Work Text:
Search: Paranormal research database
No results of value.
Search: Supernatural database London
Nothing that she hadn’t seen before.
Search: Supernatural research London skin stealing clowns
Petunia’s forehead hit the keyboard before she hit enter. What a waste of time, she thought. It had been months. Months of research, of tracking down building records, of funeral planning, of looking for any account of anything similar, of dealing with the probate process, of hunting down every possible lead.
She wasn’t going to find the key in a three am google search. She wasn’t going to get revenge for what happened to her brother in a three am google search.
She should go to bed already.
Instead, she unmoorded her head from the keys and looked upon the results. Nothing new.
Almost nothing new. Right at the top of results was a blue link, a previously unseen ad for a paranormal research institute.
www.themagnusinstitute.ac.uk
Petunia clicked on the link. It loaded up a clean, green-yellow webpage embellished with an image of an owl at the top. Her eyes raced across the page. The Magnus Institute is a world renowned paranormal research institution the header proclaimed. They had pages upon pages of research, they spoke of an employee database spanning hundreds of years of England’s supernatural events. It was everything. She could be seconds away from a breakthrough. Petunia clicked back to the homepage and saw a line of text she’d missed before.
The Magnus Institute is a world renowned paranormal research institution, and they were accepting job applications.
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Petunia marched herself into The Magnus Institute three weeks later, wearing a determined expression and an old pencil skirt. She’d never liked how skirts felt, they left her too exposed, but she’d had proper and professional dressing beat into her for long enough that she decided to stomach the discomfort.
She was quickly checked in and allowed to wait in the lobby for her interview.
Petunia began to rub the fabric of her skirt between her thumb and forefinger. She glanced around the room. God, she thought, are those employees looking at her? Do they see how ill-fitting this skirt is? They must see how tall she was. She should have chosen the flats instead of the heels, she feels too tall for heels. What was she thinking? They’ll throw her out and--
Her line of thought was abruptly cut off by the opening of the Institute Head’s door.
A blond, middle aged man looked at her before saying, “Hello there, you must be Petunia Stoker. I’m Elias Bouchard, the Head of the Institute. Come in and we’ll start your interview.”
Petunia followed him, almost stumbling in her heels. Eyes burned on the back of her neck.
Elias sat down at his desk and picked up a pen. Petunia took a moment to look around the office. It was styled to look like a victoria era study, filled with leather bound books and aged woods. Elias’ desk was bare except for a handful of papers and a photo. The photo was of a young, unhappy, and violently blond boy standing next to a clown. A shiver shot down Petunia’s spine.
“Ah, yes, it may be a little unprofessional to keep a childhood photo of my desk, but I always find it… useful to think about the past.” Elias said.
Petunia looked at the photo, then looked at Elias before sitting down across from him.
Elias tapped his pen across the papers. “Now, I’ve looked over your resume and other papers and I have to say, you seem like a fantastic fit for a researcher position. But I do have to ask you some questions before I can sign you on.”
Petunia nodded.
“What are your weaknesses?”
“I let my anger guide me, I have a one track mind and if I feel betrayed I won’t be able to trust them again.” Petunia blinked, feeling as if the answer had been pulled out of her, hooked like a fish.
Elias made a sound of agreement and wrote something down. “Do you think you can really commit yourself to the Institute?”
“If the Institute has information, I’ll work here forever.” Petunia covered her mouth with a hand, “I’m so sorry, I do want to work here for a long stretch of time.”
“Don’t worry, we value honest answers here. Can you tell me about the time you encountered a challenge?”
“For the past several months I’ve struggled to get out of bed, to wake up and find a reason to go on. The world seems like too much, but I still wake up, I still keep looking for an answer, a solution.” Anger flared up inside Petunia. She clenched her hands, flighting down the urge to do something rash.
“Thank you very much, one last question,” Elias set his pen down and steepled his fingers, “What is your greatest fear?”
The word came out of her throat fighting, hooking clawed fingers into the meat of her tongue, “Loss.”
Elias stood up before Petunia could react. He pulled a paper from his shelves and spread it out in front of Petunia.
“Here,” he said, “you contract.”
“W-What?”
“I think you’ll fit in just well here. Simply sign when you’re ready.”
Her hand shook. She quickly signed the dotted line, eager to get out of the office and away from the feeling of being watched.
Elias picked up the contract. “Wonderful, you’ll start next week.”
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Petunia came into work shoulders at her ears, the vulnerability she’d accidentally shown during her interview fresh on her mind.
She’d gotten in contact with her team manager and already knew everything she needed done. The sooner it was done the sooner she could get access to the database for her own reasons.
The researcher’s floor was a standard fare. Desks stacked with papers, open books and coffee cups filled the room. Researchers were clumped together, in groups of two to five, typing away at computers and cross referencing statements.
Every cluster of desks was filled.
Fucking hell.
Her eyes quickly found one cluster towards the back of the room. Three desks, two computers, one employee. A short, grumpy looking man buried in both his work and in a forest green cardigan. Another worker walked by and attempted to pick up a book the man was looking at and nearly got her head bitten off.
Thank God, she thought, a prickly, antisocial asshole.
She walked right over and plunked her bag down on the desk opposite to the man.
He looked up at her, eyebrows heavy and face dour.
“Excuse me?” he asks.
Petunia looked at him, and raised her eyebrows. “I’m here to work.”
Their eyes met, and Petunia felt a spark deep in her stomach. She knew this feeling, she felt it simmer as he held her gaze.
Yes, she knew what this was.
This was hate.
The man broke first, grumbling about staying quiet and going back to the book he was flipping through.
Pride purred in Petunia’s chest. Take that asshole, she thought. She wasn’t going to be pushed around.
She sat down and began chewing through the papers she was given.
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Petunia made it nearly two weeks without talking to another co-worker. It had been a cycle of wake up, eat her cereal, ride the tube, show up to work, receive her assignments, work for hours, glare at cardigan asshole whenever he looked at her, chew through every mention of clowns or skin theft in the database, go home, eat a meal, and go to bed. The only variety was if she decided to drink any beer with her microwave dinner. She’d been content to keep her routine straight and her head down.
At least until Jessica had to screw it all up by insisting she come to the pub with them.
She’d initially resisted. Made up and listed off reasons she couldn’t go, rebuffed instantly by a member of the office.
She was busy that weekend? No worries, Arthur said, they’d reschedule for the next week!
She didn’t like noisy pubs? The one they went to was real calm, said Jessica.
She didn’t really enjoy parties? Well they’d do something small. Come on, Petunia, Zach said, it's a research tradition to go drinking with new hires.
She didn’t drink? She’d come into work obviously hungover and smelling of beer yesterday, douchebag in green said, a haughty eyebrow raised.
Seriously, fuck that dude.
Eventually, she broke, agreeing to the demands. She’d spend an hour at most, drink just enough to make the evening palatable, and go home before everyone else.
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Much like everything else in her life, research pub night went exactly against her plans. She’d been there for three hours already, drunk as can be, watching the last of her coworkers leave.
Fuck.
At least she was alone with no one to witness her hobble drunkenly to the Tube. The only people to see her shame were all the nameless pub patrons who she’d never see again.
She pulled herself up, ready to leave, before someone cleared his throat behind her. No, not just anyone, but her sweater vest wearing, snooty looking, pretentious acting, self absorbed, asshole coworker.
Fuck.
“You forgot your purse.” He said, like an asshole.
Petunia turned and slumped into the barstool next to him.
“Thanks.” She said, tone dry, mouth forming a half sneer.
Mr. Pretentious sharply nodded as her head swam. Maybe she should take a moment to sober up.
“Do you… live in the area?” her coworker asked, trying to start a conversation and tripping over his feet in the process.
“Yes.” Petunia asked, gluing her eyes to the rows of liquor in the back of the bar
He nodded and fell silent. He opened and closed his mouth several times and she could see the drunken wheels in his mind churn as he tried to think of something to ask her. Apparently now was when he decided to be all buddy buddy.
Her nostrils flared as she thought about it. Did he want something from her? She wasn’t going to sleep with him. She didn’t sleep with coworkers, cunts, theater kids or anyone who wore polished leather shoes, and she knew he filled at least three of those boxes.
Eventually, he flagged over the bartender, ordered another rum and coke before he paused, cleared his throat, and turned to Petunia, “Do you, uh, want another drink?”
Petunia looked at him. Persistent bastard. Fuck getting sober, she just needed to get through this conversation. Maybe if she pretended to be a little drunker she could spill her drink all over his pressed and perfectly ironed button down.
“A rum and coke for me as well.”
The bartender quickly turned away to prepare their drinks as the song blaring on the radio faded out and “Buddy Holly” started up.
Petunia and office prick sank down closer to the bar, saying in near unison, “I hate this song.”
Petunia’s proclamation might have included a “fuck” somewhere in the middle.
They both turned to each other, eyebrows furrowed.
“You hate this song?” she asked.
He nodded quickly, “It’s overplayed. You can’t go anywhere without having to hear it.”
“Exactly! It’s so painfully mediocre! There’s so much quality garage or surf rock and yet this is the garbage immortalized by the radio.”
“Do you listen to garage rock?”
“Yeah. You?”
He shook his head, “No. What of it is good?”
Petunia grabbed her drink, noting that she hadn’t even noticed the bartender deposit it. She took a swig before turning to him. “Okay, so…”
It was two hours and four drinks later that Petunia realizes that she’s been deep, hashing out the ins and outs of music with asshole, enjoying every minute of it. They’d drifted from the golden age of garage rock to his extensive knowledge of folk punk and storytelling bands to her thoughts on prog rock to his thoughts on prog rock. They were turned so they faced each other, and throughout the conversion he’d carded his hand through his hair several times. He talked with his hands, almost spilling his drinks several times through his exaggerated gestures. God, she thought, with his hair ruffled and that passionate spark in his eyes, he wasn’t that bad looking.
She hadn’t had a lay in so long.
Maybe going home with him wasn’t such a bad idea, it's not like he would be here if he wasn’t interested.
“So that’s why Nonagon Infinity is one of the most thematically interesting King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard album!” he said.
Petunia made eye contact with him as leaned in for a kiss before he could react.
He recoiled immediately, leaving her a little stunned.
He stuttered out several platitudes before saying, “No, no thank you, I’m, ah, asexual. It’s not that you’re not charming, but I am just not…”
Petunia went beet red. She didn’t even ask him before going for it. “God, no, it’s all okay! I should have asked! I am so sorry.”
He laughed, a little nervously and ran a hand through his hair. “Alright, no harm done.”
Conversation lapsed into silence before Petunia broke it. “I, uh, should have asked earlier but… what is your name?”
He looked at her, shock across his features and began to laugh, genuine and full. “My name is Jon Sims.
“I’m Petunia Stoker.”
“I was aware.” he mumbled, yet he still extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Stoker.”
She took his hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Sims.”
-----------
Jon and Petunia became quick friends after their first late night. Jon’s naturally grumpy temperament encouraged Petunia to lighten her own. She could joke around him. It had been so long since she’d been able to joke.
They worked in silence for the most part, but began meeting up at the pub every other Friday where they’d sit and talk for hours about any obscure topic that crossed their minds. They’d cloyster themselves in a booth with a sticky table and seats made of cracking vinyl upholstering, modern philosophers partaking in dialectics about ice cream flavors, office gossip, and music.
It was their fourth meeting when an outsider broke their peace by flirting with Petunia.
“Hey lady,” the man said, leaning into Petunia’s space, “you have plans tonight?”
“Not with you.”
“Oh come on…” he drawled.
She pulled a breath in through her teeth. Jon looked at her, silently asking if she wanted help. Petunia shook her head.
“Screw off.” she said, more forcefully.
The man put his hands up and walked away, grumbling.
Petunia turned back to the table, grumbling as well. “I hate those kinds of guys.”
Jon hummed in agreement.
“And I hate being called ‘lady’.” she continued, “Honestly, I hate being one sometimes.”
Jon snorted, “I did as well.”
Petunia raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t look like you snort protein powder or anything, but why would people be calling you lady?”
Jon raised an eyebrow in turn. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No?”
“Oh, I am, ah, transgender.”
Petunia took a sip of her drink. “Huh, cool.”
“You can ask questions if you want. I can tell you haven’t ever talked about this stuff.”
“Thanks, just tell me if I say anything… offensive.”
“I will. I trust that you aren't asking to be malicious.”
“How does it… all work? How’d you know?”
Jon mulled on the question for a moment. “I figured it out in Uni, but I’d always felt a little distant from my ‘girlhood’. I found out about the term after a late night wikipedia binge, and it couldn’t leave my mind. It felt… right. I felt like myself.”
“You just found out like that?”
Jon shrugged, “It took a lot of self reflection and time, but yes. It just clicked.”
“And then you were a man?”
“Yes.”
“So, wait, you can just, like…” Petunia waved a hand in the air.
“Not be a woman, yes.” Jon supplemented.
Petunia took a long, slow sip from her drink.
“What did you have to do?”
“You don’t really have to ‘do’ anything. You just,” Jon paused, shrugging his shoulders, “are.”
Petunia shifted and re-crossed her legs. “Did you feel anything specific?”
“I dealt with heavy gender dysphoria, and I did begin to feel bouts of euphoria once I began my transition. That being said, you don’t need either of those things, you simply need to be more comfortable as another gender.” Jon paused, “Petunia, do you think you might be interested in exploring gender?”
“Maybe? Do you think I could be… something other than a woman?”
“I don’t know, I can’t tell you. But I think you should think about it. I’m-” Jon set down his empty cup, “I’m here for you if you ever need to talk about it. There’s no reason to go through this alone.”
Petunia ran her finger around the rim of her cup, mind running wild. “Thanks.”
Jon nodded, the left corner of his mouth crooking upwards in an awkward smile.
Petunia grabbed her glass and downed the remainder in one swoop. Urged on by liquid confidence, she continued. “I’m surprised you don’t mind me asking you all of this. I really thought you hated me for a while.”
Jon looked up at her, almost surprised, “No, no, you’re the closest thing I really have to a friend here.”
He then realized what he had said, and began to sputter, verbally recoling and moving his hand in the air. “Not that I don’t have friends, that would be odd- I’m an adult, I-”
Petunia cut him off, grabbing one of his wrists, “You’re my friend too, Jon.”
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“I think I want to try some things.” Petunia roughly sat down a cup of coffee on Jon’s desk. “Where do I start?”
Jon looked over the top of his glasses at the mug. “With your coffee? Try using some creamer. I can’t imagine how bitter that is.”
Petunia rolled her eyes, considering whacking Jon on the back of his stupid head. “No, I mean gender.”
“Oh! Well, I started with some basics, name, pronouns, appearance changes.”
Petunia walked to her desk and sat down. “How did you pick pronouns?”
“He/him just clicked, but people tend to try out several sets.”
Two hours later, Petunia crumpled up a ball of paper and tossed it at Jon’s head, nailing him right on the forehead.
He looked up, visibly displeased. “Yes?”
“I think I want to try they/them.”
Jon smiled, annoyance vanishing. “Wonderful. I usually try to say some form of mantra when trying things out, so, Petunia is my friend, they like whiskey and indie rock music.”
Petunia nodded. “I don’t know if it's perfect, but…” they trailed off.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect. You can try things out, maybe it fits, maybe it doesn’t.”
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“Help me pick out a new name.” Petunia announced, pulling out a pen and leaning in close to Jon. The ringing din of the bar surrounded their booth as they began to scribble down names on a stained drink napkin.
-Joshua
-Moss
-Alex
-Praxis
-Tim
-Max
Jon leaned in close, reading over Petunia’s shoulder. “Are there any that speak to you?”
Petunia tapped their pen to their chin. “Joshua maybe?”
“Joshua and Jon.” Jon mused.
“Maybe…”
“Want to try it?”
Joshua made a sound of agreement.
“My friend, Josuha, they like leather boots and Hellboy comics.”
“No, not Josuha. Doesn’t feel like you’re talking to me. What about Tim?”
“I think Timothy is a good name.”
“Not Timmothy, just Tim.”
“Just Tim, then. My friend, Tim, they like collecting stamps and mocking me.”
“That… that feels good.”
“Alright.” Jon extended his hand. Tim took it, questioning look on their face.
Jon shook their hand, “Hello there, Tim Stoker, I’m Jon Sims.”
Tim smiled, “Hello, Jon Sims, I’m Tim Stoker.”
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Tim has invited Jon over when their pub was closed one weekend because the police had launched an investigation surrounding someone who’d gone missing in an alley close to the pub. They’d picked up dinner for ten dollars from a small Chinese restaurant and climbed the three flights of stairs to Tim’s flat, arms full of their bounty. It had started to rain half way up, so they ran the rest of the way, shielding the food with their bodies.
Tim threw their door open rushing a drenched Jon inside. They stripped off their sopping shirts and donned two of Tim’s large pajama shirts instead.
They were sitting on the floor of Tim’s apartment, eating greasy takeout, leaning against the couch but not resting in it. Jon held a mouthful of noodles in his chopsticks while Tim toyed with chunks of chicken using a plastic fork.
“I don’t think they/them fits me. I think I’m a man.”
“Oh, alright. There’s nothing wrong with experimentation, but pronouns aren’t chained to gender. You can be a binary man and use they/them.”
Tim slung an arm around Jon’s shoulders, nodding. “I still think I want to use he/him.”
Jon smiled, looking up at Tim through wet hair that plastered itself to his forehead. “My friend, Tim, he likes corduroy jackets and chinese take out.”
Tim smiled in return.
“Do you mind if I remove my binder? It's uncomfortable when wet.”
“Be my guest.” Tim said, gesturing with the fork in hand and a piece of chicken in his mouth.
“Don’t chew with your mouth open.” Jon grumbled as he began to contort himself out of his binder.
“Wow… You good there, buddy?” Tim asked after watching Jon squirm for twenty seconds.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. It simply takes some time to get out.” Jon replied, finally pulling the binder over his head.
Tim politely turned as Jon pulled his borrowed shirt back on. Once Jon began to eat again, Tim leaned over him and picked up his binder, holding the fabric in his hands. He stretched it, testing the cloth.
“You could try a binder.” Jon said, “Physical changes can help it all feel real.”
“Where’d you get yours?”
Jon pulled out his phone and pulled up a clean, white website. “Do you have a tape measure?”
“Yeah, lemme grab it.” Tim pulled himself up and strode to his kitchen drawer, plucking out the item.
Jon had Tim remove his shirt, and quickly made the necessary measurements, jotting them down on his phone. He plugged the measurements into the website and quickly found the proper binder size.
“Now, when ordering a binder, if you’re between sizes always order the larger size.” Jon said, tapping his finger on Tim’s bisep. Before Tim could register what Jon was doing, he’d already placed the order and paid for it.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
“Jon, let me pay you back.”
Jon shook his head and sat back down with his meal.
“Fine then,” Tim said, “I’m paying for our next night’s tab at the pub.”
Jon snorted, “Okay, okay.”
Tim leaned against Jon, feeling him stiffen up then relax. Breath pulled itself in and out of their lungs, thick like milk. Listing to the steady thrum of rain on the walls, Tim reached over and stuck his fork into Jon’s pad thai. Jon shot him a look before hesitantly nabbing a piece of chicken from Tim’s container.
“I think I want to do something with how I look. I want to do something now.”
Jon narrowed his eyes, doing mental calculations, “Now?”
Tim hummed.
“Do you have a hair clipper?”
“I think so?”
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Tim sat cross legged, the cold tiles pressing indents into the meat of his thighs, his back between Jon’s legs, hair tied back. He’d abandoned his shirt for a bra when he realized he would get hair all over it. How revolutionary, he thought. He rolled the words around on his tongue. His thighs, his back, his shirt.
“I’m going to start cutting.” Jon says, lightly touching the back of Tim’s hair with the side of the clippers.
Tim nods and Jon immediately grabs the side of his head to hold Tim steady.
“I need you to stay still.” Jon says.
“Alright, alright.” Tim agrees, fondness creeping into his voice.
Jon switched the clippers on and began to drag it against the back of Tim’s skull. The hum of the electric clippers filled the room, comforting and constant.
Tim could feel the fluttering of hair across his back as locks of once shoulder length hair fell to the ground. He wondered if it was cliche to compare the haircut to a butterfly breaking its cocoon. Maybe he’d ask Jon if he had a better comparison.
The near silence of the bathroom carried on as Jon worked on the sides of Tim’s head. The air seemed thick with feelings neither of them could word, but Tim was certain that Jon had something he wanted to say.
Jon was as unused to being in spaces where people wanted to hear his thoughts as Tim was unused to being in spaces with people who would not simply share what was on their mind.
“Do you have something on your mind?”
“Hm?” Jon lifted the clippers from Tim’s skull, “Nothing really, this just reminds me of the first time I cut my hair.”
Tim hummed, assuming Jon would elaborate.
Jon did not.
After two more sweeps from the clippers, Tim spoke up again, “What was it like? The first time you cut your hair.”
Jon took a moment to collect his thoughts before saying, “It was, well, it was ages ago. I was seventeen and deep in the thralls of teen rebellion. I cut it in a motel bathroom with scissors I’d bought hours before. Here, turn to face me, I think your sideburns are uneven.”
Tim followed Jon’s instructions.
“My hair was a mess. I really had no idea what I was doing. All uneven and choppy.”
Tim snickered, thinking about a smaller Jon wearing his signature sweater vest and button down with an absolutely hacked up rats nest of hair. The left corner of Jon’s mouth curled into a smile, both for sepia soaked memories of a summer long gone and for the something shared between the two of them.
“I was nearly in tears about how awful it was. I ran to my best friend and made him fix it for me. I’ll admit he wasn’t a barber, but he did much better than I did.”
Jon set the clippers down and picked up a pair of scissors, beginning to trim the hair at the front of Tim’s head. When he felt that it was satisfactory, he set the scissors to the side and cradled Tim’s face into his right hand. Jon gently moved Tim’s head around, checking to make sure everything was right. Tim let go of a breath he barely knew he was holding, feeling Jon’s calloused thumb against his cheek.
Jon met Tim’s eyes and they could do nothing but look at and into each other for a moment.
“Timothy Stoker, I dub thee a new man.”
Jon picked himself up from where he was seated, and offered Tim a hand.
Tim turned to the mirror, running a hand against his short hair. How truly revolutionary, he thought. For the first time it was his hair. He was nothing but himself. The person in the mirror wasn’t Tim’s ideal form and it wasn’t as if the scales that once held back Tim’s self perception had fallen away, but the man in the mirror was Tim, undeniably. He was Tim, he was himself.
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The rain kept assaulting the outdoor world as Jon and Tim swept up the hair with their hands after noticing that Tim didn’t own a broom. Tim had made a joke about how he doesn’t feel like a real adult, trying not to think about all the things he’d forgotten moving into his new flat.
“God, it's getting late and I’m dreading the walk home.” Jon said, glancing to the small window being pelted with water.
“Why do you need to?” Tim asked, dumping hair into the trash can. “You can sleep here if you want.”
Jon looked at Tim, a little stunned.
“I’m not going to make you walk home in this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I only have one bed, but I can take the couch for one night.”
“I can’t kick you out of your bed.”
“Well, I can’t let a guest sleep on the couch.”
Jon and Tim held each other's gaze. Two stubborn assholes in a test of wills. Jon would never back down, neither would Tim.
“Then we’ll just have to share the bed.” Tim said, decisively.
Jon snorted and shook his head. He grabbed the counter, hauled himself up, and threw out the hair he’d gathered. He extended a hand to Tim, pulling him up.
Tim smiled and spread his arms, “We’re already in the bathroom, I’ll grab you an extra toothbrush and you can get ready for bed.”
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Jon slipped himself into Tim’s nighttime routine with a startling ease. He fit perfectly next to Tim as they brushed their teeth over his sink. He wordlessly understood that Tim kept all the dirty clothes in a pile next to the wall, and that Tim needed to take the right side of the bed.
Jon layed next to Tim, staring at the ceiling. His hand rested on top of the covers. Tim watched him out of the side of his eye, his tousled hair, his slight yet subtle smile lines, the spikes of grey at his temples, the way he lit up when talking to Tim, his strong opinions on every random thing from ice cream to amusement park rides, how he cared without saying it.
Tim’s ribs ached and with a quirk of his lips, Tim realized he knew this feeling. He felt it simmer in his chest.
He pulled his hand from the blanket and entwined it with Jon’s. Jon looked over at him and smiled, tired and affectionate.
Yeah, he knew what this was.
This was love.