Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Now folks, I spend most of my time right over there, carefully cultivating the perfect starter of news, meticulously kneading dough of stories, scrupulously analysing the best baking tins for the day’s jokes, and perfecting the oven temperature and timing to create for you the immaculate perfectly cooked loaf of sourdough that is my nightly monologue. But sometimes, just sometimes, folks, I grab a handful of discarded flour, pour in cheap beer and rip apart green chip packets, then nail it all together to bake the cursed shame loaf of news that is my segment.

…Meanwhile!”

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause.

“Now folks, as many of you know, I’ve always had a fascination with supernatural literature. But recently, scientists have raised alarm bells that one such creature might be living among us. [Thunderclap sound effect] ,

They studied children lost on the moors of Britain—who returned with pale skin, blood loss, and pointed teeth. [Turns to another camera]

That sounds suspiciously like the work… of a vampire!
Dun Dun Duuuuunnn! ”

Chapter Text

Jimmy Kimmel sat in his office, scrolling through the weekly ratings.

“Worse than usual,” he muttered.

Funny—when he first started out, numbers like these would’ve been a dream. Now? A slow week.

“Hissssss…”

Jimmy frowned. “What was that?”

“Hissssss…”

He stood. “Uh… do you work here?”

“What are you doing?”

“Security!?”

“Security!?”

“Aaaah!”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Conan sat reading quietly.

“Hissssss…”

He looked up. “What the hell was that?”

“Hissssss…”

“Honey… Is that you?”

Silence.

“HISSSSSSS!”

“Aaaaaaah!”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a long week. Stephen unlocked his door, collapsed on the couch, and was out cold within minutes.

“Hissss…”

He woke with a jolt, clutching his arm. A strange pain seared through it. On his forearm: two perfectly spaced red dots.

“Some weird bug bite,” he muttered.

Chapter Text

Until that moment, it had been a relatively normal Saturday.

Stephen reached for his cross necklace. As it touched his skin-

“Agh!”

He threw it away, eyes wide. It felt like molten metal.

Confused, he tried once more- “Ahh!” and dropped it instantly. His fingertips were burned and raw. A red mark the size of the cross was blistering on his chest.

“Evie! Come here!”

His wife ran in. “What is it?”

“My cross… it burned me,” he said, holding out his blistered fingers.

“Let me see.” She touched the necklace. “It’s not even warm?”

He reached for it again

“Ow!”

“Okay, stop touching it!” she snapped. “I’ll get you some ice.”

16 Hours Later — Text Messages

Jon: Wanna go for a run?

Stephen: Can’t. The sun burns my skin

Jon: So what else is new? Also it’s winter

Stephen: No, not like that

Jon: ??

Stephen: Just come over

Jon stood in Stephen’s living room, half-laughing. “The sun burns your skin? What the hell are you talking about?”

Stephen sat slouched in a dark corner. His eyes were calm, but behind them—fear.

“I’ll show you.”

He extended his hand into a narrow beam of sunlight streaming through the window. Instantly, his skin sizzled.

“Shit! Does that hurt?”

Stephen nodded solemnly.

“It’s only natural light that does it,” he whispered. “Like I’m allergic to the sun itself.”

He paused. “And it’s not just that. My cross… it burns me too.”

Jon hesitated. “Have you… seen a doctor?”

“I should. I will . But…” He trailed off. “I know it sounds insane. Sunlight, okay, maybe that’s explainable. But the cross? That’s like… like I’ve turned into-”

He stopped.

“Into what, Stephen?”

“A demon. Or… something. Which is impossible. And stupid. Right?”

“I mean… I’m no expert. But you don’t seem like a demon.” Jon sat beside him “You’re too nice.”

Stephen chuckled weakly. “Thanks.”

Chapter Text

Stephen had been going to work as normal, or at least, kind of normal.

The curtains were always shut, and his driver dropped him right at the door. He treated the beams of light pouring in from high windows as lasers and took a great amount of time jumping and ducking to avoid them. Most of the staff took it as some bizarre eccentricity.

“Well, he certainly looks pale, if that’s what he’s going for.”

“Y’know, I thought this was some elaborate bit, but I don’t see what’s funny.”

“Fame turns people weird. They all end up with something. If he’s developed a fear of vitamin D… well, he’s not hurting anyone.”

He’d overheard these comments in the hallways. At least no one suspected the truth. 

Not that he was even sure what the truth was.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Steve Carell Cancels Next 5 Weeks of Performances.”

That was the headline waiting for him as he checked his phone after leaving the writers’ meeting.

The article was no help, just information about ticket refunds and vague speculation. Stephen frowned and hit “call.”

The phone rang for fifteen seconds, then clicked to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Stephen. I hope you’re doing okay. Call me back when you can.”

As he looked at his phone he accidentally rested his hand on the back of a razor, oddly it didn’t hurt at all, he shrugged it off and got a bandaid for the cut. 

Later, as he changed into his suit, Stephen caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and jumped back in alarm .

Sharp fangs gleamed where his canines should be.

He ran his tongue across them, heart racing. They were real.

How the fuck didn’t I notice that? he wondered.

He ran from the room, not entirely sure where he was going.

By the time he reached the end of the hallway, he nearly collided with Paul Dinello, a friend, at least. Not that Stephen felt like talking to anyone right now.

“Hey, Stephen. I’ve been meaning to ask, what do you think abou… wait. What’s wrong with your teeth?”

“What- erm- nothing! I mean, what do you mean?”

“Smile for me, yeah? You’ve got fangs.”

“Oh, those... I, um, bought them. For a sketch. Look real, don’t they?” he said, trying desperately to sound casual.

“Yeah, definitely. What’s wrong, Stephen? You’re shaking.”

“Oh, it’s nothing- I, err…”

He scrambled for a reason. One came to him.

“I think they’re stuck.”

Paul burst out laughing. “You would get novelty fangs stuck.”

Stephen managed a weak smile. Listening to Paul laugh at him for the next two minutes was, oddly, comforting.

For just a moment, he could almost believe it himself. That it was just a prop-gone-wrong. Just a dumb accident.

Not... whatever the hell this really was.

He went to the bathroom, telling Paul he was going to once again try and get the “fake” fangs off.

Which was mostly true.

Standing in front of the mirror, he gripped the sink and stared at his reflection. Then, for a second, he couldn't see his reflection, he could see right through to the wall behind him.

He jumped back in fright, but his refection re-appeared just as soon as it had vanished

What the hell was that? What the hell am I supposed to do?

He shut his eyes, tried to breathe.

Just breathe, Steve. It’s okay. You’ll be okay.

When he opened them again, the fangs were gone.

His knees nearly buckled with relief.

By the time he rejoined Paul, he’d almost convinced himself he’d imagined the whole thing.

“You got ’em off!” Paul said, grinning.

Stephen froze for half a second.

So they had been there.

Fuck.

—-----------------------------------------

The show that night went off without a hitch. He hit every cue. Paul never asked where the “fang bit” had gone. Maybe he thought Stephen was saving it for something else. Maybe he didn’t care.

Either way, Stephen was grateful.

—-----------------------------------------

Later, during the post-mortem in the writers’ room, someone cut their finger. He didn’t see how, just a paper nick or a cracked mug maybe. But the moment he saw that thin line of blood, he knew.

He wanted it.

More than wanted it, needed it. Hunger tore through him, sharp and ravenous.

He stood up so quickly his chair toppled behind him.

“I have to go.”

“Okay, Stephen… you coming back?” someone asked, half-laughing.

“No.” Then, forcing a smile, careful not to display his teeth, he added. “See you tomorrow.”

He walked fast, almost ran, down the corridor, out the door, into the night.

He ran his tongue along his teeth.

The fangs were back.

Oh, fuck.

Chapter Text

Hosting Mondays meant Jon could roll in late, or skip the office entirely, for most of the week. That Wednesday, it was nearly 4 p.m. by the time he showed up.

Jimmy Kimmel was in town for some reason, and they were meant to film some crossover bits. Standard late-night synergy.

“Jimmy here?” Jon asked as he passed the front desk.

“Yeah, third room on the second floor.”

“Cheers.”

He made his way upstairs, found the dressing room, and knocked.

No response.

He knocked again, louder this time.

“Jimmy? You in there?”

Still nothing.

“Jimmy!”

He waited. Maybe the guy was in the bathroom or tied up in some producer chat. But something about the silence made Jon uneasy.

He scribbled a quick note and slid it under the door:

Hey, I’m in my office. Come find me when you’re free – Jon

Back at his desk, he opened a news site, but his eyes barely tracked the headlines. Resigned to not getting any work done today. The creeping, stupid feeling that something was off wouldn't leave him.

Text messages

Stephen: I left something at yours. Mind if I stop by and grab it?

Jon: Go for it

Jon: You know where the key is

He leaned back, let the phone drop onto the desk.

Then he heard it, a familiar voice calling from the hallway.

“Jon?”

He stood up, peered out the door. “Hey! Jimmy?  I'm here, we’re supposed to go over the bit. Are you- ”

“Hello, Jonathan.”

It was Jimmy’s voice, but not quite. 

There was something wrong in it, something hollow, precise. Like the words were being spoken by someone who’d studied how humans sound, but never quite mastered the rhythm.

Jon felt his throat tighten.

“Jimmy?” he said again, quieter this time.

No answer. Just the sound of slow footsteps drawing closer.

Jon didn’t wait.

Something primal in his brain screamed run , and sure as hell didn’t argue.

He turned on his heel and bolted down the hallway, nearly slipping on the slick floor as he hit the stairs. Behind him, the footsteps quickened, not loud, just... intentional .

He didn’t look back.

Out the front door. Down the front steps two at a time. 

The street was busy: crowds, horns, a food truck’s muffled salsa music; but everything felt off , like the city had dropped a decibel. The colors were duller. The noise was quieter. His breath came in gasps.

He ran down the road when  he saw a bus arrive, without thinking he jumped on. It was headed for 30 rock.

I'll find Jimmy F or Seth, a friend, ask if they've seen Jimmy recently, tell them what happened, whatever the hell just happened. 

The security people recognised him and waved him through. 

“You okay Mr Stewart, y’seem shaken. You didn’t get mugged, did you?” one asked 

“No, no, I'm fine, I'm just… I’m fine.” 

“Okay” the guard seemed unconvinced. 

He made his way up the stairs and around the corner where he nearly collided with Jimmy.

“Jon, hey. Whoa, you okay? You look pale... you're shaking. Sit down or something, did you take anything? Sometimes those gummies can be laced with…”

Jon didn’t hear the rest.

Because he saw them.

Two sharp, glinting fangs peeking past Jimmy’s upper lip as he talked, just… casually there. Like they belonged.

“I… have to go”

“Oh- okay Jon, see you round” he smiled 

The same fangs were visible. 

Jon didn’t answer. He just bolted.

Down the stairs. Heart pounding.

He turned a corner, looking for a way out, and found himself in front of Seth’s studio.

Relief surged.

“Seth!” he called, spotting his friend with his back turned. “Seth, thank God. Something’s wrong with the Jimmys, both of them, they’re like- ”

Seth turned.

“What are they like, Jon?” he asked softly.

And that’s when Jon saw it: Seth stood directly in front of a wall-length mirror… but there was no reflection.

“Ahhh” he screamed, scrabbling for an exit.

He ran onto the street, checking no one was following him, then hailed a cab.

Chapter Text

Jon entered his apartment and locked the door before really looking inside. 

Stephen was sitting on the floor in front of him staring at the wall blankly.

“Ahh!”

Stephen barely looked up.

“Hey, Jon,” he said flatly.

“What in the- what are you doing here?”

Jon had completely forgotten about the texts Stephen had sent that afternoon. It felt like a lifetime ago. Stephen just shrugged, eyes fixed somewhere far away.

“You alright, man? You seem a little… out of it.” Jon asked leaning down to his friend 

“Just hungry, Jon.”

“Oh, is that all? There should be something in the cupboard or…” he trailed off as a sudden terrifying realisation hit him 

He remembered that conversation with Stephen two weeks ago, it should have been hard to forget, but there was a lot on his mind recently. Stephen's words echoed in his mind now with terrifying clarity:

“It’s like I’ve turned into a demon or something.”

Or something.

Suddenly, it all fit: the pale skin, the sun burns, the... hunger?

Oh god. What kind of hunger?

Jon swallowed hard. “What are you hungry for, man?”

He tried to sound casual. 

Stephen’s eyes didn’t move. “Blood. I think.”

“Oh- I” he reached for the door handle about to flee 

Stephen stood up and reached out his hands 

“Don’t go. Please. I… I don’t want to be alone.”

The raw desperation in his voice made Jon freeze, he looked at him, he recognised the pain in face.

Whoever… whatever he was becoming, he knew at least a part of his friend was still in there. And in spite of all logic and against all instincts of self preservation, he couldn’t abandon him.

“Okay, man,” he said quietly, hand slipping off the doornob. But he kept his back against the door.

“I’ll stay back. I won’t hurt you,” Stephen said, taking a few cautious steps backward.

“It’s okay, Stephen. Just… sit on the couch. We’ll watch TV.”

Stephen nodded silently and sat on the far right side of the couch. Jon took a seat next to him, leaving a safe stretch of space between them. He flicked on Comedy Central, and for a while, they sat in silence, watching South Park with the volume turned low.

During an ad break , Jon glanced over.

“Where’s Evie?”

“Michigan. For work. She’s back next Thursday.”

Jon tilted his head, a quiet question written in the gesture.

Stephen didn’t meet his eyes. “She knows I’m… allergic to sunlight. That’s it.”

They didn’t speak after that. They just kept flipping channels. Neither of them dared to fall asleep.

—-----------------------------------

Around 7 the next morning, Jon stood up.

“I have to go to work.”

He didn’t really have to go. It wasn’t his day to host, and most of his job could be done remotely. But he figured sitting around trying not to get eaten wasn’t exactly conducive to productivity. Better to go in.

“Okay,” Stephen said quietly.

Jon got dressed and started gathering his things. Just as he reached for the door, Stephen looked up.

“Can you lock it? From the outside, I mean. So… no one can get out.”

Jon froze. “Get out? Why would-”

Then he understood.

“Gimme a second.”

—-----------------------------------

Using zip ties, a couple of padlocks, and some spare wood, Jon cobbled together a makeshift barricade across every available exit. It wasn’t elegant, but it would hold.

Before stepping out the front door, he turned and looked back. Stephen was watching him, tears running down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Stephen.”

“It’s okay.” His voice cracked as he began to sob.

“I’m just… so hungry.”

That, Jon decided, was his cue to leave.

Outside, he looped a heavy padlock through the front door handle and secured it to a metal eye bolt on the frame. It would look strange to the neighbors, sure. But that was the least of his concerns.

Chapter Text

He heard a knock at his office door. 

“Jon, can I talk to you?” It was John Oliver. 

“No,” Jon snapped. “Not if you're trying to kill me.”

He expected confusion, maybe a laugh, at the very least some surprise.

Instead, John simply nodded.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said quietly, sitting beside his ex-boss. “I think our friends have been turned into vampires.”

Jon scoffed. “Yeah, I figured that much. But how? I was under the impression vampires don’t exist. I don't know about you-?” 

“I’m sorry Jon, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” He hesitated, “Or… your casting directors.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. 

“Vampires have existed in Britain for a long time,” John began. “Bram Stoker got it wrong. All that talk about Eastern Europe was mostly based on personal bias. The truth is, they’ve been here for centuries, and the British government has been trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to contain their population since the 1500s.” he paused and continued slowly  “There are serious ethical concerns about simply killing them, especially the ones who haven’t hurt anyone yet.”

“Yet,” Jon repeated, sharply.

John sighed. “They all do, eventually.”

He looked down at his hands. “That’s why the government started sending operatives to countries they believe are compromised. In Britain, they don't always kill them, we have places they can go, ways of protecting the public… but once they cross the border, it's shoot on sight.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “So you're one of those operatives.”

John nodded.

“Then why haven’t you killed Stephen? or Jimmy? or any of them?”

John’s voice dropped, quiet and pained. “Because the vampires bit them… and then just left? Normally, they only bite people for food, they take enough blood so they’re not hungry anymore. Sometimes it kills you, sometimes it doesn’t.” 

He swallowed, looking horrified.

“But this time… they didn’t finish. It bit them, and just… left? Turned them into vampires, just… because? It doesn’t make sense.” He paused, “So. Before any killing happens, I have to figure out why. ”

Jon stared at him in disbelief, not really listening.

“So let me get this straight. You’ve been a vampire hunter, or something, this whole time, and you never thought you might be putting us in danger?!”

John looked genuinely upset. “I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence for a minute. 

“Stephen hasn’t bitten anyone yet,” Jon said quietly.

“Did he tell you that?”

“He sat next to me all night. Didn’t move.”

John looked startled.
“Did he- ” He suddenly pulled what looked like a small magnifying glass from his pocket and held it up to Jon’s eyes, studying them closely.

After a moment, he relaxed. “He really didn’t bite you. That’s… good.”

Jon let out a half-scoff. “Yeah, I think I’d have noticed.”
“He’s still at your apartment?” John asked. 

Jon nodded.

“Then we need to go there.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He pushed the door open.

“Stephen! Stephen!?”

They looked around the apartment, but Stephen was nowhere to be found. 

They came to a broken widow.

“Fuck!” John swore 

“Did he-? oh god-” Jon stepped backwards in horror. 

But John shook his head, "Vampires can fly, and they're immortal, sort of” 

“Sort of?”

“They still age and decay like humans do, slower of course, but after about 300, it’s not really living. Plus you can still kill them the, ‘cliche vampire ways.” He counted off the list on his fingers, “silver bullet, wooden stake, fire, holy water I guess, but you’d need a lot.”

“That’s completely insane, it doesn't feel real” Jon grimaced.

John seemed uninterested in Jon’s feelings. 

“I needed to talk to Stephen." He sighed with frustration “it’s fine… it’s fine. Come with me,” he beckoned Jon to the door. 

“I’d rather stay home… I’ll be careful,” Jon said.

“You need to stay with me, Jon.”

“Why?”

“They’re targeting talk show hosts. You’re the last one left. Other than me, obviously.” He looked at Jon like he was surprised that hadn’t clicked yet. “You can be careful all you want, but you don’t know vampires like I do.”

Jon frowned. “And… why are they coming after talk show hosts?”

“I have no idea,” he said honestly.

Chapter Text

Jon had no idea where John was headed, only that he was moving fast, weaving through the Broadway crowds. Jon struggled to keep up, firing off questions between gasps for breath.

“So they're afraid of crosses? Like it burns them?” He asked. 

“Yes, actually any religious symbol” John replied, not looking back.

“So if I just drew a star of David, like on paper? Would that burn them?” Jon said, struggling to keep up.

“No. Wait, yes? Maybe, depends” John sounded irritated. 

“Can they hypnotise humans? Like in hotel transylvania?” Jon caught up at a crossing, panting. 

“Hotel-? Yes. But it’s very difficult, takes skill. Other vampires too, if they're powerful enough.”

“Is there a way to cure them? Like… Do you have to kill everyone?” Jon asked his tone more serious.

“Yes, and no,” John said, pushing past a slow group of tourists. “If you kill a vampire, everyone they bit usually turns back into a human. So we have to kill someone but not everyone .”

“Usually?” Jon frowned. 

“Sometimes they just don’t turn back, we call them “original sires,” they’re are insanely rare, but if it weren't for them, vampires would have been eradicated centuries ago”

“Why don’t they turn back?

“I don’t know! I’m not… Oh my god!”

They had come to the side of the theatre which Steve Carrell was performing at, (an interpretation of dracula, ironically.) 

“What!”

John looked positively gleeful  “Oh my god! I can't believe I never noticed that! I- that’s exactly what I’ve been looking for… all these years… it’s right there” 

He was staring at the wall. 

“What-!?

“That, on the wall” he pointed at an image of a blue jay, etched into the wall of the theatre, too intentional-looking to be graffiti, but still out of place enough to look like an addition. 

“That’s where he is! It must be!”

“Where who is?!” jon was getting increasingly frustrated 

“The original-original sire. The one all the modern bloodlines trace back to. That’s his symbol. He’s here. He’s been here this whole time.”

He raced for the stage door, beckoning Jon to come with him.

The door was looked, obviously, consisting there were no performances today. 

Then, to their surprise, the door opened from the inside.

It was Steve Carell.

“Oh, hey guys. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for something… I think,” Jon said awkwardly.

“Can we come in?” John blurted.

“Uhh… sure?”

John pushed past him before the sentence finished, already scanning the corridor with wild eyes. Jon followed after with an apologetic smile. “Thanks! Be right back!”

John seemed possessed. He tapped on walls, peered behind curtains, tested floorboards, until they reached a battered door marked Do Not Enter.

John promptly ignored the signage and pushed through, his excitement palpable.

“Shhh,” he whispered to Jon as they crept down the stairs.

As they descended, Jon caught sight of the room below, a vast, dim space lit by scattered candles. In the center sat a giant water tank, inside he would see what looked like a giant, very old, human head.

Jon went to gasp, but stopped himself, not wanting to alert… that, to their presence. 

The most disturbing part had to be, the head didn’t seem dead. It was breathing… or was it snoring?

John signaled and began creeping back up the stairs. He was grinning like he’d found buried treasure.

“You have no idea how big this is,” he whispered excitedly. “I have to call London. There’s no service down here, come on!”

They were halfway back to the door when a voice stopped them cold.

“Leaving so soon?”

It was Steve.

They turned, and Jon froze. Steve was smiling.

He had fangs. 

“RUN!” John yelled. 

They scrambled towards the exit but John was a few paces behind. 

Jon heard a scream, but he didn’t look back. 

Outside, gasping for air, Jon turned in every direction.

John was gone.

Chapter Text

By the time Jon got back to his apartment, it was getting dark. He really couldn’t think of what to do, nor could he really understand what the hell just happened to him. 

He wasn’t exactly hungry, so he simply showered and got into bed. 

But, it wasn’t like he could go to sleep. 

He thought of everything: Seth, the Jimmys. Stephen, oh god poor Stephen. John, was all that even real? It unsettled Jon more than he had realised at the time. The way John had changed into a completely different person in an instance.

Was it John? Was their connection with him the reason for all of this? It couldn’t be, from what he could tell John wasn’t even particularly important in whatever vampire hunting scheme he was a part of. But that thing had to be targeting talk show hosts for some reason? Right? 

“Is that head guy just a big fan of our shows?” Jon thought with some obscured dark humor.

Every time he closed his eyes he saw the ugly face on that… creature in the water tank. 

It was then an idea struck him, so hard he almost jumped to his feet. The water tank. Water. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon didn’t really know any priest personally, he figured the best place to meet one would be in church. 

The service was mostly uninteresting, fairly typically as far as Jon could tell. When mass was over Jon seized his moment to talk with the priest. 

“Hey! Hey! Sorry, Can I talk to you?! Father!” Jon waved at him frantically. 

Jon was not exactly in his natural habitant, in a church, surrounded by people, introducing himself to a stranger. This combined with the events of the past two days meant Jon was significantly off balance. 

The astonished priest regarded him, clearly recognizing Jon, and clearly realising how unlikely a parishioner he was. 

 “Are you alright, sir?” he turned to the flustered Jon. 

“Yeah! Actually no. I’m Jon. And ummm… great service!” 

“Thank you?”

 “I’m sorry I- I need your help? It's my friend! Stephen - not just him- they’ve…”

“Why don't you sit down?”

Jon still seemed increasingly frantic. “I need your help! My friends, have turned into-”

“I… don't do exorcisms,” he interrupted, cautiously. “If you think you need…”

“No! No, not like that just… Can you bless water? Make holy water, I mean.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes…?” 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon was pretty sure Father Pascoe didn’t believe him. In fact, as far as Jon could tell he was under the impression that Jon was suffering from some stress or drug induced delusions, and simply saw following Jon as his duty in order to keep him safe. But he followed him nonetheless, which was all Jon could really ask for. As they walked, Father Pasoce tried to offer polite advice.

"Y’know Jon, I do talk through a lot of issues with people as part of my job, if there is anything you’d like to talk about?” He smiled kindly making eye contact with jon as they reached a stop light, “or if you’d be willing, one of my friends is a therapist. She’s really good, I’m sure she could make time for you?”

“Thanks Father, but I’m alright” Jon replied distractedly 

Father Pascoe persisted in his attempts to get through to Jon. "You know as much as I appreciate you trusting me with this, maybe a friend or family member's accompaniment will help calm you down.” 

“No father really, I need your help.” Jon dismissed "Do you remember the plan?” 

“Of course, Jon, there’s a tank of water with .. something in it.”

“A head, a giant human head.”

“Right,”

They were nearing the theatre. 

"I know the state of the world can get you down Jon, maybe a break from the public eye would help?” Father Pascoe suggested.

Jon just nodded, looking ahead as they walked.

“A lot of people deal with addiction, there’s no shame-”

“I know, Father. Really. I’m okay, just trust me?” Jon interrupted.

“Alright Jon” he gave a mildly patronising smile. 

They reached the theatre, a deep dread began to take hold of Jon as he pictured what was waiting for him down below that stage. 

To Jon’s relief, the door was unlocked. 

“Are you sure about this? It’s technically trespassing,” Father Pascoe asked as they entered.

“Yeah, trust me.” Jon repeated.

They creeped down the stairs.