Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Theo hadn’t seen the painting in fifty-three weeks and 5 days. Physically speaking, that is. The date of its return, a new rusty nail for him; the thought of those snow and chill packed days in Amsterdam often rushing back in his mind. Upon its return, and same of other artworks, He’d soon after been responsible for the gathering of yet another object: His sold "antiques,” which had been a truth adjacent lie.

The past year had been spent collecting each and every Changeling (as Hobie dubbed them), as to return them back to the shop where they rightfully belonged.

Hobie had learned of Theo's past around the same date of today. The important details, anyway. Stolen paintings, messy Vegas life (which he’d deliberately left patchy and vague), and lastly the piled up scams, which he “excused” with the intent of having Hobart and Blackwell escape debt.

It was a foolish plan, Theo is more than aware of that now.

There had been good that came though: his share of reward money. All he had gained from those lost paintings' return had gone back to Hobart and Blackwell first thing, or rather, back to paying those scammed. It had often been challenging to see any positive behind this, but Theo found that accepting the good that came from bad had helped.

He had been catching a flight back to New York for the holidays—one of what neared the last Changling refunded in full.

This had also been paired with the fact that it had been Hobie's idea, “You’ve done more than enough for now, Theo.” being his words over the phone.

Theo himself wasn’t sure why he disliked the idea of returning home, his travels filling him with a sense of dread. Inside each airport, fear of arrest flooded—as he once felt as child.

Yet, every hotel held that same “home sweet home” illusion. Only encapsulating a familiar, sterile sense he’d experienced before. Each duplicated room made the taste of vomit and vodka rush back to his mouth (a sharp reminder of his failed attempt—the only one he’d been aware of.)

Still, that dread followed Theo at the thought of returning home. Settling in one place, no longer a new city each day. His constant travels finally made him understand the comfort of being on an endless move.

It was a lose-lose situation no matter what, but for Hobie's sake—that didn't stop him from booking a one way flight to leave New York only 3 days before Christmas .

The airport was busy as he walked to his gate. It always was this season, packed with families laughing and a holiday spirit Theo questioned of the last time he felt. Still reminded of those holidays spent with his mother: dancing and music filling their apartment, six months after Larry left and only four months before she passed.

His flight wasn’t long, not in comparison to his recent trips at least. Five hours, give or take; California (a state he now knows he would’ve enjoyed at sixteen) to New York. An indecisive feeling had swamped over Theo again, uncertainty on whether to be glad to leave, or desperate to stay where he was.

The announcement across the secluded speakers came with seamless timing, “Boarding from LAX to JFK, now starting,” just seconds after Theo approached the rows of chairs and matted grey carpet surrounding his gate ahead.

The line onto the plane hadn’t taken much time to go through. Swiftly, Theo reached his seat—leather-covered and claustrophobic—by the window.

He hadn’t packed much, a handful of suits that made him presentable and other clothes far too unsuited for the warm weather California presented. Though one consistent that remained with him, had been a small Altoid tin, mints disregarded and instead replaced with a sprawl of multi-colored pills of different shapes. He’d rationed his stash as needed, just as he recalled doing when he first arrived back in New York.

Those three days at most of sobriety at a time were still unchanged in his life as that tin was back in his hand now. Pill selected at near random before tossing it back and placing the can back into the depths of his carry-on.

No matter how much he averted admitting it, ever since he was young a pill split in half had been a travel habit picked up from his father (as many of his behaviors unfortunately followed back to him even years later.) A ritual of each flight as he thought back to one of the many events which uproared his life.

The cabin was almost full, a select few still wandering about to place suitcases in overhead bins or asking another to move so they could squish into their seats.
It was then that Theo’s phone had buzzed from his pocket, his reactions delayed, and only slowing as each minute passed. The most recent notification had been nothing but an email, and this was followed by messages from Pippa, something he saw earlier that morning but refused to respond (as he often did with her messages) until the next day. This email however, had been under the subject “happy christmas!” and went to his spam. Sent from the email—a burner, Theo presumed—[email protected].

he wasn’t sure what about it had stood out to him particularly, given it was more than common to retrieve nonsense emails since becoming Hobie's business partner. The only oddity being,his personal email had never been linked to the business.

After a few moments of staring at the notification, growing hazy as time progressed, he landed on not bothering to pay it any mind. Instead, the email was deleted and the contents remained unknown. Of course, this didn’t mean its familiarity didn’t continue to knack at him, a relentless thought of something lurking beneath the common message wishing nothing but holiday glee. The matter of stringing any ideas together, whatever the case, had long taken off as the plane lifted its way off the ground.

—

Theo wasn’t sure if he blacked out for the whole flight or simply fell asleep. All he was aware of had been the fact that he’d made his return home. It was the first time his return to New York strictly carried indifference rather than some urgency to escape or flee It took both a cab and train to reach West Village and get to the shop from the airport. Pushing 11pm, he took the trip down past the green doorbell and let himself in.

The last time he had been in the shop couldn't have been more than 8 months ago, returning just at the end of April—only a few days after what marked the date he lost his mom—and even then, he only stayed a few days.

Things hadn’t changed much, he had noticed: stacks of chairs with a leg or backing missing, dressers along the wall, the smallest details etched into their wood from decades into the past. It was clear very few, if any, sales had taken place since Theo's dispatcher, the stale scent of different words blending into one—fuems from generations worth of furnishings standing in the air. Only one or two of the lamps in the shop had remained lit, instead, the room had been illuminated from the skylight, flashes of car headlights and natural city shine for glow.

With that, navigating to the stairs wasn’t deemed difficult. Instead, a muscle memory which Theo recalled, knowledge retained over a decade ago. It was upon reaching the top floor—submerged into pitch black—which no amount of history could help him navigate the room he’d been tossed into. Scammering for a switch, he shined dim light to the kitchen. A sleeping Popper had been tucked in the corner of the living room, Theo moving with attempted silence, lugging a suitcase across hollow hardwood floors.

He went down the narrow hallway and made his way towards Welty's room where nothing had changed first walking in at sixteen, and nothing had changed about it now. Same array of pillows sprawled about, same bedframe wooden and creaky, even the same lamps with their dying, flickery bulbs.

Theo was all too aware that it was his first real time staying in the room without the painting—although he now realizes he hadn't ever truly had it here at all—tucked under the bed, buried with newspaper and packing tape.

It doesn't take much longer for other thoughts to flood in: The last thing he did in New York before killing a man (flee his engagement party to secure the painting); The last thing he did in New York before moving with his father and Xandra (worry about being arrested for stolen art); the last thing he did in New York after his mother died (steal the painting.)

His life had always been split between before and after, he can’t think of a time it hadn’t. Only now, his past and present had changed. No more had his actions tied back to just his mother, but the painting, and with that, Theo's life had split between before and after his connection to her.

His thoughts spiraled for longer than he realized: unpresent for changing or brushing his teeth or clearing the mountain of pillows to lay. All he knew is that the last time he saw before drifting off had been 3:27am and the so-called “city that never sleeps” gained a stillness only reached at the latest of hours.

Theo had however, managed to fall asleep nightmare free despite the lack of ability to flee the next day. Adrift in his mind, resting in a house that held his memories from before, and back in a city that wouldn’t let him escape the past; and for today, that had been enough for him.

Chapter Text

By the time Theo had woken up and gotten ready for the day it had been long past twelve. Sounds of pots clattering and whistling teakettles had led him out to the kitchen to be faced with Hobie, stood leaning over the sink washing his hands.

It took him a moment to realize Theo's presence, Popper barking behind the two of them causing him to turn, “Theo!” he beamed, walking over to embrace him in a hug, “When did you get in? I hadn't heard a thing.”

“Well, just a bit after one.” he’d clapped Theos back before walking to the kettle and pulling out a third mug, “Is someone else coming?” A part of him had hoped that Mrs. DeFrees or Mr. Abernathy didn’t have any plans of stopping by, hours on end of putting on the same act he had kept up for months.

He slipped the mug—presumably for Theo—onto the counter towards him, “Oh, no no—nothing of that sort.” he assured, taking a sip of his own tea, “It's just Pippa coming by—she's been in town you know, did she tell you?”

Truthfully, Theo had been aware of her arrival. Mentioned in her email from a week before, and yet, he hadn’t thought to do the math lining up his response with actually seeing her. “Well uh, yes,” eyes averting Hobie’s more-than-aware look, “I think she might've mentioned it,” he muttered; the warmth of the mug now tucked in his hands, steam fogging the bottom of his glasses.

Popchik had wobbled into the kitchen, arthritic and doddery; Theo often wondered if he truly would have lived this long without the care of Hobie. He questioned if either of them would’ve. 

“No worries anyhow—not to be in a rush at least if you had plans,” Hobie noted, walking towards the living room and giving the dog a gentle pat on the head. “She said she wouldn’t arrive for another hour or so. Frankly, I planned on stepping out to the store before she got here.”

“Well if that's the case,” Theo spoke, “I wouldn't mind going. Get out of the shop for a bit while I'm back.” ‘Step out the shop’ had been a not-so-subtle allegory for a cigarette, though if Hobie picked up on the fact, he hadn’t let on.

 Instead he sat back in his chair “As long as it works for you then that’d be great, Theo.” Hobie had taken a quick glance at the clock, “might be busy at this time though, no—with the holidays and weather?” 

Theo shrugged, already making his way down the hall to grab his coat and lighter, “Really, it's no mind.”

—

His breath had blended in with the smoke; snow slick roads causing a worse traffic pile-up than normal. The sidewalks had been covered with people—draped in thick fur jackets and scarfs—Theo had gotten the few items needed from Hobie and picked them up, now walking around the city on his own accord. 

He told himself he missed it—the city. That there was nothing he was avoiding and the December cold wasn't sinking into his hands. He told himself that because it had been close enough to the truth. If there was something he’d been avoiding, so long as he didn't know what it was that meant he didn’t have to deal with it. 

Theo isn’t sure how much longer he would’ve stayed out—alking about until his hands were frostbitten and feet numb. There wasn’t much doubt Pippa had arrived by now; he, happy instead. His absence playing off as if he didn’t care about her presence or lack of. Because of that, he had only one reason that led him to start the trip back to Hobart and Blackwell. 

For the past five or so minutes—likely more—a figure had been lurking several paces behind Theo. He’d only noticed after turning three or four blocks back towards the general direction of the shop, heart rate going up with every invigorating step.

Had it been an undercover cop? Someone still bitter about the Changlings? 

Outcomes raced through his head, barreling his way through the crowded New York sidewalks. Not once had he bothered to look back again, weaving through bunches of people around him. He didn't bother to slow his pace either, unsure if the man pursuing him—which Theo tried to believe wasn't the case—had even remained behind him.

He thought back to a year ago: the situation with Lucius Reeve, people lurking around the shop. He had been more than aware that no matter what, each action he’d taken left loose ends waiting to catch up with him. Deep rooted drug addiction, relationships formed and ruined—how much more of his life had he left irreversible?

He approached the descending stairs, key in hand from blocks before as he blew past the green bell, shutting the door behind him. 

Had he imagined it? Maybe no one had been following him, paranoia from being back home making everything swarm back.

Theo had immediately heard faint talking from above upon stepping inside, dropped into the conversation at random as he made his way to the main floor. Before he knew it, there he saw Pippa: hair, the same fiery red and colorful patchwork coat draped on the back of the seat

“Theo!” Pippa had beamed, stood from her chair to hug him before drifting to the counter opposite of Hobie, “I emailed but it’s been impossible to track you down, so much traveling!” Her words, despite no menace or vigor behind them, had thrown him off, clearly pecking at Hobie's curiosity too as his eyebrows quirked up.

It had then occurred to him that only he was aware of what he’d said to Pippa regarding his year long absence: ‘Changelings mistaken for antiques, far too easy a mistake to make,’ however anything Hobie had shared himself—which he now regrets not asking— had remained a vast mystery for Theo. “Lots of travel, yeah” he chose, repeating her own words and careful not to say anything that dug him in a hole too deep.

It was then that Hobie chimed in, taking the small bag of items from Theo that he had brought in and placing them on the counter, “He hadn’t even wanted to visit, can you believe it,” playful shock crossed Pippa's face, “always about work, this one.”

She gasped,“But Christmas is so soon,” looking from Hobie to me, "haven't you gotten tired of all that roaming around—always being someplace new?”

“Sure, it got tiring,” he spoke, once again with his truth adjacent facts. Instead, he took in for floral scent and off center smile. Thinking back to their relationship—expensive gifts and countless rejections, all his doing. Nothing but another permanent error to add to the list, “nothing I didn’t mind though.” he said, giving nothing but a tired shrug paired with a smile.

It was then that Theo's phone buzzed from his coat pocket, the number replaced with the words ‘No Caller ID.’

“Do you need to go take that?” Pippa pondered, leaning to grab her jacket.

“Oh no, no—just spam—nothing important.” Except Theo's tone had given away his worry at an instant: The person following him, the call with no id; it all felt more connected to him than it should've.

“I see.” Pippa said, and frankly, Theo didn’t know what she did see. Sure, maybe he’d sounded concerned—an understatement—but nothing he said was false. “Well, I still need to head off anyway. I'm meeting with Everret soon but I wanted to drop by, see the two of you!” she said, bringing Hobie in for a hug and Theo, who’d flinched at the name, after. 

Theo's phone buzzed again, him—none the bothered to check who it was—powering off his ringer instead. “When will I see you again? He asked instead, walking with both her and Hobie towards the shop entrance door, opened soon after.

 “Oh, soon! We’re here all week so surely in the next day or two before Christmas.” she explained while turning to face the pair. “Well, I’m off then,” she said with a sigh, breath floating away into the air, “see the two of you soon!” 

His phone buzzed a third and final time, Theo still trying to deflect himself from any true concern. The shop door shut as Hobie spoke, “I’m about to make something to eat, have you had anything yet, Theo?” 

The question pulled him from his growing spiral of worry, instead embarrassment filling his reply, “No. Not yet atleast.” Something about the question made him feel like a child, unable to take care of himself.

“I’ll make two portions then,” He said before making his way back to the kitchen.

Theo had followed past him, walking towards Welty's room instead. Both calls lacked a caller ID he discovered at a glance of his phone, not quite like he needed to check. Each one of his thoughts went from crippling trepidation, back to failed justification. Besides, wasn't it shocking that none of his actions led to some further consequence? Nothing about his suffering and constant guilt, had been sort of payback to anyone else.

Just because the painting had been returned didn’t mean the problem was resolved. Nothing could naturally rid that from his hands. Same killing a man, he realized. All things he did that had no choice but to follow him for life. He’d thought about consulting Hobie once again, placed back in the position of what he should've done first, and overtly, it being far too late. And by now, the more he thought about it, dragging down Hobie with him for something he couldn’t explain would've done nothing but put him in the same harms way. 

His thoughts went on with this pattern, similar to the day before. He’d eaten and spoke to Hobie about the Changlings, floating through the day and allowed a false sense of calm to remain about him, one which faltered by the minute. 

Hobie had left by now, Theo unsure of how long exactly he’d been gone; last minute Christmas shopping he’d wanted to get out the way being what he’d caught. In Hobie-like manner, he offered for Theo to come along (something which he promptly shut down.) It had almost been humorous how easy it was for him to revert back to old habits; shut in a building, hermit-like and scared of stepping out, allowing everything to catch up with him at once. 

His day had been short: already far past eight and the sun had sunk below the horizon hours before. He’d wandered towards the living room some time after Hobie's dispersal and sat on the floor with Popchik—once again asleep—lay next to him. The room was only filled with the glow of a single lamp and a muted TV.

 Nothing about his worries had faded, only replaced with slim comforts based around the fact that he wasn't trapped in the same stuffy room with the same too-cold clothes carrying around the same immense worries. Unsurety surrounding Hobie's return had led Theo to hesitance on slipping another pill for his nerves. He knew Hobie was aware of his habits, (another thing which they never spoke of as it was better for everyone to dismiss such a fact) and yet the shame hadn’t been something he was willing to face.

What had caught his attention, taking him out of the silence only filled with noise from the city, had been a thumping like noise rising from the workshop. With a quick descent down the stairs, it was clear the noise had been heavy knocking against the door, likely Hobie—making Theo happy with his decision—forgetting his keys somewhere around the house rather than a customer at this hour. He had unlocked the heavy metal door, creaking as he pulled it back and instinctively, he looked. Instead of Hobie, towering at 6 '3 and face covered by his white beard, he was greeted with the top of matted black hair gusting in the wind.

“Potter!” It was Boris, grin on his face and shivering from the cold. He had been significantly thinner than the last time Theo saw him. Cheeks hollowed out and swallowed by a long trenchcoat that reminded him of Vegas, Boris in Theo's fathers hand-me-down clothes—swallowing him whole. Everything about his presence had remained reminiscent of him almost fifteen years ago, stealing food to survive and desert heat. 

“Boris?” Theo had stood in the door dumbfounded at his unexpected apperence. His absence had been one of those things Theo was left with no choice but to accept as fact, as many things in his life tended to be. “Boris, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Are you not happy to see an old friend? Is it not the holidays Potter? what happened to Christmas spirit!” he nagged, tossing around wild and sporadic gestures with his hands as if an inflatable in a car dealership. “Seriously, let me in. Weather is making me freeze my ass off.”

Theo hadn’t had time to process, already allowing himself to step out the doorframe without further thought. “How did you know I was here?” 

“I keep my tabs,” He said with a shrug, shaking out his hair—damp with snow—in a way reminiscent to Theo of a dog, wet and abandoned on the street. “It's not important however. How have you been!” 

 “It’s been a year, Boris.” A wave of irritation flew over him, had that been his only explanation? “You cant just say you keep your fucking tabs and move on.”

His reaction had been raddled, Theo knew the odds of him being on something had been likely, “Yes, yes, I understand Potter! But it's late, no?” Boris had tilted his head to lead him up the stairs, something Theo followed as if it weren’t his own house. He hated how easy it was to slip into old habits. “I can explain everything in the morning.”

It had been in the dim lamp lighting that Theo could truly see Boris: eyes sunken with dark circles below and scars he doesn’t recall seeing the last time they met. “In the morning?”

Boris continued through the house, making his way straight to Popper—still asleep—before dropping to the floor, “Popchyk! I missed this dog—tell me, does he still wobble around like before?”

“Boris, ‘in the morning,’” he threw up quotation marks mid-air, “you can’t just stay here, this isn't even my house.”

“Sure I can!” He insisted, not bothering to turn and face Theo, “Will take the couch, sleep here with Popchyk.”

Theo ran a hand across his face, pushing his glasses up to his disheveled hair, “No, no,” He was thinking of what to do. If he kicked him out would he not get an explanation, not see Boris for another year? Would Boris even be alive given the rundown state he’d seemed to be in? “Take the room down the hall. I’ll—” he sighed, knowing it would be easier to explain to Hobie why he was on the couch rather than a man he’d only met once—and didn’t take a particular liking to—“I’ll just sleep here for tonight, okay?”

“Works for me, Potter.” he’d stated, picking up popchik on his way up from the floor. “I'm bringing him with me though, I haven't seen this little dog in ages.” 

Theo had been compelled to argue that had been no one's fault but his own, bitting back instead. Wordlessly, he pointed Boris to the direction of Welty's room and followed behind him to grab a change of clothes and blanket.

“Where is the old poofter, still alive, yes?” Boris had asked in such a causal manner Theo had taken an extra second to process his words.

“What?’’ He didn’t know which part of the question had been more of a surprise.

“Oh, what's his name again?” Boris had sat Popper at the ledge of the bed before going to lay himself without being bothered to disregard his coat.

 “Hobie.” Theo spoke, “and he’s still alive—just out shopping—I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Everything about the situation had astonished Theo. Did ‘keeping tabs’ involve having people follow him on the street and send anonymous calls? He had dozens of questions rush in at once.

For a moment, Theo had thought Boris managed to fall asleep in a matter of seconds. That was, until he spoke a beat late, eyes heavy and shut, “You think I’ll have to reintroduce myself?” He asked, Theo halfway out of the door with his needed items in hand.

“You know Boris, I really have a feeling you won’t.” Theo said thinking back to their last introduction—him, stumbling into the house far past midnight; Boris, arriving the next morning, popchik in hand.

“Great then, Potter. Will see you in the morning.” He had said, turning on his side,

Theo wanted to make him promise an explanation first thing. Confirmation of his promise. Despite this, he’d been more than aware that when it came to Boris: any sort of permanence had been fragile, far too easy to be broken. With that, he made his way to the couch, discombobulated from the evening's events and scrambling for some explanation he could give Hobie by morning.