.

"Why does she want me safe--sir?" He caught and held the Irishman's gaze.

Tuatha was convinced the man was ignoring him. Cal slid the side eventually putting out a hand to grip the back of one of the chairs before setting himself down into it. Once he wasn’t supporting himself he folded up, pretzel style, adjusted his head several times before he found a position to his liking. Quiet sort of fellow but Tuatha couldn’t blame him. He didn’t look like the sort who had these sorts of experiences on a regular basis. Even those who did never really got used to them.

I can give you the spellwork later, if you can pay. If that's the etiquette. He chuckled. “Would you mind terribly if I sat down, sir?” He might have been mistaken but Cal looked momentarily surprised and then gave the smallest of possible nods. Tuatha nodded his gratitude and pulled out one of the other chairs, slouching down into it and leaving his legs splayed in front of him.

“Its etiquette of a sort, not that you have much cause to worry about that from me. You get nothing in this big world for free.” He considered the matter seriously for a moment, almost placed a bid on the table. He drummed his fingers on his leg and as he did so caught sight of his wedding ring. “Best not though. My wife’ll have me. Now I’m not sayin she’s as scary as Shallah when she’s angry but its something terrible when she has it in for you. Meantime I’ll just have to settle for marveling at your skill.”

He rocked the chair back and forth carefully as Ferox scrutinized him. Tuatha didn’t think there was really that much to him to glare about. Ferox folded, unfolded, a movement that might have been restless, or maybe staying in one place for to long was painful. Everyone reacted to Unforgivables differently.

Why does she want me safe---sir? The sir came out after a few beats of a pause and if Tuatha wasn’t mistaken had a barely discernible lilt to it. He rocked the chair legs back onto the ground and removed his hat, dangled it from the ends of his fingertips.

“Would have thought that was obvious, you’re one of the crew now. You fall under her personal protection; on top of that she seems to have a regular fondness for you. What you could call fondness for a creature such as herself.” He dusted the top of the cap before replacing it. “Helps that you have a brain in your skull worth protecting.”

“Who was the letter to sir? I going to have to do any fast-talking? If I am I’d prefer to know what I was supposed to say.”

One of the crew. Personal protection. Fondness. Fondness.

Cal cleared his throat and rearranged his hands again, running the pads of his fingers over his forearms. The hair on them stood almost straight up at the touch. He felt cold. He wondered if Jasper would come, if, when he did, the normal rhythms of his thought and feeling would realign. He wanted to shuffle himself back onto the track of habit. Something. He was missing something. He felt tired--but empty-eyed, salt-and-sand-eyed.

Blowing gurgling air up his nose and into his hair, he rubbed a hand over his face, up through his bangs.

“Who was the letter to sir? I going to have to do any fast-talking? If I am I’d prefer to know what I was supposed to say.”

"Oh." Cal looked up. "I'm not sure he will come. If he does, please tell him you came in with Shallah. I work for her. So do you. I have a two-way mirror. It's perfectly sensible. Please don't--" He had to stop and rub his forehead. "--please don't try to find anything--leave him out of this. Leave him out of--" He stared at Tuatha. "--everything."

He had the eerie feeling something was missing. The disjunction. Usually he simply thought more. No; usually he felt; feeling was the motus of thought. It came back a little, shining through the pasteboard cracks. He wondered, with only vague interest, if Tuatha would look down on him for It. But it hardly mattered, anyway.

"I suppose," he said, with a coldness that alarmed him. He tasted blood again. "I suppose I should tell you not to tell the others. Bad enough to be a Squib, I am sure. But honestly." He spread his hands on the table and leaned forward, pressing the bruised center of his chest to the edge, hard enough to hurt--badly. "I no longer care. I--but. If you tell her who he is I will--"

He stopped, suddenly lost, shoulders bobbing, Adam's apple bobbing, eyes moving back and forth like a clock or a pair of billiards. He had, upon a time, told that to Atlas whenever he bought something. If you... I will kill you. It meant very little. He thought, looking back, that very much meant very little. That he wanted to hurt Atlas but he was afraid of him, terrified of him (which he did not want to think about). That the fear nearly eclipsed his anger. That if he had Jasper back he wouldn't need the anger at all--would need nothing--which terrified him more than anything.

Oh. I'm not sure he will come. If he does, please tell him you came in with Shallah. I work for her. So do you. I have a two-way mirror. It's perfectly sensible. Please don't--please don't try to find anything--leave him out of this. Leave him out of--—everything.. Bloke then, family? The story was plausible enough; it involved very little deceit, which meant it would be easier to keep all the facts straight. Cal didn’t look as if he was up to remembering some elaborate tale and Tuatha just might make it back in time to put the girls to bed. If this fellow who Cal seemed opposed to telling him the name of showed up.

“Won’t have to be worrying about me, sir. I’m not the espionage man. Too honest for it me.”

I suppose I should tell you not to tell the others. Bad enough to be a Squib, I am sure. But honestly. Cal propelled his body forward caught himself using the tables edged and winced. He seemed to use the pain to refocus himself. I no longer care. I--but. If you tell her who he is I will— Tuatha blinked in confusion, lifted an eyebrow, had he missed something? He searched back through their very short discourse since arriving at the flat. He hadn’t thought he had heard anything particularly incriminating, nothing that would have caused more whispering than there already was about the man.

And….had he just been about the threaten him? Gumption, man was half dead and he was willing to make threats to a man in full health over something Tuatha didn’t know anything about. He might have laughed but Ferox might have thought it disrespectful.

“Don’t have much cause to speak to most of the ‘others’ as you call em. You being a squib don’t make you popular with most of em, but who gives a toss? You just do what you do and they come around, mean time ask any of them and they’ll f—kin gut the son of a b-ch who did this. Even Deacon. Never been in a group like this have you?”

“And to tell em anything I’d have to know what I was telling them about and frankly,” He held up both hands and shrugged. “Don’t know what it is you’re threatening to kill me for if I say it, so I won’t, so I get to keep my hide.” He smiled, lowered his hands. “Everybody wins.”

“Is there anything I can get you sir? While we wait for this bloke of yours?”

"...Never been in a group like this have you?”

Cal stared down into the cracks of rubber cement between the table's tiles. No. He had not. He had never been in any group at all. Normally the statement would've struck him as a gibe, might have set familiar jealous chords jangling, but in this instance he still felt isolated in a cloud of buzzing... stuff. He wondered why he seemed to have survived, or seemed to remember, that the pain hadn't been so bad. Dualism. Maybe he had managed it. His mind felt cut off from his body; it floated above his head.

“--Don’t know what it is you’re threatening to kill me for if I say it, so I won’t, so I get to keep my hide.” Tuatha's smile held a tint of mockery, but Cal knew he deserved it. “Everybody wins.”

Right. Right. He hadn't said? He hadn't said Jasper's name. He hadn't said what Jasper was. It had been in his head, the constant cadence of Jasper. Not good. He couldn't sort what was inside and what was outside. It was a problem he knew always dogged him; the inability to tell what people knew about him that he knew about himself, or what he had said or done that was transparent or opaque. Part of paranoia. Atlas. He ground his teeth together. But once again, he felt everything incompletely, as though some important nerve ending had been severed; but to nowhere in particular; to everywhere. Or maybe he was only overthinking and it was just the pain potion. He thought that probably the reason he could feel pain less completely than usual was that--first--the pain of uncertainty about Jasper was worst. Secondly, if he thought about it, he would have to start clawing his way out of his body, which hurt so completely, in so many ways, it had ceased to matter; so he wouldn't think about it.

“--thing I can get you sir? While we wait for this bloke of yours?”

Or maybe he did know. Maybe he was, still, mocking Cal, leaning heavily flat-footed on his last pretensions. The curtains on his kitchen window blew in the smell of the owl-cage. The ceiling lights cast round reflections on the table. Tuatha looked impassive and very patient; Cal envied him, but distantly, distantly, all very distantly, with water running around it, and fuzz, and forever.

"Nothing." He put his chin down on his hands and stared at the opposite wall. He felt unmoored, restless, incomplete. He remembered that Atlas had once said he was Jasper's dog, or lapdog, or something. He thought it was probably true.

Nothing. Well, easy enough to provide that. Tuatha watched the man, the squib, the scientist for a moment more and then sat upright. A few moments of that and he stood to full height, gripping the back of the chair and placing it back along the table edge where he had found it. Shallah had sent him there to make sure nothing else befell the man and he supposed that he should start seeing to that.

There should really be some kind of alarm system, muggle or otherwise in the place but Ferox seemed to have nothing of the sort. Save for the Unforgivable block and a few seemingly random haphazard spells securing a very specific area of the flat (possibly a lab but he could only speculate on that one) the place was a deplorable security risk. He removed his wand from his pocket and cast a glance back at Calixtus. The man had his head resting on his hands, Tuatha could see the bones of his spine through the thin fabric of his shirt, man should eat something.

Resting the tip of the wand to one of the kitchens open windows he muttered a few incantations, small but they would give anything trying to break in from the outside a nasty surprise. For now it wouldn't discriminate, later it could be refined to only shock those who Ferox hadn't given permission to enter. Consent spells were so malleable, there really wasn't a reason not to have a few active ones in your house. Helped you sleep at night.

Ferox didn't offer any complaint and so Tuatha proceeded down the hallway, tapping boards here and there, figuring out where the best spells lines could be drawn, weighing which options would serve Ferox best, which ones would prove to only be a hassle. He reached the end of the long hallway and treated the window there to the same spell as the one in the kitchen. Unwilling to invade the man's privacy without express permission he didn't enter any of the other rooms. Having done what he could in the hall he returned to the kitchen, Ferox hadn't moved.

He wanted to ask about protocols, what the man preferred, what he would find limiting, but it really wasn't the time and Tuatha had to quell his enthusiasm. Leaning on the counter he pulled up his sleeve and glanced down at his watched. 8:45 PM.... he had missed the girls getting to bed but there was still a chance he could make it in time to read to Patrick before he was chased off as well. Nothing to help it though, orders were very much orders and with all he was permitted to refuse it would be ungrateful in the extreme to have refused this.

He picked at the strange box on the counter again, trying to think of some way to entertain himself should this drag out for to long. Solitare was a thought...maybe Shallah would see fit to relieve him, send someone else...he dashed that theory almost as soon as he thought it. Who would she send? Ferox might have been a sparkling conversationalist on a normal day but in his current state a comma patient might have been able to be more stimulating. Not that Tuatha blamed him, he'd just want to be left alone too. Tuatha froze, shoulders squaring when he heard someone disapparating in the hallway.

Could be the man Calixtus had mentioned the one he was supposed to leave out of 'this' and not mention, the one he would inevitably have to give Shallah details about. Or it could be the one who had started this mess, pulled him away from a good dinner and an evening spent at home, he wasn't feeling particularly kindly toward that person at present. He moved away from the counter as silently as possible, stepped into the doorway of the kitchen and raised his wand. He heard Ferox moving behind him, turning most likely, man didn't look like he could stand under his own power at the moment. He squinted into the half light of the hall and took on a conversational tone, layered with steel before speaking, “Now then, would you kindly be holdin your hands where I might see them. Wand as well. Don't want any kind of trouble, be easiest if both of us thought the same thing.”

Jasper Apparated from the dank dimness of Atlas' basement into his own study, where the brightness of the fire glowed with nauseatingly inappropriate cheer. In the mirror above the mantle, he caught a glimpse of someone who looked like a pale, poor copy of Jasper Christie. There was a tiny poinsettia tucked into the buttonhole of his jacket, a subtle acknowledgement of the holidays for his customers; sometimes he thought he might come off a bit too serious in a dark suit otherwise. Well, happy holidays. Ha.

He found a bottle of scotch, abandoned on the coffee table after a visit from Wendell the previous evening. Self-cleaning glasses, that had been a clever charm. He poured himself well more than usual and downed it, pacing circles around the room and trying to think of some systematic way to look for Cal.

His lab was out. There was no way he would be able to get all the way there from London if he was in the condition Atlas had suggested, and Jasper wouldn't be able to get in and search it anyway. Normally Jasper would have chosen his own house as a likely location, but it was doubtful that Cal would have come if he'd known Atlas would be here. His flat, then. God knew how he had gotten there. If he had gotten there. The magical residue in Atlas' basement had been unreadable. It might have been from something that had happened there before; the soul-in-a-box had to have some residual effects. Had pointing it out been a ploy to make Jasper believe that Cal had gone? Jasper would once have protested that Atlas was nowhere near devious enough for something like that, but now he had his doubts.

He stopped pacing and put the glass down. It was absurd to waste time like this right now. Cal could be in the street somewhere; he'd certainly be in no condition to make it back to his flat under his own power. Worse yet he could have made it home and be there, helpless. Jasper had a brief, horrible flash of Cal alone, the slow suffocation of fluid in the lungs. On holiday in Greece as a child he'd gotten tangled up in seaweed briefly and accidentally swallowed what had felt like gallons of water. Even though his mother had spelled it out with panic-induced speed, he remembered the helplessness of the sensation with shocking clarity.

If that was the case, it might already be too late. Jasper had been in the basement with Atlas for a long time. If--

There was no point in speculating. He just needed to go to Cal's flat first and see. If he wasn't there, he'd go somewhere else. If he's gone, really gone--

Stop. Stop. His head hurt from screaming.

Jasper flicked his wand and appeared in Cal's front hallway, nerves grating on edge. The hall itself was dark but there was a flood of light pouring from the kitchen door. A shadow cut across it and Jasper's heart jumped against his ribs. He didn't know he'd been holding his breath until it gasped out as he spoke, all but bounding forward.

"Cal, I thought you were--"

“Now then, would you kindly be holdin your hands where I might see them. Wand as well. Don't want any kind of trouble, be easiest if both of us thought the same thing.”

Jasper stopped and blinked at the figure silhouetted in the light. It wasn't Cal. Too tall and wide and too strange a lilt in the accent. All the relief that had built up in the one moment that he'd thought it was Cal and he was all right, thank God wrenched out of his chest, replaced with a return to anger. Was this man Atlas' accomplice? Did Atlas have accomplices? It would mean this entire scheme was premeditated, incredibly well thought out--had Atlas been unstable for a much longer time than Jasper recognized?

The man was starting to come into focus as Jasper's eyes adjusted. His wand was raised and there was rustling in the kitchen behind him. Jasper knew he couldn't duel. It wouldn't help anyone here. If Cal was here to help. He put his hands up at chest level, palms open and upward with his wand balanced in one. The obedience of the gesture didn't extend to his face, which was practically shivering with anger. This was too much, especially after such a moment of hope.

"Who the bloody hell are you? Where's Cal?"

Cal waited, sinking deeper and deeper into a kind of torpor, as Tuatha moved about fortifying his house. He'd never though such precautions would be necessary. Not really. And not against Atlas. That he had survived working for Garrow... it would be difficult, hereafter, after here. Not to become paranoid, to see possibilities of danger in every chink of his house. If someone really wanted to hurt him, it was all useless. Cal knew that. He himself had no defense. But no one would. No one but Atlas thought him powerful enough. He worked through the steps of the argumentation quickly and then set it aside, chin sinking down further between his fingers. He wanted to sleep. He could hardly think, and nothing he thought had meaning. Jasper wasn't coming.

No, he would, he'd have to.

God, Ferox, you're pathetic. Waiting, sunken after such a fashion.

A sudden noise sent him starting upright.

Something. Jasper's voice--his name--he recognized it, the tone wasn't angry--was it--

Cal started to his feet, pushing the chair back, and tottered. Sideways. His shoulder hit the wall, and he doubled over, coughing, grabbed for a tissue, coughed into it, tasting blood and slime. At length, throat raw, he stood upright and made his way carefully toward the kitchen entryway.

"--any kind of trouble, be easiest if both of us thought the same thing.”

Around the corner of the doorframe, he glimpsed Tuatha, face set sternly, wand up. Beyond he saw one side of Jasper's face, pale and more discomposed than he'd ever seen it, utterly distorted. Was he that angry? Angry--what would he--Cal had no idea. The white mask was a stranger's, and, at the same time, he felt that odd lurch, his subjectivity, his perspective, straining to become Jasper's, as though he were a disembodied astral specter and Jasper was his body.

"Who the bloody hell are you? Where's Cal?"

Cal's chest jumped bruisingly. "Jas--" It rasped out, half-articulated, a whisper. "Jasper." He pushed his way past the doorframe and into the foyer. "Jasper." He shoved past Tuatha, breath coming shallowly, whistling on his lips, and paused in front of Jasper, tottering. Tuatha would leave, he thought. He stared at Jasper, trying to sort out what he thought, what he was thinking, what he would do. For a split second he had no idea at all.

The figure in the hallway drew back and upwards, bristled but didn’t follow the instructions that Tuatha had laid out. Disconcerting. He didn’t want to have to hex the person without knowing for sure if they were friend or foe, he’d give the man a few more seconds. In the end that shadow settled on a compromise, bringing his hands up to the level of his chest, splayed between his index and middle finger was his wand. Good. With the main danger to his person contained Tuatha squinted to get a better look, was quickly interrupted when the stranger spoke.

Who the bloody hell are you? Where's Cal?

Posh accent, matched the suit and tie. Still didn’t answer the question of who he was and his purpose here. Tuatha was about to articulate these questions when Cal shoved past him, nearly knocked him off balance. Tuatha almost reached for him with his free hand but stopped. If the man was here to hurt him Ferox wouldn’t be stumbling toward him with the same kind of haste or purpose. He didn’t strike Tuatha as the sort who might think Unforgivables were a recreational activity.

Jas…. Cal had to take a breath, Tuatha, listened carefully. Jasper. His tone was more desperate than afraid and more relieved then pained. A friend then. Tuatha lowered his hand, gesturing a moment later. “Don’t let him fall, smack his head on the wood and we’ll be back where we started.”

He looked up from Cal to get a better picture of the man, medium height, small build, polished shoes, relief radiating off him as strongly as it seemed to be from Cal. He frowned…he should vacate though he wasn’t all-together certain why. Explanation first then, that at least was easy.

“Sorry for the wand sir. Felt obliged to make sure you hadn’t come to finish the job.” The posh bloke, Jasper’s eyes left roving over Cal and returned to look at him. Shrewd and angry. “I’m here at the request of Mr. Ferox’s and myselves mutual employer.” He pointed to Cal by way of reminder, when people got emotional you had to make sure you were being very clear. “Mr Ferox has a two way mirror on his person, in case Ms. Kosa requires something of him. More likely than not it saved his life. I’m not privy to most of the details Sir, I’m just here in a guard capacity. Ms. Kosa spliced him up best as she could.” Cal, as if to diminish his credibility choose to hack wetly at that moment, both Jasper and Tuatha looked at him for a tense moment.

“Internal damage isn’t life threatening, he’s bruised something horrific. Could hack the excess blood for a few days, maybe a week. Needs sleep. And the Unforgivable.” The suit turned his full glare on Tuatha, as if it was somehow his fault. “I was to stay until I was sure Mr. Ferox would be safe and his living quarters fortified. Both issues seem to be sorted now.” Tuatha adjusted his cap, using the gesture to distract from the way he sized up the two men standing not five yards down the hallway.

“There are some extra potions on the counter. Courtesy of Ms. Kosa’s personal Healer. All labeled, in case they’re needed. If you need anything else Mr. Ferox you know how to contact me.” He shifted and tipped his hat to Jasper. “Sir.” He gave the hallway and the two occupants one final look over before disapparating, heading first to Shallah and then home.

There was complete silence, then a fit of horrible, wet coughing somewhere just out of view, and then Cal. He took an odd, sideways-titled step forward from the kitchen, skirting around the man in the middle of the hallway awkwardly. He stopped in front of Jasper and swayed, Jasper's name coming off his lips crookedly. Jasper wanted to reach out for him, but he was supremely conscious of the third party in the room. So he and Cal stood, awkwardly apart. Cal's breathing was slightly crackly, like he was emitting a quiet buzz of radio static.

The other man spoke again, his voice gentler, and he lowered his wand, apparently appeased when he saw Cal's reaction. Jasper took a moment to study him. Casually dressed, sturdy, not an entirely unpleasant face when it wasn't scowling. Jasper was entirely confused as to who he was. Some odd Irish bloke. He continued his glare for the moment. Better safe than hexed to death.

“Sorry for the wand sir...I’m here at the request of Mr. Ferox’s and myselves mutual employer...Mr Ferox has a two way mirror on his person, in case Ms. Kosa requires something of him. More likely than not it saved his life. I’m not privy to most of the details Sir, I’m just here in a guard capacity. Ms. Kosa spliced him up best as she could.”

Jasper dropped his hands, sliding his wand into his pocket then keeping hand well away from it. Kosa. The Veela. Cal mentioned her very rarely, and as involved in the criminal world as he was, he'd never really come into contact with her. The man was her henchman, apparently. Rather congenial for a hired wand. Jasper usually found that hitmen tended to be Estonian giants named Sergei who had a penchant for knife collecting, not jovial Irishmen. Cal was coughing horribly again and Jasper really wanted to pull him forward, as though it would do some good to touch him. Even in the dim light, Jasper could tell that he was bloodlessly pale.

“Internal damage isn’t life threatening, he’s bruised something horrific. Could hack the excess blood for a few days, maybe a week. Needs sleep. And the Unforgivable."By way of explanation for the coughing fit. Cal had a tissue up to his mouth and Jasper could see a dark patch seeping through it. He thought back to the delicate spatter of blood on the wall of Atlas' basement and cringed inwardly. His hand twitched out, but he didn't know if Cal would want it. Didn't know what Kosa knew. I was to stay until I was sure Mr. Ferox would be safe and his living quarters fortified. Both issues seem to be sorted now.”

The Irishman crammed his cap more firmly onto his head and glanced between the two. Cal had stopped coughing, and he seemed to take it as his cue to leave. He gave a few more instructions then tipped his hat, archaically, to Jasper. Jasper wondered if he understood what the two of them were, or if he thought Jasper was another employer like Kosa. Not that he was going to find out, because there was the quiet pop of Apparition, and he was gone.

Jasper took the step forward instantly, arms around Cal's shoulders. He was afraid to press too tightly or stand too close, so he left his grip loose and pressed his face into Cal's hair, nose and lips against his ear. He felt like he was breathing too fast from relief, as though his lungs hadn't been able to relax enough to let air in. He could feel Cal's shoulderblades and spine through the worn fabric of his t-shirt, but there was no underlying warmth, so he shuffled a cautious step closer until they were just touching, the petals of the flower on his lapel bending backward.

"Thank God, I thought you were dead, Cal, when you weren't there-- I thought he killed you."

Cal stood frozenly staring at Jasper while Tuatha made his excuses. He couldn't read what he was thinking. What had Atlas told him? He'd come, he'd been worried, but... he worked for the Syndicate, too. Atlas knew what Jasper got up to. Was he guilty at all, and if he was, what of? Maybe Caedmon was mad, and it was the poison of paranoia, all of it, sunk into him too. And then he didn't care, because Jasper took a step forward and wrapped his arms around him. He put his own hands up. The tissue he'd been holding floated to the floor, and he set his palms to the back of Jasper's lungs and ribs, where his own hurt, and felt how rapidly they were moving.

There was some hesitancy about his movements, for which Cal had no patience. He moved closer, shuffling, like an awkward slow-dance. Cal didn't care if it hurt, he liked that it hurt, he linked his hands behind Jasper's back and pressed as hard as he could. It did hurt. But he

deserved it

or wanted it

or wanted him

or wanted to be him, or disappear. His legs trembled at the exertion and within a minute he had to let go and pull back to cough. He hacked and tried to turn his head into one shoulder, muffling it, but a drop of bloody phlegm landed on Jasper's lapel.

"Oh--sh-t--I'm sorry--" He brushed at the spot with one hand, half-doubling over, shut his eyes, opened them to bright smeariness, shut them, had to put one hand heavily on Jasper's shoulder and lean. "--I need to sit, just--" He paused to take a series of deep, heaving breaths, and waited for the colors to clear, then straightened, afraid to look Jasper in the eye. There was too much feeling there, somewhere, his or his. It discomfitted him. It frightened him.

Slowly, shrugging off offers of help, he made his way to the living room and lowered himself painstakingly to the nearest couch, shoulders hunched forward around the painful concavity of his chest. "I'm sorry, oh God, I thought..." He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, unsure who spoke or why.

Cal closed the gap he'd left between them, pushing forward, and Jasper's hands flattened and tightened on his back, a brief moment of what they wanted to do. But Cal pressed too hard, and soon he was back to coughing, pulling away shakily. Jasper didn't want to let go, and was slightly afraid Cal would buckle to the floor if he did.

"Oh--sh-t--I'm sorry--"

Cal was looking down at Jasper's lapel, fingers trying to brush something away. The fabric was dark enough that Jasper could barely see what it was, but he snapped his pocket square loose and dabbed and it came away red. Cal looked a bit panicked; usually stains on Jasper's clothes were utterly forbidden. But in this scenario, with Cal leaning on him just to stand, he didn't think it was the time. He slid one arm down Cal's back to hold him more steadily upright.

"It's okay, really, c'mon--" They shouldn't stand in the hallway. Cal seemed to have the same idea.

"--I need to sit, just--" He wasn't breathing well, and Jasper looked down at him in concern. Kosa's healer left something to be desired. Like health. Cal took a staggering step away from him, shrugging his arms off, and made his way into the living room. Jasper stayed close, one arm hovering behind his back, and took a seat next to him when he slumped down, leaning forward with his hands over his eyes.

"I'm sorry, oh God, I thought..."

The hunch of his shoulders made Jasper feel absurdly protective, as though Cal had been broken somehow and he needed to slowly bend him back into shape. He tugged an unfolded blanket from the nearby chair and, huddling close to Cal, wrapped it around the two of them and leaned back. The blanket smelled like his cologne; they'd been here just a few days ago, watching some terrible movie Cal had picked out. Groundhog Day. Well, nominally watching until Jasper had managed to distract him. The thought made his mouth twist into a slightly bitter smile.

"It's fine, c'mere." He tugged Cal in. "Don't worry if you cough, I can spell it. I barely like this one anyway."

There was silence again, comfortable, as Cal managed to slow his breathing. Jasper pressed his face back against Cal's hair; it was chilly, a faintly medicinal smell lingering on it. He wanted Cal to smell like himself; the mingling of Jasper's cologne and shampoo with the sharpness of his lab. This was just wrong. Cal seemed a little wrong, as though the world was murky for him and he had to move through it in slow motion. He wheezed, face pale, and Jasper felt a new wave of anger toward Atlas. So utterly unfair. Inhuman.

"I really--I thought you were gone. What Atlas said he did to you, and then you weren't there. I hurt him. I've never done anything like that to anyone." He didn't know why he was telling Cal this; he didn't need to hear about anything else violent or horrible. "I'm so glad you were here."

It occurred to him, suddenly, that perhaps Cal didn't want to be seen this way. God knew he wouldn't.

"Do you want me to stay with you? That bloke--who was he? He seemed to think I was, and I will, unless you want me to go."

He tightened his arms, one hand threading into Cal's hair, and hoped Cal would tell him to stay.

"Don't worry if you cough, I can spell it. I barely like this one anyway."

Clearly this wasn't really Jasper. Clearly it was some sort of strange dream, conjunctive to desire. Things weren't supposed to tilt his way, this way. Jasper had wrapped him in a blanket, he only just noticed--it had a bit of a felty texture. He leaned against Jasper and felt much better, warmer, able to breathe. In contrast to how he'd felt before--it was nothing. Phlegm merely, collected in the back of his throat, not how it had been at first, when he'd felt himself to be drowning. He was just tired. Sore. His breathing slowed and he rested his head on Jasper's shoulder.

Somehow he still couldn't believe it was Jasper, that he'd really believed him. Believed what? Nothing. That it really was Jasper, and not some imagined shell. That he really--that he was the extension of his desires. Nothing. It frightened him. That he might rule Jasper in some fashion. Something. Subjective.

"I really--I thought you were gone." Cal had never heard him use that tone. It sounded so Cal-like. "What Atlas said he did to you, and then you weren't there. I hurt him. I've never done anything like that to anyone."

He couldn't quite believe it, had to turn his head a little to make sure he was himself and Jasper, Jasper. It was all surreal, it felt fevered. When had Jasper really replaced, or become, a part of himself? or when had he become...

"I'm so glad you were here."

Jasper shifted and tensed beside him, and Cal jerked upright. Now it would all turn. He'd realize it'd all been--

"Do you want me to stay with you? That bloke--who was he? He seemed to think I was, and I will, unless you want me to go."

"No. No. Stay. I don't know. I'm sorry." He paused for breath, heard gurgling; but looser, not painful. Soon it'd all be gone and he would be--not fine--but empty. That frightened him, too. "Please stay." He cleared his throat and straightened, rubbing a hand over his eyes once again, then turned to look at Jasper, put a hand to his face, touched his hair, skin, lips, chin. He held himself carefully upright, straight-backed. He couldn't just melt like this, he would have nothing left. He had to think about things, he had to sort it all out. What was his and what wasn't. Put the pieces together.

"I just need to sleep. I'm fine." Pausing, in jerky stop-motion frames, he put his head down on Jasper's shoulder again, lifted it, ran a hand over his jacket, put it down again.

Lifted it and sat up.

"Jasper... I thought you'd believe--I thought you'd side with him. Why--"

He wanted, surreally and suddenly and self-destructively or descructively in some way, anyway, to tell Jasper that Atlas had been right about everything. But he hadn't. Cal swallowed bile and shook his head. He hadn't, he hadn't.

Cal was speaking without saying anything, rephrasing the same simple thoughts in vague permutations. He tried to sit up, slid his cold fingers across Jasper's face, then collapsed against him again. At least he felt a bit warmer this time, and his chest wasn't making such appalling rattling sounds.

"I just need to sleep. I'm fine."

That said, Jasper would certainly not have described his condition as 'fine.' Or possibly even 'fully alive.' Cal was right about needing to sleep. Jasper was about to suggest he do so in bed, where he wouldn't have to spend the whole night with his face crammed against the buttons of Jasper's shirt (probably better in the long run for the shirt too), but Cal sat up again quickly, face creasing over with concern.

"Jasper... I thought you'd believe--I thought you'd side with him. Why--"

With Atlas. Of course. Cal knew that he was-- had been, now-- one of Jasper's closest friends. It was natural that Jasper would value his opinion more. And if it had really been Atlas down in the basement, maybe he would have taken them seriously. But that hadn't been Atlas. It couldn't have been, because that destroyed everything Jasper had ever been certain of about his friends.

"Atlas told me about Garrow, and the equations and--magic." He let the last word drop out quietly and hurried on. "What you did doesn't warrant this. Nothing warrants this. I couldn't believe it when I checked his wand. I think he's gone, you know? Atlas as I knew him. He went through too much, and he was always fragile somehow, anyway. I don't know--it was unjustifiable, that's all. How could I side with him?"

Cal swallowed, sitting forward. "It's all my fault," he muttered, but it came out all air. And insincerity. Where had he read--something about half-hearted sincerity, it was half-true or exaggeratedly true, as some kind of... anyway, it wasn't true. The compass of Cal's judgment swung wildly side to side. All he knew was Jasper sounded profoundly sad.

"I only sold him the equations," Cal said, putting his head in his hands, puzzling it out. "And a potion, once." Unicorn's blood. Caedmon's shop. A red handprint on the wall. He didn't want to discuss it further.

"Don't pity me, Jasper. Don't." He realized his hands had moved, his forearms pressed against the bruised part of his chest. He shook his head slowly. "I'm tired of being a f--king--I'm tired of it." He stood up and steadied himself on one arm of the couch and started down the hall to his room. "I love you and I don't want you to leave. But I'm confused enough without pity. I just need you, and--"

He had to stop and lean against one wall. "--you. And. Me. Two. Separate. I thought I'd lost you, I think I've lost me, please."

Leaning against the wall, Cal felt utterly helpless. He wanted to blast something, destroy something. He had never only rarely magic quite as much as he did in that instant. But Jasper was there. And he wished he could want Jasper with the same sort of purity. Of--something. Rather than jealousy. But he did. It was just confused. He needed sleep. And he wanted Jasper. He didn't want him to leave.