[Michael knows this is probably a mistake. He signs his name into the visitor's log the way he's signed it on dozens of statements and institute forms. The guard barely glances at him. No one asks him what the purpose of his visit is. Which is probably fortunate. He isn't sure he can explain, if pressed, exactly why he is here.
Because you knew his father. Because Eric Keay was kind to you when kindness was rare. Because the boy has no one left.
The thoughts circle like vultures as he is processed through security. Keys, wallet, phone—all surrendered. He isn't sure what to do with his hands, so he tucks them into his pockets, looking like some oblivious tourist as he's led down the hall.
They lead him to the visitation room, a space designed to be simultaneously public and intimate. Plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Tables that couldn't be lifted or thrown. Michael sat and waited, his hands flat on the table, his gaze fixed on the door marked INMATES ONLY, feeling an increasing sense of unreality.
He hadn't seen Gerard – Gerry, Eric had called him – since the boy was four years old. That had been before Eric died, before Mary Keay had taken her son and vanished into the shadowy world of Leitner collectors and occult dealers. Michael had been young then himself, new to the Institute, and Eric had been one of the few people who'd bothered to show him patience. To explain things. To treat him as if he mattered. He remembered Gerry as a small child with serious eyes, sitting in the Institute's break room with a colouring book while Eric finished his shift. The boy had been drawing something elaborate with an intensity unusual for someone so young.
"He's artistic, like his mum," Eric had said fondly, ruffling his son's dark hair. "Got her eye for detail." Michael hadn't known then what Mary Keay's "eye for detail" truly meant. Hadn't understood the danger that woman represented, the hunger in her for knowledge that should stay buried. Though he had heard things through the years, statements that had brushed against her world and her bookshop. And now she was dead, and her son, Eric's son, was accused of killing her.
The door opened. The young man who shuffled through looked nothing like the serious four-year-old that Michael remembered. This Gerry was all sharp angles and exhaustion. He was thin—too thin—and covered in tattoos. Michael got to his feet, tugging nervously at his jacket. Hello, Gerry. [The brightness in Michael's voice sounds false even to his own ears.] Do you remember me?
[ If it wasn’t for the tug to know what on Earth this Michael guy could possibly want with him Gerard would have turned the visit down, but the idea of doing it makes his joints hurt, which he hopes means nothing and knows probably means nothing good. The letter had been on stationary emblazoned with “The Magnus Institute, London” and he was far too intrigued by why they would be getting in touch to say no.
He shuffles into the visiting room with his arms folded across his chest and watches as the man stands up. He’s sure he’s seen him before, much younger, in his fathers photo album, the sad one that was only half full and supposed to document his childhood, it stops when he was about four and shoved into a closet, it’s probably still there. ] No, I don’t, not really, sorry.
I know you knew my dad. When I was little. [ He still feels little. He’s not allowed his combat boots, or anything else with laces, and has had to settle with a pair of slip on Vans and appearing his full height of five foot six. He’s not allowed anything in here really, no black clothing, no formal clothes, no eyeliner, his roots are coming in, offensively dark auburn against what was jet black before it faded. Hell he’s barely allowed enough shampoo to keep his hair anything resembling clean. At least the book bound apparition his mother has probably become can’t reach him in here. It’s probably for the best.
Gerard sits, mostly to avoid being seen as tiny but also because standing up is pointless, if the man was expecting a hug or something he’s going to be sorely disappointed, they’re not even supposed to touch at all. Gerry was briefed on it before being allowed in. ] Not to be rude but why are you here? [ Direct and to the point, sure, but he doesn’t really owe the guy anything and it’s been bothering him since he got the visitation request. ]
That's alright. [ Michael gives him a nervous smile. ] It's been a long time.
[Something softens in his expression.] Yes, your father and I worked together at the Magnus Institute. [Michael swallows and sits down across from him. Without the eyeliner and black clothes, Gerry looks so much younger than he did in the newspaper photo—like he should be in school, not locked up behind bars.
His fingers tap nervously on the tabletop. The direct question deserves a direct answer, but Michael's not quite sure how to give one. After a long moment, he looks up and meets Gerry's eyes.] I want to help you.
[Michael inhales deeply.] Your father... he was a good man. He had friends at the Institute. People who remember him. [He pauses before he pushes forward.] People who don't believe you did this.
Not sure anything the Institute has to offer is going to convince a jury. [ Oh. That’s kind of adorable but Gerry really isn’t sure there’s anything that can be done, it isn’t like they can stroll into court and tell a judge and jury about the fears and the Leitners and that “magic” is real. It’s looking pretty open and shut and they’re not even far enough away from the “emo and goth are a path to satanism and murder/suicide” panic in The Daily Mail for it not to have come up in discussions of his case.
His lawyer is using the “Mary had a psychotic break” angle, he’s not sure it’s going to work out but it’s the best they’ve got. ]
My defence is using the angle that she had a psychotic break due to getting in too deep with the occult. [ Gerry lets out a noise that’s half way between a laugh and a defeated sigh. ] I found her, you know? She begged me to help her finish the job. Gave me a razor blade and everything. [ he cracks his tattooed knuckles and stares at his hands. ] I didn’t, obviously, I just left. But there I was, covered in blood, my prints all over one of the blades. I don’t think there’s any helping me.
[Michael is quiet for a long moment, his fingers stilling on the tabletop. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and careful.] I believe you.
[ He leans forward slightly.] Gerry, I've worked at the Institute for years. I know what your mother was involved in. I know what Leitner books can do to people. [Something dark crosses his expression] What they can make people become.
[He pauses, then continues more gently.] What you described... leaving, calling for help instead of... that took strength. I can't imagine what that must have been like. I'm sorry.
[ He pulls himself together, his tone shifting, becoming more practical. He's spent decades in the Archives; he knows how to build a defensible narrative.] But the physical evidence doesn't tell the whole story. Your prints on the blade because she handed it to you... that's different from using it. And the Institute has resources. Documentation about Mary's activities, her collection, her state of mind in the months before... [ He hesitates, taking a breath.] Things that might support your lawyer's theory about her mental state. Even if we can't explain the real reasons in court, we can provide context. Evidence of obsession, erratic behavior, dangerous acquisitions.
[ He meets Gerry's eyes once again.] Your father would have wanted someone to fight for you. Let us try.
[ It catches him completely off guard. I believe you. Nobody has said it through the whole ordeal, not even his legal counsel has been that specific, sure they go through the story he tells them and come back with ways they think they can convince a jury of it but he doesn’t think it’s so much that they believe it as they want to create a narrative that means they can win. Even the sectioned officers who do have the full story looked at him with suspicion, like they think he was an accomplice and he still deserves to go to prison for it.
His eyes immediately sting and he can’t bring himself to look up. He won’t cry. He won’t, not in front of a stranger. Not even one who’s offering as much help as they can give. He just hopes Michael is kind enough not to point it out. ] You think you can really swing it without making me sound even less sane than the prosecution is trying to? [ His voice comes out a lot smaller and more broken than he wants it to. He doesn’t want to hope, not so that it can just get crushed. ]
Was it really because my dad was a good person? Was she really so bad you think you can convince a whole jury? [ He knows, in some small closed off part at his core that she really was that bad but it still hurts to admit it, even to himself. What does that mean for him? When he desperately wanted someone that bad to love him? To be proud of him? When he tried so hard to gain her approval? Is he bad too? He thinks he might be. ] I mean she was… She just… [ Goddamnit. ] She was still my mum.
[ Gerry looks away quickly, and Michael pointedly looks down at the table, giving him as much space as he can afford in this public place. He feels his chest ache in response to the smallness of his voice as Gerry seems to entertain the idea of allowing him to help.
He stares at his fingers, his brow furrowing as if he's choosing each word very carefully but with quiet determination. ] You aren't insane. We'll tell the truth about who she was — someone who became consumed by dangerous obsessions. The documentation exists. The Institute has extensive records on your mother's activities. Purchase records, incident reports, witness statements. We can document a pattern of increasingly erratic and dangerous behavior without ever mentioning the supernatural. Your lawyer can use it to support their theory.
[ Michael finally looks up, meeting Gerry's eyes. ] And yes. It was because of your father. Your father was a good person. One of the best I've known. And your mother... [He hesitates.] Mary was brilliant. She was also ruthless and dangerous. Those things can both be true.
[ He leans forward slightly, his voice gentle. ] Loving her doesn't make you complicit in the things she did, it just makes it hurt more. [ His voice drops to almost a whisper.] She was your mum. Of course it hurts. [Michael's expression is pained.] But you're still here, despite it all. That's strength, Gerry. Real strength.
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timeasmymeasure
Closed to Gerry.
Date: 2025-10-29 11:26 pm (UTC)Because you knew his father. Because Eric Keay was kind to you when kindness was rare. Because the boy has no one left.
The thoughts circle like vultures as he is processed through security. Keys, wallet, phone—all surrendered. He isn't sure what to do with his hands, so he tucks them into his pockets, looking like some oblivious tourist as he's led down the hall.
They lead him to the visitation room, a space designed to be simultaneously public and intimate. Plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Tables that couldn't be lifted or thrown. Michael sat and waited, his hands flat on the table, his gaze fixed on the door marked INMATES ONLY, feeling an increasing sense of unreality.
He hadn't seen Gerard – Gerry, Eric had called him – since the boy was four years old. That had been before Eric died, before Mary Keay had taken her son and vanished into the shadowy world of Leitner collectors and occult dealers. Michael had been young then himself, new to the Institute, and Eric had been one of the few people who'd bothered to show him patience. To explain things. To treat him as if he mattered. He remembered Gerry as a small child with serious eyes, sitting in the Institute's break room with a colouring book while Eric finished his shift. The boy had been drawing something elaborate with an intensity unusual for someone so young.
"He's artistic, like his mum," Eric had said fondly, ruffling his son's dark hair. "Got her eye for detail." Michael hadn't known then what Mary Keay's "eye for detail" truly meant. Hadn't understood the danger that woman represented, the hunger in her for knowledge that should stay buried. Though he had heard things through the years, statements that had brushed against her world and her bookshop. And now she was dead, and her son, Eric's son, was accused of killing her.
The door opened. The young man who shuffled through looked nothing like the serious four-year-old that Michael remembered. This Gerry was all sharp angles and exhaustion. He was thin—too thin—and covered in tattoos. Michael got to his feet, tugging nervously at his jacket. Hello, Gerry. [The brightness in Michael's voice sounds false even to his own ears.] Do you remember me?
no subject
Date: 2025-10-30 12:18 am (UTC)He shuffles into the visiting room with his arms folded across his chest and watches as the man stands up. He’s sure he’s seen him before, much younger, in his fathers photo album, the sad one that was only half full and supposed to document his childhood, it stops when he was about four and shoved into a closet, it’s probably still there. ] No, I don’t, not really, sorry.
I know you knew my dad. When I was little. [ He still feels little. He’s not allowed his combat boots, or anything else with laces, and has had to settle with a pair of slip on Vans and appearing his full height of five foot six. He’s not allowed anything in here really, no black clothing, no formal clothes, no eyeliner, his roots are coming in, offensively dark auburn against what was jet black before it faded. Hell he’s barely allowed enough shampoo to keep his hair anything resembling clean. At least the book bound apparition his mother has probably become can’t reach him in here. It’s probably for the best.
Gerard sits, mostly to avoid being seen as tiny but also because standing up is pointless, if the man was expecting a hug or something he’s going to be sorely disappointed, they’re not even supposed to touch at all. Gerry was briefed on it before being allowed in. ] Not to be rude but why are you here? [ Direct and to the point, sure, but he doesn’t really owe the guy anything and it’s been bothering him since he got the visitation request. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-10-30 12:43 am (UTC)[Something softens in his expression.] Yes, your father and I worked together at the Magnus Institute. [Michael swallows and sits down across from him. Without the eyeliner and black clothes, Gerry looks so much younger than he did in the newspaper photo—like he should be in school, not locked up behind bars.
His fingers tap nervously on the tabletop. The direct question deserves a direct answer, but Michael's not quite sure how to give one. After a long moment, he looks up and meets Gerry's eyes.] I want to help you.
[Michael inhales deeply.] Your father... he was a good man. He had friends at the Institute. People who remember him. [He pauses before he pushes forward.] People who don't believe you did this.
no subject
Date: 2025-10-30 01:30 am (UTC)His lawyer is using the “Mary had a psychotic break” angle, he’s not sure it’s going to work out but it’s the best they’ve got. ]
My defence is using the angle that she had a psychotic break due to getting in too deep with the occult. [ Gerry lets out a noise that’s half way between a laugh and a defeated sigh. ] I found her, you know? She begged me to help her finish the job. Gave me a razor blade and everything. [ he cracks his tattooed knuckles and stares at his hands. ] I didn’t, obviously, I just left. But there I was, covered in blood, my prints all over one of the blades. I don’t think there’s any helping me.
no subject
Date: 2025-10-30 03:54 pm (UTC)[ He leans forward slightly.] Gerry, I've worked at the Institute for years. I know what your mother was involved in. I know what Leitner books can do to people. [Something dark crosses his expression] What they can make people become.
[He pauses, then continues more gently.] What you described... leaving, calling for help instead of... that took strength. I can't imagine what that must have been like. I'm sorry.
[ He pulls himself together, his tone shifting, becoming more practical. He's spent decades in the Archives; he knows how to build a defensible narrative.] But the physical evidence doesn't tell the whole story. Your prints on the blade because she handed it to you... that's different from using it. And the Institute has resources. Documentation about Mary's activities, her collection, her state of mind in the months before... [ He hesitates, taking a breath.] Things that might support your lawyer's theory about her mental state. Even if we can't explain the real reasons in court, we can provide context. Evidence of obsession, erratic behavior, dangerous acquisitions.
[ He meets Gerry's eyes once again.] Your father would have wanted someone to fight for you. Let us try.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-02 03:58 am (UTC)His eyes immediately sting and he can’t bring himself to look up. He won’t cry. He won’t, not in front of a stranger. Not even one who’s offering as much help as they can give. He just hopes Michael is kind enough not to point it out. ] You think you can really swing it without making me sound even less sane than the prosecution is trying to? [ His voice comes out a lot smaller and more broken than he wants it to. He doesn’t want to hope, not so that it can just get crushed. ]
Was it really because my dad was a good person? Was she really so bad you think you can convince a whole jury? [ He knows, in some small closed off part at his core that she really was that bad but it still hurts to admit it, even to himself. What does that mean for him? When he desperately wanted someone that bad to love him? To be proud of him? When he tried so hard to gain her approval? Is he bad too? He thinks he might be. ] I mean she was… She just… [ Goddamnit. ] She was still my mum.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-02 03:01 pm (UTC)He stares at his fingers, his brow furrowing as if he's choosing each word very carefully but with quiet determination. ] You aren't insane. We'll tell the truth about who she was — someone who became consumed by dangerous obsessions. The documentation exists. The Institute has extensive records on your mother's activities. Purchase records, incident reports, witness statements. We can document a pattern of increasingly erratic and dangerous behavior without ever mentioning the supernatural. Your lawyer can use it to support their theory.
[ Michael finally looks up, meeting Gerry's eyes. ] And yes. It was because of your father. Your father was a good person. One of the best I've known. And your mother... [He hesitates.] Mary was brilliant. She was also ruthless and dangerous. Those things can both be true.
[ He leans forward slightly, his voice gentle. ] Loving her doesn't make you complicit in the things she did, it just makes it hurt more. [ His voice drops to almost a whisper.] She was your mum. Of course it hurts. [Michael's expression is pained.] But you're still here, despite it all. That's strength, Gerry. Real strength.