Chapter Text
Jack was covered in dust, his leg was throbbing, and he was starting to stiffen from hours sitting in the same chair, but he’d wager he still didn’t feel as bad as Alan Ross was going to feel when he woke up.
If he woke up, that is.
Jack’s stomach clenched at the thought, the sudden ache adding a bass note to his symphony of bodily discomfort. The last few hours had been a chaos of pain and disappointment. Jack could recognize, distantly, that there was going to be hell to pay for the failed heist at the Barrel. But, for now, gazing at Alan Ross’s unconscious form in Jack’s own bed, he could only think of one thing. Had Bastoke’s spell worked? A spell to tamper with memory could be even stronger than lethe mint. If Alan hadn’t known what was coming, perhaps he wouldn’t have been able to perturbate it.
There had been so much chaos in that moment, some of which Jack had only been able to piece together on his frantic ride home: the contract items changing hands, half his company locked in the grasp of the priez-vous spell, and Edwin drawing on the ley lines under the Barrel. Yet Jack could barely recall seeing any of it. Strange, that. The entire glass-and-marble edifice of the British Magical Assembly had crumbled, and the only thing Jack recalled with any clarity was a slight, wiry frame slumped unconscious, a head of riotous brown curls, about to be buried by it all.
Well, not the only thing. There was the other set of images that Jack’s mind wouldn’t stop offering up for his consideration like an overzealous valet. Alan Ross, called into the Lockroom by the commanding tones of George Bastoke. Alan Ross, standing just inside the door, looking sick and ready to bolt. Alan Ross, admitting aloud to everyone that he’d shared their plans with Bastoke, that he’d forged Edwin’s hand, that he’d told Violet to bring the cup with her.
Could Alan have done it out of spite? Jack was all too familiar with Ross’s hatred of the rich and titled. Perhaps he’d simply jumped at any chance to bring their grand plans crashing down from the inside. But surely the journalist, critical of power as he was, could see the difference in how Bastoke wanted to wield it, and how Jack and Edwin and the others had wanted to protect it. No: Alan fought power, but he didn’t fight blindly. There had to be some other reason for his betrayal.
Jack longed to ask Alan why he’d done it, so intensely that the feeling seemed to push his hand towards Alan’s - please wake up, please remember me, please be able to explain . Tentatively he brushed the fragile arc of Alan’s wrist bone, with its wiry dusting of hair, and under his fingertips he felt an inert, otherworldly cold that cried out with wrongness.
Before he could draw his hand back, Alan stirred and his long, curling eyelashes fluttered open. All the color had been leached from his face: he looked tired and frayed, like a version of his former self that had taken too many trips through the wash.
“Alan?” Jack said, and his voice sounded rough-hewn and tremulous to his own ears. He withdrew his hand from Alan’s wrist almost guiltily, and took a moment to brush a single fleck of dust from his filthy, ripped trousers. A pathetic excuse, but it gave him a moment to collect his nerves. A few more ponderous seconds hobbled by before Alan turned his head, and the look Jack saw in those amber eyes - confusion and wary suspicion - brought Jack back to himself.
“How much do you remember?” Jack reached for a steady, distanced tone.
Alan cleared his throat, failed to make a sound, winced and cleared it again. “Where… where am I? What happened to me?”
“One question at a time.” Jack said. Alan might remember nothing, or he might remember everything. He could be foe or… whatever else Jack had once thought he might be. Everything was poised in the balance, and this was not the time to allow emotion to knock things askew.
“You’re at my townhouse, in Mayfair. Does that mean anything to you?”
Alan made an abortive attempt to shake his head, but clearly thought better of it. With a grimace he gritted out. “No.”
“And do you know your own name?”
“Do I look that daft to you?” came the retort, tired but still familiarly combative. Jack ignored a small finger’s tug of relief that he absolutely should not have felt. “Name’s Alan Ross.”
“And the year?”
“1909, last I checked.”
“And where do you live?”
“London, where I assume I still am unless things have truly gone sideways.” Alan was losing his patience, Jack could tell. “Now, as much as I’d like to continue this interview, would you care to tell me why I’ve got a splitting headache and just woke up in a strange man’s bed?”
Everything went still, silent. A strange man. Jack grasped momentarily for words.
“Do you not know who I am?”
Alan pierced him with a look that would certainly have included a roll of the eyes, had his head not been so visibly paining him. “No, I don’t know who you are, but I can tell you’re the type who might take that as a great personal offense. I mean nothing by it, my lord - this last dripped with sarcasm - “but if you could condescend to enlighten me as to who you are, where I am, and what the hell happened to me, I would be forever in your debt.”
Fuck. The spell had worked, then. And taken months of Ross’s memories, as far back as the Lyric at least, just as Bastoke had intended. Jack could barely comprehend what was happening. Here was Alan Ross: mocking the aristocracy even while barely conscious, so very himself that it filled Jack with a wracking rush of relief at the sheer familiarity of it. And here was Alan Ross, a man entirely unaware of who Jack was, or any of their shared history. Jack was overtaken by a lightning-flash of anger, stunning not in its intensity, but in the fact that it was directed at George fucking Bastoke. Rather than at Alan, who - little though he might remember it - had betrayed them all to their worst enemy and put all the magicians of Britain in danger.
And then another thought: if Alan didn’t remember Jack, then he didn’t remember magic, either. He’d effectively been re-busheled. How was Jack going to explain anything of what had just happened, without explaining magic?
Alan, it seemed, was disinclined to wait for an explanation. “All right then,” he began, “If you’re not going to answer any of my questions, I’ll be off. No need to wait on your permission.”
Alan struggled and failed to get himself upright. Jack, unthinking, placed a firm hand to his shoulder to press him back down towards the bed. And, fuck. That touch - that way of touching Alan Ross- was so charged with memory that it resonated in Jack’s body like a spell. The heat of Alan’s body, the rough sinews over bone, the way Alan always pushed back and then yielded so beautifully, never taking his angry eyes off of Jack. Familiar, bestirring, and yet … wrong. He couldn’t touch Alan Ross anymore. Not like that. Not in the knowledge of everything that had passed between them, knowledge Alan didn’t have.
Might it come back? The memory, not just of the betrayal, but of how they had been together? It was too much for Jack to consider. He needed time. To collect himself, to think. To marshal a plan, to consult with the others.
He put as much of command as he could into his voice, and stood up from his chair. “You’ve had an accident. And since you appear to be recovering your penchant for being a pest faster than the rest of your faculties, I must insist you stay here a bit longer.”
At this, Alan shot him a look halfway between indignation and confusion. Jack continued. “Yes, we know each other, and I promise to explain how once you’ve fully recovered. For the time being, allow this to suffice: you’ve introduced yourself as Alan Ross. Your full name is Alanzo Cesare Rossi, you work for the Post, and you live with your family in Clerkenwell. I am Lord Hawthorn, and you are currently in my home. We’re…” Here, Jack struggled for words. “Associates. Professional associates. You’ve had a knock to the head, but I trust you’ll recollect everything in due time, so there is no need to panic. I can give you something for your headache, and to help you sleep.”
He held a cup out to Alan, who eyed it as if it might contain poison.
“How do I know I can trust you?” Alan asked.
The words struck a touch-paper sting to Jack’s nerves. “You can trust me as much as I can trust you. Now take it, or don’t and live with the headache.”
~~~~~~
“Oh, absolutely not!”
Violet Debenham paced back and forth across the Spinet House parlor, her long strides eating up the floorboards with a castanet clacking of heels. “I will not suffer that man to return to my home, under any circumstances.”
She switched directions in a swirl of cotton muslin and lace, finally alighting next to Maud on the chaise longue. Jack had asked everyone to gather in Spinet House the morning after the failed operation at the Barrel, leaving Alan still asleep in his townhouse. Tea had been served, but everyone except Adelaide seemed too agitated to engage with it. Edwin was seated deep in the plushest chair in the room, with Robin perched on the arm, unwilling to let his lover out of his sight. An empty seat waited next to Adelaide at the tea table, but Jack had preferred to stand. He felt agitated, torn between wanting to direct this conversation at Spinet House, and to race back to his townhouse. To Alan.
Across the room, Maud threaded an arm around Violet’s waist, but it didn’t seem to be calming her at all.
“I’ve put up the wards, in any case” Violet continued. “Spinet House considers Alan Ross a foe of the worst nature, and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise!”
As ever with Violet, it was hard to tell how much of her delivery was sincere, and how much of it was an arrow leveled with calculated aim at her audience, arcing towards the target of … well, whatever it was Violet wanted. Still, in this case, Jack feared she spoke rather from the heart than from theatrical training.
“Violet-”
“I am not finished,” she interrupted emphatically, standing up again and then, thinking better of it, thumping back down. “I’m sure you have your reasons for wanting to keep Mr. Ross in your bed-” at this, Jack heard a sharp intake of breath from Edwin, but stopped himself from looking his way- “but I am uninterested in those reasons. He betrayed us. Whether or not he has rid himself of any collateral guilt in forgetting that betrayal isn’t mine to say. All I know is that he no longer recognizes us, and I no longer care to recognize him.”
Jack had known that Violet would be the steepest slope in his uphill battle not to toss Alan Ross immediately out on his ear. He just hadn’t quite anticipated the vehemence of her feelings on the matter.
“Thank you, Violet,” said Jack, “I believe you’ve made your stance abundantly clear. Would anyone else like to weigh in on whether we explain to Alan Ross why he woke up unconscious at my townhouse with no memory of the last four months of his life?”
Jack cast his eyes about the room. Edwin was studying his hands harder than he ever did when cradling a spell, while Robin gazed warily at Maud like he might have to tactically extract her from Violet’s maelstrom. Adelaide simply stared right back at Jack, as if daring him to solve the problem he’d caused by rescuing Alan from the Barrel.
“Well,” Robin finally offered, “I suppose I’m inclined to agree with Violet. We welcomed Alan into our homes. We shared all of our plans - made him part of them, even.” He cast a protective glance down at Edwin, who was still looking even gaunter and paler than usual after last night. Robin reached for his hand. “It’s not just that he deceived us. He put us all in danger.”
Of course Robin’s loyal, protective streak would win out. Jack briefly wondered what it would be like to have such uncomplicated affections.
“Don’t you think, though,” Maud essayed, “that we owe Alan the truth about what happened to him?
“Owe him!?” Violet exclaimed, “Maudie, how can you possibly think we owe him anything? He owes us an explanation of why he claimed to be our friend, though he’ll hardly be able to come up with one in his current state. Not to mention the apology he owes all the magicians of Britain.”
For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the click and whisper of Adelaide pouring herself a second cup of tea. Jack shifted uncomfortably against the wall. Having had the distinct displeasure of hearing how… enthusiastically Maud and Violet made up from their quarrels, he wasn’t surprised Maud was willing risk this particular disagreement.
“Yes, but our meeting his lie of omission with one of our own doesn’t help matters.” She turned to look at Robin, though her arm visibly tightened around Violet’s waist. “I understand why you’re upset. But it doesn’t feel right to me, withholding a man’s own memories from him. It’s revenge for something he doesn’t even know he did.”
“He may not know he did it,” Violet snapped, “But he did it. That’s what matters. I can’t believe you don’t want to punish him for it.”
At this, Maud tilted her head, trying to catch Violet’s eye. “Violet darling, you know none of us blames you for bringing the cup to the Barrel, don’t you? Alan did a perfectly creditable imitation of Edwin’s hand. Any one of us would have done the same, in your place.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Violet asked.
“I’m saying, don’t punish Alan even more than he deserves to be punished because you’re angry with yourself for being taken in by his scheme. It wasn’t your fault- it wasn’t any of our fault.”
“Oh honestly, Maudie, your need to see the goodness in everyone is exasperating sometimes.” Violet’s words took the shape of a rebuke, but even Jack could hear the fondness softening their edges.
Violet then surprised everyone by turning towards Edwin, not with her typical air of challenge, but with honest curiosity. “What would you do, Edwin?”
“Oh,” Edwin shook his head slightly, as if returning from a far-off land. “I’ve just been thinking, even if Alan couldn’t consciously perturbate the memory-erasing spell… it might not have taken to him in the same way it would take to other people. The memories might still be there, just stuck.” He looked down at the cloth napkin from the tea service that he’d twisted into a perfect figure-eight between his hands. “With the right spell, it might be possible to bring them back. But, of course, that would require quite a bit of extensive research on -”
“Darling,” Robin cut in gently, “Would you want him to stay, then? To see if it could be done?”
Edwin gazed up at Robin, and in a voice that barely carried to the rest of the room, and didn’t seem intended to, replied “I remember, how you felt when Walter… when you thought you might lose your memories. If I could bring them back for someone else, I should at least try.”
Robin simply nodded, a private accord reached.
“I can’t help but notice,” Adelaide cut in, turning towards Jack, “that Lord Hawthorn has had a great deal of nothing to say for himself so far.”
“Well, neither have you, Miss Morrisey,” Jack replied, archly.
“For my own part,” Adelaide said, setting her teacup firmly into its saucer, “I do not care if we never see Mr. Ross again. That being said, where explanations are owed, I like to see them given. If we tell him what happened, perhaps it will help him recall the rest.”
“Including about magic?” Robin asked.
Adelaide shrugged. “You all unbusheled him once. I supposed he can be expected to take it similarly in stride if unbusheled again.”
Jack knew a moment’s relief at Adelaide’s unfussy practicality. She made it all sound so simple, when in Jack’s mind, it was anything but.
The light filtering in through the windows of Spinet House was slowly changing, burnishing towards afternoon tones of orange and gold. Everyone else had said their piece, and as it so often fell out, Jack expected his would be the deciding word.
If only he knew what to say. What to feel. It was as if the line of power that Edwin had sent cracking down the center of the Lockroom had blazed its way into Jack’s very chest. On one side of the line, there was nothing but ache and bewilderment: at Alan’s betrayal, at his fucking weeks of lies, at Jack’s own foolishness in trusting a thief with pretty eyes and an even prettier cock. On the other side of that line… on the other side, there was Alan Ross, unconscious and vulnerable in Jack’s bed, looking wan and lost and in need of Jack’s help. And something within Jack still longed to give Alan whatever he needed. Protection, even in exchange for lies.
This was why emotions were useless. They led him in circles, when he needed to be moving decisively in the right direction.
“Right,” Jack said, hoping his thoughts would follow the lead of his mouth. “Violet, I understand your reservations. But I believe there is at least a chance that Mr. Ross was under serious threat or compulsion from Bastoke.”
Violet rolled her eyes, but remained silent.
“Be that as it may,” Jack continued, “I do not think that we can weigh his possible motivations into our calculus. Mr. Ross may never know them himself. In the absence of evidence, I believe the most just course is to restore to him what we can of information about the last four months of his life. If it brings back his memory, we will respond to that in the moment. If it does not then,” Jack hesitated, only for a moment, “then we will let him leave and not speak of or to him again.”
Jack surveyed the room and read the acquiescence - to differing degrees - on the faces around him. Making decisions like this, it felt a bit like trying on his old army uniform: he knew the clothing for his, but it didn’t fit him as it once had. No matter. He would go home, check that Alan had recovered enough for a carriage ride, and bring him to Spinet House for a comprehensive unbusheling.
Half an hour later, as he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom, leg aching, that decision seemed anything but simple. What would Alan say? Was there any way to paint Alan a traitor to his face without sending him storming out into the street?
Jack’s hand hesitated for a moment on the brass knob of his bedroom door before pushing it open and stepping inside.
His bed was empty. Alan Ross had left.