In Which The Past Catches Up And A Few Explosions Are Indulged In For Old Times’ Sake
Ian should have known that the longer he stayed in the City, the more likely it was that the law would catch up to him. And after chasing him across the Continent, the police weren't inclined to listen to any wanderer's stories of a set-up, how he was an innocent man framed for the crime he was accused of but didn't commit.
All they wanted was to see a man hang. Innocence didn't figure highly in their judgements.
It was only luck that the sole of his shoe had started to flap. Ian had very nearly just gone back to his room, left the chore until tomorrow, but then he remembered he was meeting Marshall early, so had to do it now. He had sighed all the way to the cobblers, sighed some more as he waited for the apprentice to reglue and renail the sole into place, sighed some more as he at last trudged for home.
The delay in returning probably saved his life.
Ian turned the corner and sprung back like a scalded cat. He peered more slowly around, eyes widening at the crowd gathered outside the door that led to his rooms, the dark blue of the upCity police milling around. Ian's heart stuttered as he saw the WANTED poster clutched in the sargeant's hand as he spoke to Ian's landlady.
The old dear gasped, eyes wide and hand over her mouth, and Ian knew that he'd find no safe harbour there.
He turned and walked down a nearby alley, staying off the main streets. If the police had found his lodgings, they'd probably already have a man stationed at the zeppelin dock, checking faces against the image on the poster. He might be able to walk out, but it was three days on foot to the next coaching station, back the way he came - the police had probably plastered his image all over it as well.
He took a deep breath and adjusted his course. There was only one place left to turn. Ian just hoped he got there before the gossip did.
He came in through the back gate, just as Marshall was stepping off the back step, coat unbuttoned and hastily pulled on. He looked up, eyes wide. "It's not true," he blurted. "Is it?" he added more quietly, almost like he was afraid of the answer.
Ian shook his head. "No. What they say I did? I didn't."
Marshall nodded and flung himself off the step to wrap his arms around Ian. "Okay," he mumbled. "Okay."
He ends up sitting next to Marshall on a bench in the kitchen, who's glaring at various relatives until they at least stop being so obvious about their evesdropping. When the silence has stretched almost to the breaking point, Marshall says, "Can you please reassure me here that I haven't made some kind of huge mistake convincing my family to cover for you?"
Ian shrugs. "I've told you the true. What you do with that, and whether or not it's a mistake, well, that's up to you." He finds himself staring at Marshall's mouth. "But for what it's worth, I hope you don't regret it."
"No," he replies, kind of softly, tiny smile chipping at the corners of his mouth, "No regrets, just--"
Ian's maybe leaning a little closer, Marshall loses his train of thought until Ian prompts him, "Just what?"
"Just--you came here. To me."
Ian shrugs. "I figured you might be the only person on the planet who would at least let me explain before calling for the constable."
Marshall nods, thoughtful and so serious. "Okay," he says, and it sounds like that's that, case closed, he's heard all he needs to. "Okay."
And Ian realizes there's no chance of running this time, because he knows he'd never be able to get Marshall to come too. When flight's an option that's been taken off the table, what's left is kind of limiting. There's skulking in corners and never really seeing the light of day, there's turning himself in, or there's carrying on as he has been, which is much the same as turning himself in, only with more denial.
"There's always faking your own death," Brendon offers.
Marshall groaned just as Ian said "I'm intrigued, tell me more."
"Pretty simple really," Brendon says with a shrug. "We turn you in. Tell the police where to pick you up, and send them to an abandoned foundry, or somewhere else with a possible storage of fuel to blame it on. When they get close to the building, we blow it up," he continues, like this was the easiest thing in the world. "Macy was always good at that. You're presumed dead, we cut your hair and you maybe leave town for a month or two, but after that, you're home free. We can ask Lady Saporta to tamp down on any uptown suspicions, maybe."
This time, the groan comes from Joe. "The less the good Lady knows, the more comfortable I'll feel."
Singer of all people raises his hand. "I can do that. I've got quite a bit of city business to deal with over the next few weeks, and if all else fails, Cash is back on the weekend." Singer grinned. "And trust me, we know how to cause a scandal. Nobody will even remember."
Marshall makes a face. "Okay, fine, but the police won't believe it until they see a body."
"Or a body go boom," Johnson says pensively. "Greta and I have been toying with these new ziplines Bob's developed. He's thinking emergency escape from burning zeppelins, but maybe we can rig something to pull you clear of the worst of the explosion..."
Ian is starting to understand why Marshall groaned.
As the room erupts into arguments about mechanics and marigins of risk, and who exactly did you say was losing their touch, excuse me?--Ian leans over to ask Marshall, "What's this about your brother and causing a scandal?"
Marshall rolls his eyes. "They do it every time Cash comes home--it's, like, their hobby."
Ian blinks. "Your family," he said seriously. "Needs cliffnotes and a fold out map."
Marshall shrugged, watching the argument. "Cash is Frankie's best friend and Singer's boyfriend. Frankie and Cash work on the zeppelins. They travel the world, then they come home and Cash and Singer have inappropriate displays of public affection all around town." He shrugged. "That's about it, really."
Ian looks up as Ryan, who's always struck Ian in his limited experience as kind of reserved, shouts, as if at the end of his patience, "Not everything can be solved by mucking about in the goddamned sewers, Brendon!"
"I'm just saying they could work as an escape route, Ryan, okay? It's not like I see you proposing anything better!"
"I might try if I needed to, but Johnson and Greta's thing sounds like it could be actually convincing!"
Ian looks sideways at Marshall, who just smiles sweetly, the bastard. "Umm, given that this is my life you're theoretically blowing up, anyone mind telling me what a zipline is?"
Johnson's smile was pure evil. "Think we can sneak him over to the foundry? We can hook him in and show him."
"No," Marshall said, sounding surprisingly stern. "No experimenting on Ian with anything you won't try yourself first."
If anything, Johnson's grin gets wider.
It turns out that the entire family ending up at Nick's bar is only something that happens when they don't all have illicit activities involving ziplines and dynamite to amuse themselves with. And they do seem like a pretty amused group. Joe and Nick's brother, not the one on the zeppelin, ends up coming with them to the foundry, but he hangs back, just watching with this strange little smile on his face.
Ian's attention is drawn back to the main conversation as Johnson looks over at Marshall. "If I try it first will you get off your high horse and let your boyfriend test it out?"
Marshall folds his arms and gives a terse nod. The next few seconds see Ian almost fainting as Johnson launches himself off the side of a Very Tall Building without a care in the world. Then Johnson is standing up, on the ground, not squished flat, grinning. "Your turn, loverboy," he says.
Oh, Ian thinks. A challenge.
The thing is, Ian's not actually crazy about heights, but if these good people are willing to turn him in the right direction to get his life back, the least he can do is put on a good show. He ventures over to the Very Tall Building, and my god does it look huge up close.
The view from the top is no more reassuring, but the strength of the ropes and the specificity of his instructions are, a bit. He sketches a quick bow, closes his eyes, and launches forward.
The thing Ian remembers most is the sound, the high pitched humming of the rope feeding through the mechanism Johnson strapped around his waist, the wind hitting his face, and the far away sound of birds in the harbor, a sound that always before made Ian think of peace and tranquility.
If his legs wobble as he touches down and stands up, no-one says anything.
"Wow," he manages to say before latching on to Marshall and holding on to stop the world spinning. Marshall's hands are steady on his back, and after a moment, Ian feels his heart start to slow down.
"So, that's a yes?" Johnson asks, sounding extremely smug.
"Sure," Ian says, still holding onto Marshall's shoulders and staring determinedly at the ground,"Yeah. Great," he added weakly. "Where do we start?"
It turned out to be a little more complicated than that, as the family as a whole comes to the conclusion that they need to find an abandoned building to blow up that isn't owned by anyone they like.
"No one we hate, either, though," puts in Singer, "No need to be obvious about it."
"Gee," Johnson says with an eyeroll. "That takes care of 99% of the properties in the place.
Greta puts in, "There are those properties that started getting bought up by that foreigner a few years back. We've never met him, since he never came to look at the place or, you know, do anything with them."
"Didn't you call him a grasping imperialist of the worst kind, though?"
Greta looks innocent. "Well, yes, but not in public."
Macy shrugs. "Works for me. I need details of the foundations, load bearing structures, roof and the flammability of surrounding properties." Everyone stares at her. "Don't stare, go!"
Her boys scramble.
Ian stands there, a little overwhelmed, and not sure where he'd be the most helpful. Macy slings an arm over his shoulder, though, saying, "You, my dear, are getting indoors as fast as possible. You don't want to get arrested early and spoil the rest of our fun, do you?"
Ian shakes his head, lets himself be led down the street as Macy chatters on, "Been a while since we had a project like this--much longer and we'd have started getting rusty. Well, except Kevin. I don't know that I've ever seen Kevin really relax."
She breaks off to look at his face. "I know, it's pretty overwhelming getting caught up in it all the first time, isn't it? But you'll get used to it. If we're blowing things up for you, you've got to know you're a part of the family." She smiles at him brightly, "For keeps!"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," she grins wickedly, showing teeth. "It's how we got Mike, too."
Ian waits until they're through the tiny courtyard and inside the kitchen at the back of the apothecary. "Macy?"
"Yes, dear."
"Can you explain to me who these people are? I'm a little lost."
Macy smiles. "Let me put the kettle on first, this is going to take some explaining."
The bit that really takes a while to grasp is that the tales he heard througout his childhood about The Nightwalker are all based on the friendly, slightly distant guy that is Joe's oldest brother. After that it starts to slot into place, though.
"So... the only ones who are actually related are Kevin and Nick and Frankie and Joe? But you all act like--"
"Related doesn't come into it. We're family," Macy says firmly.
Ian nods. "I'm starting to get that." He looks up. "You barely know me, why are you telling me this? I could blab, use it for leverage."
"You won't," Macy says with unshakable confidence.
"How!"
She stands, collects the dirty cups. "Because I've seen the way you look at Marshall," she says quietly, with a little wink. "I know that look. You'd never hurt him."
Ian thinks about that--about how it's true, about how Macy knows it, and the way her knowing doesn't bother him, reassures him, even. Still, though, "That obvious, eh?"
Macy laughed. "I know my son. And it's not the first time I've seen it. Have you met Mike? Or seen Brendon and Ryan? And wait til you see Singer with Cash."
Ian stands up, taking the last of the dishes with him. "Or you and Miss Greta?"
Macy smiles at him like he's passed a test.
The night Ian's going to die is clear, bright and cool and kind of fresh. Ian thinks that maybe even if the zipline doesn't work and he does get caught in the crash, it's not a bad night for it.
He sits in the abandoned warehouse they settled on and he waits, occasionally glancing nervously at the contraption Macy's set up, or checking the ropes on the harness.
He thinks about the buzzing room full of people, sitting and standing around the kitchen earlier, ploughing through almost the entire massive pot of stew he'd helped Macy with while they waited for everyone else to come home.
Ian hadn't been able to eat. The nervous, fluttery feeling won out over the tempting smell of the stew, and he'd passed his bowl off to an evidently famished Johnson.
He supposes it makes sense that he was the most nervous one, but there was something reassuring in the way Greta made him run through the plan out loud a few times. The gentle squeeze of Marshall's fingers hadn't hurt either.
He keeps that thought in line as he hears the clatter of boots on the cobbles, then the whistle of the police.
Ian stands up, by Macy's lantern, so they all get a good look at him. "You'll never take me!" he yelled as he turned and pulled the cord that set the whole complicated contraption into motion. After that, it's just a whirl of sensations, light and heat and smoke and noise.
He feels grimy and bruised, but he stays out of sight in the little nook Brendon had found for him for an hour or more. Only after he's sure the coast is clear, Ian stumbles back the the apothecary shop--back home, he barely allows himself to even think, but it doesn't stop an overwhelming feeling of warmth and relief as he sees the familiar door.
He knocks in the pattern Macy taught him and leans against the wall to wait for the answer.
Hands grab him and haul him inside.
"Look at him, like a sewer rat!"
"Hey!"
"Okay, like a chimney sweep."
"You could see the explosion from the city, they say."
"Macy, did you add double gunpowder again?"
Ian is bounced around the room until he is caught by Marshall. "Let me take a look at you," Marshall says, his hands already running an expert's touch along his limbs, studying his eyes.
"Will I live, doctor," Ian manages.
Marshall smiles. "As long as a dead man does." Then Marshall the doctor was gone, replaced by Ian's Marshall. He flung his arms around Ian. "Now, I never want to have to do this again, got it?"
"Yes sir," Ian manages before they are both drawn back into the party.
Brendon's oddly strict about conventions when it comes to activities that normally don't see the light of day outside of farcical plays, so Ian's on his way the next morning to lay low for a few weeks in the country, or at least some small towns separated from the city by the country.
It feels nice, in a way, to be out on the road again--it's freeing, but also strangely lonely. What was less nice was Marshall's reluctant, nervous face before he left.
"It's less than a month," Ian had tried.
"But just long enough to miss the fun," Singer put in. "Planning something extra special for you, Ian. Only the best to make everyone forget your fiery death."
Singer need not have worried. Even out in the tiny town, word of Singer's exploits traveled fast. Ian was impressed. Apparently he and Cash had been caught in everything up to in flagrante delicto, and even that was considered to be just a matter of time.
It's a peaceful time for Ian, traveling without worrying that anyone's catching up. He enjoys it, realizes even that he probably would have hit the road eventually, arrest warrant or no arrest warrant.
Still, as the days go by, he can't pretend he's not looking forward to going back.
He makes himself drift in a huge spiral, with the little apothecary at it's hub. Six weeks to the day after he left, he's pushing through the door with the bell above it. The front room's empty--Ian ducks behind the hatch, calling, "Anybody here?"
"Ian?" he hears Macy call, "I'm in the back with Alex."
Ian dumps his gear on the way, pausing in the doorway to take in the scene.
It is, of course, not the Alex he'd been hoping to see. Ian supposes he knew it when Macy was the one who called out. Still.
Singer looks up from the mortar and pestle and says, "Marshall's out on rounds, but he should be back in less than an hour."
Macy smiles at him, says, "Everyone else is helping Nick set up tonight--the place is booked for a private party or some nonsense, but Singer was sulking so I stayed in. We weren't expecting you for another day or two, love."
Ian shrugs, a little embarrassed. "Guess I wasn't keeping track of the days right."
Macy put down her tool and walked over to give him a big hug. "Doesn't mean we're any less glad to see you. Be a good boy and put the kettle on, would you?"
And Ian knew he was home.
Ian's at the kitchen table with his tea, teasing a little, "Sulking, really, Singer? But rumor has it you had the most interesting, exciting month!"--when the front door slams open and Marshall's voice is heard.
"Joe's still out--got a last minute call but he wanted me to check on our supply of feverwort and--oh."
Ian stands up just in time to get an armful of Marshall. "Surprise," he said lamely.
Marshall's arms don't let up, though, and Ian doesn't mind, but after a minute he's got to ask, "Hey--you okay?"
"Yeah," the voice is muffled in Ian's shoulder, but it sounds a little wobbly. Ian squeezes tighter.
Yeah, Ian thinks. He really is home.
All they wanted was to see a man hang. Innocence didn't figure highly in their judgements.
It was only luck that the sole of his shoe had started to flap. Ian had very nearly just gone back to his room, left the chore until tomorrow, but then he remembered he was meeting Marshall early, so had to do it now. He had sighed all the way to the cobblers, sighed some more as he waited for the apprentice to reglue and renail the sole into place, sighed some more as he at last trudged for home.
The delay in returning probably saved his life.
Ian turned the corner and sprung back like a scalded cat. He peered more slowly around, eyes widening at the crowd gathered outside the door that led to his rooms, the dark blue of the upCity police milling around. Ian's heart stuttered as he saw the WANTED poster clutched in the sargeant's hand as he spoke to Ian's landlady.
The old dear gasped, eyes wide and hand over her mouth, and Ian knew that he'd find no safe harbour there.
He turned and walked down a nearby alley, staying off the main streets. If the police had found his lodgings, they'd probably already have a man stationed at the zeppelin dock, checking faces against the image on the poster. He might be able to walk out, but it was three days on foot to the next coaching station, back the way he came - the police had probably plastered his image all over it as well.
He took a deep breath and adjusted his course. There was only one place left to turn. Ian just hoped he got there before the gossip did.
He came in through the back gate, just as Marshall was stepping off the back step, coat unbuttoned and hastily pulled on. He looked up, eyes wide. "It's not true," he blurted. "Is it?" he added more quietly, almost like he was afraid of the answer.
Ian shook his head. "No. What they say I did? I didn't."
Marshall nodded and flung himself off the step to wrap his arms around Ian. "Okay," he mumbled. "Okay."
He ends up sitting next to Marshall on a bench in the kitchen, who's glaring at various relatives until they at least stop being so obvious about their evesdropping. When the silence has stretched almost to the breaking point, Marshall says, "Can you please reassure me here that I haven't made some kind of huge mistake convincing my family to cover for you?"
Ian shrugs. "I've told you the true. What you do with that, and whether or not it's a mistake, well, that's up to you." He finds himself staring at Marshall's mouth. "But for what it's worth, I hope you don't regret it."
"No," he replies, kind of softly, tiny smile chipping at the corners of his mouth, "No regrets, just--"
Ian's maybe leaning a little closer, Marshall loses his train of thought until Ian prompts him, "Just what?"
"Just--you came here. To me."
Ian shrugs. "I figured you might be the only person on the planet who would at least let me explain before calling for the constable."
Marshall nods, thoughtful and so serious. "Okay," he says, and it sounds like that's that, case closed, he's heard all he needs to. "Okay."
And Ian realizes there's no chance of running this time, because he knows he'd never be able to get Marshall to come too. When flight's an option that's been taken off the table, what's left is kind of limiting. There's skulking in corners and never really seeing the light of day, there's turning himself in, or there's carrying on as he has been, which is much the same as turning himself in, only with more denial.
"There's always faking your own death," Brendon offers.
Marshall groaned just as Ian said "I'm intrigued, tell me more."
"Pretty simple really," Brendon says with a shrug. "We turn you in. Tell the police where to pick you up, and send them to an abandoned foundry, or somewhere else with a possible storage of fuel to blame it on. When they get close to the building, we blow it up," he continues, like this was the easiest thing in the world. "Macy was always good at that. You're presumed dead, we cut your hair and you maybe leave town for a month or two, but after that, you're home free. We can ask Lady Saporta to tamp down on any uptown suspicions, maybe."
This time, the groan comes from Joe. "The less the good Lady knows, the more comfortable I'll feel."
Singer of all people raises his hand. "I can do that. I've got quite a bit of city business to deal with over the next few weeks, and if all else fails, Cash is back on the weekend." Singer grinned. "And trust me, we know how to cause a scandal. Nobody will even remember."
Marshall makes a face. "Okay, fine, but the police won't believe it until they see a body."
"Or a body go boom," Johnson says pensively. "Greta and I have been toying with these new ziplines Bob's developed. He's thinking emergency escape from burning zeppelins, but maybe we can rig something to pull you clear of the worst of the explosion..."
Ian is starting to understand why Marshall groaned.
As the room erupts into arguments about mechanics and marigins of risk, and who exactly did you say was losing their touch, excuse me?--Ian leans over to ask Marshall, "What's this about your brother and causing a scandal?"
Marshall rolls his eyes. "They do it every time Cash comes home--it's, like, their hobby."
Ian blinks. "Your family," he said seriously. "Needs cliffnotes and a fold out map."
Marshall shrugged, watching the argument. "Cash is Frankie's best friend and Singer's boyfriend. Frankie and Cash work on the zeppelins. They travel the world, then they come home and Cash and Singer have inappropriate displays of public affection all around town." He shrugged. "That's about it, really."
Ian looks up as Ryan, who's always struck Ian in his limited experience as kind of reserved, shouts, as if at the end of his patience, "Not everything can be solved by mucking about in the goddamned sewers, Brendon!"
"I'm just saying they could work as an escape route, Ryan, okay? It's not like I see you proposing anything better!"
"I might try if I needed to, but Johnson and Greta's thing sounds like it could be actually convincing!"
Ian looks sideways at Marshall, who just smiles sweetly, the bastard. "Umm, given that this is my life you're theoretically blowing up, anyone mind telling me what a zipline is?"
Johnson's smile was pure evil. "Think we can sneak him over to the foundry? We can hook him in and show him."
"No," Marshall said, sounding surprisingly stern. "No experimenting on Ian with anything you won't try yourself first."
If anything, Johnson's grin gets wider.
It turns out that the entire family ending up at Nick's bar is only something that happens when they don't all have illicit activities involving ziplines and dynamite to amuse themselves with. And they do seem like a pretty amused group. Joe and Nick's brother, not the one on the zeppelin, ends up coming with them to the foundry, but he hangs back, just watching with this strange little smile on his face.
Ian's attention is drawn back to the main conversation as Johnson looks over at Marshall. "If I try it first will you get off your high horse and let your boyfriend test it out?"
Marshall folds his arms and gives a terse nod. The next few seconds see Ian almost fainting as Johnson launches himself off the side of a Very Tall Building without a care in the world. Then Johnson is standing up, on the ground, not squished flat, grinning. "Your turn, loverboy," he says.
Oh, Ian thinks. A challenge.
The thing is, Ian's not actually crazy about heights, but if these good people are willing to turn him in the right direction to get his life back, the least he can do is put on a good show. He ventures over to the Very Tall Building, and my god does it look huge up close.
The view from the top is no more reassuring, but the strength of the ropes and the specificity of his instructions are, a bit. He sketches a quick bow, closes his eyes, and launches forward.
The thing Ian remembers most is the sound, the high pitched humming of the rope feeding through the mechanism Johnson strapped around his waist, the wind hitting his face, and the far away sound of birds in the harbor, a sound that always before made Ian think of peace and tranquility.
If his legs wobble as he touches down and stands up, no-one says anything.
"Wow," he manages to say before latching on to Marshall and holding on to stop the world spinning. Marshall's hands are steady on his back, and after a moment, Ian feels his heart start to slow down.
"So, that's a yes?" Johnson asks, sounding extremely smug.
"Sure," Ian says, still holding onto Marshall's shoulders and staring determinedly at the ground,"Yeah. Great," he added weakly. "Where do we start?"
It turned out to be a little more complicated than that, as the family as a whole comes to the conclusion that they need to find an abandoned building to blow up that isn't owned by anyone they like.
"No one we hate, either, though," puts in Singer, "No need to be obvious about it."
"Gee," Johnson says with an eyeroll. "That takes care of 99% of the properties in the place.
Greta puts in, "There are those properties that started getting bought up by that foreigner a few years back. We've never met him, since he never came to look at the place or, you know, do anything with them."
"Didn't you call him a grasping imperialist of the worst kind, though?"
Greta looks innocent. "Well, yes, but not in public."
Macy shrugs. "Works for me. I need details of the foundations, load bearing structures, roof and the flammability of surrounding properties." Everyone stares at her. "Don't stare, go!"
Her boys scramble.
Ian stands there, a little overwhelmed, and not sure where he'd be the most helpful. Macy slings an arm over his shoulder, though, saying, "You, my dear, are getting indoors as fast as possible. You don't want to get arrested early and spoil the rest of our fun, do you?"
Ian shakes his head, lets himself be led down the street as Macy chatters on, "Been a while since we had a project like this--much longer and we'd have started getting rusty. Well, except Kevin. I don't know that I've ever seen Kevin really relax."
She breaks off to look at his face. "I know, it's pretty overwhelming getting caught up in it all the first time, isn't it? But you'll get used to it. If we're blowing things up for you, you've got to know you're a part of the family." She smiles at him brightly, "For keeps!"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," she grins wickedly, showing teeth. "It's how we got Mike, too."
Ian waits until they're through the tiny courtyard and inside the kitchen at the back of the apothecary. "Macy?"
"Yes, dear."
"Can you explain to me who these people are? I'm a little lost."
Macy smiles. "Let me put the kettle on first, this is going to take some explaining."
The bit that really takes a while to grasp is that the tales he heard througout his childhood about The Nightwalker are all based on the friendly, slightly distant guy that is Joe's oldest brother. After that it starts to slot into place, though.
"So... the only ones who are actually related are Kevin and Nick and Frankie and Joe? But you all act like--"
"Related doesn't come into it. We're family," Macy says firmly.
Ian nods. "I'm starting to get that." He looks up. "You barely know me, why are you telling me this? I could blab, use it for leverage."
"You won't," Macy says with unshakable confidence.
"How!"
She stands, collects the dirty cups. "Because I've seen the way you look at Marshall," she says quietly, with a little wink. "I know that look. You'd never hurt him."
Ian thinks about that--about how it's true, about how Macy knows it, and the way her knowing doesn't bother him, reassures him, even. Still, though, "That obvious, eh?"
Macy laughed. "I know my son. And it's not the first time I've seen it. Have you met Mike? Or seen Brendon and Ryan? And wait til you see Singer with Cash."
Ian stands up, taking the last of the dishes with him. "Or you and Miss Greta?"
Macy smiles at him like he's passed a test.
The night Ian's going to die is clear, bright and cool and kind of fresh. Ian thinks that maybe even if the zipline doesn't work and he does get caught in the crash, it's not a bad night for it.
He sits in the abandoned warehouse they settled on and he waits, occasionally glancing nervously at the contraption Macy's set up, or checking the ropes on the harness.
He thinks about the buzzing room full of people, sitting and standing around the kitchen earlier, ploughing through almost the entire massive pot of stew he'd helped Macy with while they waited for everyone else to come home.
Ian hadn't been able to eat. The nervous, fluttery feeling won out over the tempting smell of the stew, and he'd passed his bowl off to an evidently famished Johnson.
He supposes it makes sense that he was the most nervous one, but there was something reassuring in the way Greta made him run through the plan out loud a few times. The gentle squeeze of Marshall's fingers hadn't hurt either.
He keeps that thought in line as he hears the clatter of boots on the cobbles, then the whistle of the police.
Ian stands up, by Macy's lantern, so they all get a good look at him. "You'll never take me!" he yelled as he turned and pulled the cord that set the whole complicated contraption into motion. After that, it's just a whirl of sensations, light and heat and smoke and noise.
He feels grimy and bruised, but he stays out of sight in the little nook Brendon had found for him for an hour or more. Only after he's sure the coast is clear, Ian stumbles back the the apothecary shop--back home, he barely allows himself to even think, but it doesn't stop an overwhelming feeling of warmth and relief as he sees the familiar door.
He knocks in the pattern Macy taught him and leans against the wall to wait for the answer.
Hands grab him and haul him inside.
"Look at him, like a sewer rat!"
"Hey!"
"Okay, like a chimney sweep."
"You could see the explosion from the city, they say."
"Macy, did you add double gunpowder again?"
Ian is bounced around the room until he is caught by Marshall. "Let me take a look at you," Marshall says, his hands already running an expert's touch along his limbs, studying his eyes.
"Will I live, doctor," Ian manages.
Marshall smiles. "As long as a dead man does." Then Marshall the doctor was gone, replaced by Ian's Marshall. He flung his arms around Ian. "Now, I never want to have to do this again, got it?"
"Yes sir," Ian manages before they are both drawn back into the party.
Brendon's oddly strict about conventions when it comes to activities that normally don't see the light of day outside of farcical plays, so Ian's on his way the next morning to lay low for a few weeks in the country, or at least some small towns separated from the city by the country.
It feels nice, in a way, to be out on the road again--it's freeing, but also strangely lonely. What was less nice was Marshall's reluctant, nervous face before he left.
"It's less than a month," Ian had tried.
"But just long enough to miss the fun," Singer put in. "Planning something extra special for you, Ian. Only the best to make everyone forget your fiery death."
Singer need not have worried. Even out in the tiny town, word of Singer's exploits traveled fast. Ian was impressed. Apparently he and Cash had been caught in everything up to in flagrante delicto, and even that was considered to be just a matter of time.
It's a peaceful time for Ian, traveling without worrying that anyone's catching up. He enjoys it, realizes even that he probably would have hit the road eventually, arrest warrant or no arrest warrant.
Still, as the days go by, he can't pretend he's not looking forward to going back.
He makes himself drift in a huge spiral, with the little apothecary at it's hub. Six weeks to the day after he left, he's pushing through the door with the bell above it. The front room's empty--Ian ducks behind the hatch, calling, "Anybody here?"
"Ian?" he hears Macy call, "I'm in the back with Alex."
Ian dumps his gear on the way, pausing in the doorway to take in the scene.
It is, of course, not the Alex he'd been hoping to see. Ian supposes he knew it when Macy was the one who called out. Still.
Singer looks up from the mortar and pestle and says, "Marshall's out on rounds, but he should be back in less than an hour."
Macy smiles at him, says, "Everyone else is helping Nick set up tonight--the place is booked for a private party or some nonsense, but Singer was sulking so I stayed in. We weren't expecting you for another day or two, love."
Ian shrugs, a little embarrassed. "Guess I wasn't keeping track of the days right."
Macy put down her tool and walked over to give him a big hug. "Doesn't mean we're any less glad to see you. Be a good boy and put the kettle on, would you?"
And Ian knew he was home.
Ian's at the kitchen table with his tea, teasing a little, "Sulking, really, Singer? But rumor has it you had the most interesting, exciting month!"--when the front door slams open and Marshall's voice is heard.
"Joe's still out--got a last minute call but he wanted me to check on our supply of feverwort and--oh."
Ian stands up just in time to get an armful of Marshall. "Surprise," he said lamely.
Marshall's arms don't let up, though, and Ian doesn't mind, but after a minute he's got to ask, "Hey--you okay?"
"Yeah," the voice is muffled in Ian's shoulder, but it sounds a little wobbly. Ian squeezes tighter.
Yeah, Ian thinks. He really is home.