Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Archival Assistant? More Like Archival Arsonist

The promotion would have come with a significant pay raise. And Jon lived in London. 

Still, better to remain in a lower position and keep his job, rather than get a promotion only to be fired because he didn’t know what a goddamn head archivist is supposed to do. Besides, Sasha was the one who had actually worked for the previous archivist, she was infinitely more suited for the job than Jon. 

Yet, it stung a bit to see that the pay raise of transferring from Research to archival assistant was barely anything at all compared to what the head position would have paid. 

Jon was still smarting a little with what he refused to call regret when he entered the Archives, carrying a box of his things from Research as he moved towards the table that he assumed would be his, since the other two already had things on them. 

The door to the head’s office was open, and he could see that the room was empty. The table had a tall pile of papers that looked like they were one loud word away from toppling over, and the yellow light from the table lamp flickered twice. Jon would have called it ominous if it weren’t such a stupid descriptor. 

The flickering had been what caught his attention, though, and he froze. 

There was a book on the table. 

He walked, slowly, towards it, almost as if he were in a trance. His heart pounded in his chest and his breaths had gotten shallower. The book looked familiar. Too familiar. He stopped at the doorway into the office. 

He could feel tiny legs crawling over his arms, under his shirt, on his face, and his breaths grew even more strained. He could hear knocking, very faint, as if it were coming from several rooms away, and yet stark in its clarity. 

KNOCK KNOCK 

His chest hurt, and Jon had to take in a sharp inhale when he realised he’d stopped breathing altogether. It was too loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sounds of knocking. Persistent, even, sharp knocking. 

He took a step forward into the room, and then a smell hit his nose. Sharp and metallic, iron. Blood. 

He couldn’t pass out, not now. God knew if he would ever wake up. If he would wake up, and if it would be within the many arms of a giant spider, in the process of being torn apart and devoured. He couldn’t pass out. He forced himself to breathe and took another step, closer to the book. 

The desk lamp flickered again. 

The vague outline of a plan was starting to form in his head, and Jon knew this was a supremely bad idea, but Mr. Spider had a way of wiping all rationality away from his mind and filling it with a blaring fire alarm. 

Slowly, he felt around his pocket for his lighter. And yes, while he did feel horrendously guilty for carrying around a lighter and a pack of cigarettes even after having been clean for over a year, he only felt relief when his fingers curled around the cold plastic of it. 

He grabbed three statements from the top of the stack, eyes never straying from the children’s book on the table, sitting there and daring him to pick it up and read and knock—

There was a quiet click as he flicked on the lighter, a tiny flame erupting, nearly as bright as the dim yellow light from the table lamp. It was a dingy room. 

He held the flame to the corner of the statements, and they caught fire very quickly. He put it over the Leitner on the desk. And it was like a switch had been flipped. 

He grabbed several statements, set them on fire, and stuffed the burning things either in, or around, or under or over the Litner, and slowly the book caught fire, cardboard cover and all. 

He didn’t realise he’d been laughing hysterically until he felt his face wet with tears. There was a sizable fire going up on the desk, and the Leitner was lost among the debris of sacrificed statements. The table was wood. The tall stack of statements wasn’t so much a stack as a pile of ash now. 

He took a step back, and then he heard Sasha’s voice, incredulous, high, slightly panicked, “ Jon? ” 

Jon was going to be fired. 

Good lord, he was going to be fired. He turned down the head archivist position because he didn’t want to be fired, and he was going to be fired anyway. Because of a stupid fucking Leitner which was the reason he joined the Insitute in the first place. 

Perhaps he should be looking at the silver lining? At least he got to destroy the Leitner. The book is gone. Burnt to ashes. 

Just like his career and life in London. 

He would really, really like to have a smoke just about now. Maybe the entire packet. Who cares about lung cancer when you’re going to be a homeless brown guy in London anyway? 

Wait— no, he still had a house in Bournemouth. He tended to push it out of his conscious memory whenever possible, but at least he wouldn’t be homeless. 

It was not as reassuring a thought as he would like it to be. 

Rosie gave him a small Secretary smile as he walked past her to Elias’ office. Jon was too high strung to return it, and instantly felt guilty. But turning back now to just smile at her would be weird and creepy, so he didn’t. 

He wrung his hands once, twice, thrice. Before dropping them to the side and sucking in a deep breath. He knocked, and entered the room at Elias’ quiet “Come in, Jon.” 

Elias’ office looked exactly the same way it had looked when Jon had been here previously, being offered the head position. Classy and handsome looking, comfortable arm chairs, books on a shelf lining one entire wall, and the absolutely massive portrait of Jonah Magnus hanging behind Elias’ chair that always felt like it was staring directly into Jon’s soul. 

“Sit down, Jon,” Elias said, gesturing towards the chair. Jon sat, back ramrod straight, and a probably unpleasant expression on his face that would definitely not help his case right now. Not that he had a case. He’d just burnt down a few dozen statements, a Leitner that probably belonged in Artefact Storage, and the head archivist’s office desk. 

“I have to say,” Elias started steepling his fingers over the desk and staring at him. His eyes looked remarkably similar to Jonah Magnus’, “You handled yourself remarkably well when confronted with a Leitner.” 

“I– what?” Jon didn’t gape, but he was pretty close to it. That didn’t sound like he was getting fired. Unless Elias was mocking him. Was he mocking him? Probably. Maybe. 

“I’m quite impressed, actually. Although, let me confirm, it was a Leitner that you burned, correct?” 

“I– uh, yes. Yes, it was.” 

“Hm, then yes. I daresay the others might not have done quite as well.” 

“I burnt down Sasha’s desk!” Jon said sharply, quite aware that he shouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but what the hell? “I also burned several statements, not to mention carrying a source of ignition into the Archives. And the Leitner should have probably been put in Artefact Storage.” 

“Jon,” Elias said, his voice gentle, “Most of the time, when one is unfortunate enough to encounter a Leitner, it usually results in the death of at least one person. You took care of it without any kind of loss of life. You should be proud of yourself.” 

“Right,” Jon said, slowly, “Right. So…” he trailed off, looking at Elias expectantly. While the knot of dread and worry had dissipated from his stomach, something more subtle took his place. The way Elias was looking at him didn’t sit right, it made him suspicious. 

Elias’ smile widened, “So, now you see why I wanted you as the Head Archivist? The spot is still open, if you want. I’m sure Sasha would understand.” 

Jon stared. 

Elias raised a brow. 

“I already said I do not want the position,” Jon said very calmly, keeping his voice steady, even as he heard the blood rushing in his ears. “I am not qualified for it. Just because I managed to recognise and burn a Leitner does not make me well suited for an Archiving position.” 

Elias’ shoulders drooped, and he gave a long, drawn out sigh, “Jon. Gertrude had been younger than you when she became the Archivist. I’m sure you would be able to handle the position.” 

Jon lost some of his carefully controlled calm at that. 

“Have you seen the state of the Archives?!” Jon said incredulously. He hadn’t even started working there yet, but just one look was good enough to tell even him that the Archives were not in a good state. “How the hell do you think comparing me to Gertrude is a good way to convince me to accept the position?” 

Elias pressed his lips together in a thin, displeased line. And Jon suddenly realised that perhaps he should stop antagonising his boss. Who, so far, hasn’t shown any inclination towards firing him, but still had the power to do so. 

He swallowed down the urge to apologise. He wasn’t going to budge now. Especially not now that accepting the position would mean literally snatching it away from Sasha. They might not know each other that well, but Jon would still consider her a friend, if not a close one. He wouldn’t do that to her. 

“I see,” Elias said after a moment, “Well, then. I suppose there’s nothing to be done. The fire didn’t spread very far, and I’ve explained the situation to Sasha as well. The desk will be replaced in a day or so. I hope there won’t be any other issues settling into the Archives for you.”

Jon sat still for a moment, before forcing himself to move. He stood up, limbs stiff and uncooperative, and nodded to Elias. He was at the door when the man spoke up again, “And Jon? The offer is still open. If you ever feel… qualified for the position.” 

Jon didn’t reply, hurrying away as quickly as he could without looking like he was hurrying away. 

At least this time he remembered to smile at Rosie. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Admiral to the Rescue

“Wait, so you’re telling me, that before assigning me the position of head archivist, he first went to you?” Sasha asked incredulously, and Jon would have felt offended except he had been just as surprised when it had happened. 

“Yes,” he said shortly, and Sasha and Tim both frowned at him, remarkably in sync. 

“Sorry,” Sasha said, only sounding a little sorry, “But, like. You were in Research, not the Archives, unlike me, and I’ve worked here for a lot longer than you. And while age doesn’t matter a lot, you’re still younger than me. It’s just. It doesn’t make any sense.” 

Jon wanted to ask her how she knew his age. Specifically, how did she know he was younger than her. He knew he looked old, what with the severe scowl he carried and the prematurely greying hair. According to Georgie, he also had a tendency to dress like an old lady. Telling people his actual age always led to such a fuss about his appearance, so most people at the Institute, who hadn’t screened his file, thought he was thirty five. 

He kept the question to himself. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. 

“Maybe Elias is just a sexist dick,” Tim said. 

“Maybe,” Jon allowed, but he wasn’t quite sure. 

Sasha caught on, of course. She had always been terrifyingly smart. “You think there’s more?” 

“Of course there’s more,” Jon said hotly, and wished he hadn’t crossed his arms across his chest because now he just looked horribly defensive. But putting them now would look even more awkward. “I’m not saying he isn’t sexist, I don’t know, but the way he is hounding me for the position isn’t natural either. There are other, far more qualified men at the Institute as well who would be better candidates for the job.” 

“Why didn’t you take the job, though?” Tim asked suddenly, staring at him intensely. 

“Because of all the reasons Sasha just put forth. I am not qualified for this position. I’m probably not even qualified for the Archival Assistant position. I don’t have anything resembling a degree in library sciences. I’m good at research, and that’s the department I worked in for years before Elias shuffled me around.” 

They were in the archives, the main room. The door to Sasha’s office was open, and Jon could see the new desk in place. The lamp had been replaced too, and the new one looked significantly better suited for the job of lighting up the room than the previous one had. 

“Right,” Sasha murmured, “Right.” Then her eyes sharpened onto where Jon’s gaze was, and she said, “Hey, Elias never told me why you burned down the desk and all the statements on it. It’s weird. He actually offered you a promotion for it.” 

“It was a Leitner.” 

Sasha blinked, “A Leitner?” 

“Don’t those belong in Artefact Storage?” Tim interjected. 

Jon sighed, and slowly let his arms fall down. Very natural, Sims. Doesn’t look defensive or weird at all. Just slow and natural. “I– I’d encountered it before, years ago. It, uh. It was kind of an impulsive decision. I don’t regret it, burning it was definitely the right choice, but. Yes, impulsive.” 

“You’re sure it was a Leitner?” 

“Quite.” 

“Right,” Sasha said after a moment, “Did you ever make a statement about it?” 

Jon resisted the urge to cross his arms back over his chest because that would definitely be weird, “No.” 

Sasha hesitated, “Do you want to?” 

Jon blinked. Did he want to? He’d been so young, then. For a long while he had just about managed to convince himself that he’d made up the entire thing as some sort of revenge fantasy on his bully. But, well, him joining the Magnus Institute really spoke for itself, didn’t it? Along with the fact that Leitners were a known phenomenon in the ‘supernatural’ circles, as it was. 

It had definitely happened, yes. And people would believe him if he tried to make a statement about it. Leitners were always taken seriously. 

But some part of him was still terrified. The part that had buried the book and the spider so deep down that sometimes he could pretend it never happened at all. That if he made a statement about it, that if people believed him about it, it would suddenly become far more real than it already was. 

He wasn’t ready for it. Not even now, after he had burned the goddamn book to hell. 

“I…” he cleared his throat, “no. No, I’m sorry, but no.” 

To her credit, Sasha didn’t push. “Alright, then. Well, I suppose this is it, for now? We’ll, hm.” She frowned, “We’ll be wary of Elias, but there’s nothing to actually do about it, at least not right now. So, best to just get to work, right? Gertrude spent fifty years trying to make this place as much of a mess as possible. I think it’ll take twice as long to actually set it to rights.” 

Tim let out an exaggerated groan at that, “Jeez, Sasha. I was trying to be optimistic and hoping it would only take another fifty years.” 

“Elias did assign me one more assistant. A Martin Blackwood, transferred from the library.” 

“Oh!” Tim lit up, “From the library! One more hand with something resembling, what had you said?” Tim flicked a finger towards Jon, “Library sciences? Could be helpful.” 

“I hope so,” Sasha said, “Goodness.” 

“Goodness indeed,” Jon said quietly, pushing up his glasses to pinch the top of his nose.

There had been a dog in the Archives. 

If Martin had to lead an animal in there, couldn’t he have done it with a— a cat, or something? 

Perhaps Jon should just be grateful it wasn’t a goddamn tarantula or something. God, he is stuck with a coworker who was a fan of spiders, of all things. Martin had gone on to talk about spiders and their importance to the ecosystem for almost the entirety of their break. 

Although the tea he’d made had been quite nice. Almost nice enough to make up for the dog and the spider talk. Sasha hadn’t seemed to mind the dog as much as it bothered Jon. Something about how the dog couldn’t make the archives any worse than they already were. 

She did have a point. 

It had certainly been a… day. Jon hesitated to call it ‘eventful’ when compared to his first venture into the Archives, though. 

Sitting in his room, changed into more comfortable clothes, he finally opened the picture Georgie had sent of the Admiral, who was loafing on a mousepad. Accompanying it was a message, “the admiral misses you! ;)”

Jon stared at the picture for a moment, feeling his heart constrict a bit with longing and nostalgia, before typing out his response, “I miss you, too.” 

He had barely had time to keep his phone away before it dinged with Georgie’s response. Jon froze. Usually, their conversations took place over a span of several days. They rarely ever replied to each other within the day. It was a sort of… unspoken agreement, perhaps. To maintain distance but to not lose contact either. So, for Georgie to reply so soon– Jon opened the message. 

“ are you okay????”

“ why are you asking.” 

Jon regretted it as soon as he hit the send button. Should he have put a question mark instead? The period felt too serious. He probably shouldn’t have used any punctuation at all. 

“ jon. you havent used proper grammar and punctuation in your texts since we first started going out together. unless something is srsly wrong. the last time was actually when you were trying to BREAK UP with me over TEXT”

Jon winced at the memory, but then he took in the meaning of the words. That’s it? That’s all it takes for her to figure out that something might be wrong? He blinked a few times and breathed slowly. Then typed out his response. It was apparently too slow, though, because then his phone screen lit up with Georgie’s number, ringing with a call. 

Georgie was probably one of the only three people in the world right now from whom Jon could tolerate a phone call with, so he didn’t hesitate before picking up, although he did spare a moment to heave a hefty sigh. 

“Hey, Jon, so, who’s dying?” she said, not wasting a moment past his initial ‘Hello’. 

“No one’s dying. ”

“You sure? Cuz that’s what it sounds like.” 

Jon sighed, kicking his legs up onto the bed and lying down, head resting on the pillow as he stared up at the ceiling. “You know my arachnophobia?” 

He didn’t like calling it a phobia. It sounded too serious. Too ridiculous. Too much. Too… too mundane. Something normal people had. Something people who had not had a supernatural encounter with a giant children’s book spider had. It made him feel like no one would take it seriously. It made him vulnerable. 

But Jon didn’t care, not right at that moment. Georgie had been there for the worst of it. Been there when he broke down sobbing at a spider bite. Had been there when he finally worked up enough courage to actually start killing spiders himself instead of calling for her. Had been there when spiders went from a bone crippling fear to a mind numbing frustration and anger. 

“Yeah, I thought… I thought it was better?” 

Jon laughed, “Yeah, yeah. Me too. But, I. I burned down my boss’s office desk.” 

“Because of a spider?” 

“Sort of.” 

“ Not because of a spider? Was it not a spider at all? Oh god, did you burn down their desk because you thought there was a spider? Shit, have you been fired? Do you have enough money for this month’s rent until you look for a new job? Can you get a new job? Your degrees are good, but I doubt they’ll write you a glowing recommendation after being fired. Will you—” 

“Hey, hey!” Jon cut her off, “It’s fine. I’m fine. I wasn’t fired.” 

“No?”

“No.” 

“Right. You’re coming over tomorrow evening after work. The Admiral needs you.” 

Jon blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. The speaker made a faint crackle as Georgie asked, “Jon?”

“I…” 

“It’s alright, Jon. You can come over. It’s been years.” 

“Exactly,” Jon said. It’s been years. Even this phone call was highly unusual. But going over to her flat? That felt like too much, too soon. They hadn’t ended badly. There had been a row, yes. But they’d reconciled after it, before deciding to break up. It wasn’t bad. Jon could even say it had probably done both of them a bit of good. But the years in between stretched out like a gaping maw, empty and endless and dark. Only some pictures of the Admiral, Hungarian food, some links about weird supernatural occurrences, and cat memes stood as bridge between the two. 

It felt flimsy, too flimsy to try and cross over on. 

“Jon?” Georgie repeated. Like she’d said his name a couple times already. “I’m not going to force you to come, Jon. I can’t do that. But the offer’s open. I’d like to have you here, truly.” 

“Alright,” Jon blurted out, before he could change his mind. “Alright. I’ll be there.” 

“Good.” 

“Good,” Jon parroted, and Georgie laughed. 

Work the next day was… uneventful. As uneventful as it can be at the Magnus Institute, at least. They didn’t really work on anything but sorting the statements by time. There seemed to be too much mix up. There had been a letter to Jonah Magnus dated the nineteenth century with other statements from the twenty first. 

Jon could see that the entire thing unsettled Sasha to no end. Not angered her, just unsettled. She said Gertrude hadn’t been senile enough for this. That Gertrude had actually been scarily sharp despite her age. That there must be a reason for the mess in the Archives. 

Jon didn’t really feel anything but relief, actually. The sheer disorganisation made his teeth itch, but at least he wasn’t in charge of the damn thing. If he’d thought he’d been unqualified for the job before, he was now sure of it. Assisting though, that he could do well enough. 

Tim was his usual jovial self, and Martin made them tea to the preferences they had expressed the day before. Jon even remembered to say thank you this time, especially without any dogs to contend for. Or speeches about spiders and the ecosystem. 

It was uneventful, and almost pleasant. Sasha got up as soon as the clock struck five, the others following.

Jon stared at some of the scattered files for a moment, looking questioningly at her, but she just shrugged and said, “It’s not like anyone other than us comes down anyway.” 

Jon made a face, “Wouldn’t it feel better to come here to a more organised room?”

“Jon,” Sasha laughed, shrugging on her coat, “I don’t think we would be coming back to an organised room if we worked fourteen hours a day for  years. ”

Which… fair enough, actually, even though it made his mouth twist with distaste. Jon carefully averted his gaze from the mess on the floor as he gathered up his own things to leave. 

Jon took the tube for Georgie’s house instead of his usual route, deciding to forgo going home. His clothes were fine, he was just carrying his work bag, which Georgie might tease him over but it would be fine. 

Besides, he’d get to see the Admiral. 

When Georgie opened the door to her house, she’d been expecting Jon. She’d been anticipating his arrival, feeling something she might have called anxiety if she were still capable of it, but currently only felt like she might be getting indigestion. 

It had been years since they last saw each other. 

Would he have changed? Or would he be the same? No, of course not. Everyone changes, whether they realise it or not. She knew that she changed, and from what she had heard from him, in the little texts they still exchange, he’d changed too. 

She just didn’t know how much, and in what way. She no longer knew how well they would fit together. 

She couldn’t panic, no. She didn’t have the ability to panic anymore, but the thought did cross her mind, that perhaps, just maybe, she shouldn’t have invited him to her house straight away. Should have chosen slightly more neutral grounds, like a coffee shop. 

God, she could have taken him to the new Hungarian food place that opened up a few streets over. At least they could have bickered about the food quality there. And she’d have an escape route if things went south. 

Not that she expected them to go south, but if they did. She trusted Jon, she really did. But they’d broken up for a reason. And it really had been too long. 

She took a deep breath and opened the door. And there he stood. 

His back was ramrod straight, and he had a small paper bag in one hand, the other holding a very academia looking book bag. He wore a white button down tucked into brown trousers, and a darker brown cardigan thrown on top. And while his tie was immaculately tied, his hair was ruffled, like he’d very haphazardly tied it up in a bun in a hurry, and without a comb or mirror. 

He gave her a tight smile, and the awkwardness of it made all the tension bleed out of Georgie. 

“Hey,” she said. 

“Hi.” 

They blinked at each other. 

“Are those for me?” she pointed at the brown bag, and he started, like he’d forgotten that he was holding it. She moved from the doorway, gesturing him inside. 

“Oh,” he said, slowly moving in even as he raised the bag in her direction, “Yeah, I bought some cream filled buns for you. The chocolate coffee ones that you like? Well, you used to like them. Not sure about now.” 

Georgie could feel warmth filling her up as he spoke. Yes, Jon had changed, but he was still Jon. Her Jon. The kind of awkward, kind of goofy, kind of nerdy but also a bit of a stuck up, emotionally repressed prick Jon. 

It will be fine. 

“Those are a staple, Jon, of course I love them.” 

“Of course you do,” he said, and she could visibly see the way he relaxed. He removed his shoes in the doorway, even though she’d long ago told him it wasn’t necessary. He knew he didn’t have to as well, but he still maintained his habit of doing it. He went inside, looking slightly lost. 

She walked closer to him, and tugged at a grey lock of hair that had escaped the bun, and he gave her an affronted look as she said, “You know stress makes this worse, right?” 

He yanked his head backwards, trying to make her let go. She did, and he near pouted at her. 

“I have a lot to be stressed about, Georgie.” 

Georgie raised a brow, snatching the bag of buns from him and collapsing on the couch bonelessly as she ripped open the bag to pull one out and proceed to stuff her face. They really were her favourites. Although none had ever tasted as good as those mini buns that a student in her theatre group used to make. She’d run a small business of the things, and had probably managed to make quite a bit of money off of it as well. 

A considerable amount of that money probably came from Georgie and Jon themselves. 

Jon hesitated for a single moment before settling down next to her. His gaze darted about the room, as if looking for something, and Georgie giggled through a mouthful of sweet bread and bitter chocolate. 

“Looking for the Admiral?” she asked, and Jon frowned at her full mouth. Georgie swallowed quickly so she wouldn’t choke on her laughter before saying, “He’ll come out. Give him some time.”

“Right,” he said, almost grumpily. He looked about for another second, before slowly keeping his office bag down and shrugging out of his cardigan. Georgie waved the bag of buns under his nose, and he took one, but didn’t bite down yet.

Georige kicked her feet up and onto his lap, propping her torso up on the armrest of the sofa as she picked out another bun to eat. “So, wanna tell me what happened?”

Jon stayed quiet for almost a full minute, his hand resting on her ankle. Then he asked her, quietly, “You know I work at the Magnus Institute.” 

She nodded. 

“Dedicated to research into the esoteric and the paranormal.” 

“Spooky stuff,” she said gravely. 

Jon threw her an irritated look, before his face smoothed out into a tired expression that made guilt tug at her, and she winced. He sighed, then said very tentatively, “Do you believe that it exists, Georgie?”

“What, the Institute?” she asked, words tumbling out of her mouth before she could remember that this was probably not the appropriate response in the situation. She quickly shook her head, raising a hand up to halt whatever scathing remark Jon might throw at her. “Sorry, no, I know what you meant. I… heh, do I believe the supernatural exists…” she said, words trailing off with a breathy not quite laugh. 

She sighed, running a hand through her hair once, tossing the buns bag on her coffee table. “To give a very short answer? Yes. I gotta say though, Jon. That’s a very interesting way to open up a conversation about what might be wrong.” 

Jon was blinking at her owlishly, like she hadn’t answered in a way he expected. She frowned at him, “What would you have done if I’d said I didn’t believe in it?” 

“Uh…”

“Nevermind, what happened?”

“Wait– why do you believe in it? From what I can glean from your podcast, I’d have thought you’d be on the more sceptical side of things.” 

Yeah, being unable to feel fear does that to you, sometimes. Just a side effect of lingering trauma, don’t worry about it. 

She didn’t say that, though, not yet. “Look, I believe that it exists. Somewhere. Doesn’t mean it exists in the stories I cover. At least, not most of them. Just because I run a horror podcast doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“Never said you were,” Jon muttered. 

She flapped her hand in his direction, “Do go on.” 

“Right.” He looked away from her, “Right.” 

He didn’t speak up immediately after, instead taking a bite out of his bun. She let him stall, let him gather his thoughts, compose himself. Meanwhile, Georgie could hear the door to her bedroom creaking open, and knew they’d have company soon. 

Jon didn’t notice until the Admiral had taken a flying leap off the floor and right into Jon’s hair.  

Jon let out a yelp and his hands shot up to his head, and Georgie could only snort as he quickly but very gently untangled the cat from what was probably a very painful, clawed grip. 

Jon held him up to his face and frowned at him sternly, “Admiral, how could you? I trusted you. And this is how you betray me?” 

The Admiral meowed very loudly in his face. 

Jon meowed back. 

Georgie kicked him in the thigh and said, “Jon, be nice to the baby.” 

Rolling his eyes, Jon just set the Admiral down on his lap and started scratching him in the exact way that he liked best, the spoiled cat purring so loudly that she could almost feel it reverberate up her legs to her spine. 

“I forgive you, of course. As I always will. You love me, don’t you? Of course you do. I love you too. I could never be angry at you, no matter how much my head hurts right now. But you’re the best cat ever, so that’s okay,” Jon continued chattering, and Georgie let her head drop a bit to the side as she stared at him. 

Why hadn’t they met up at all? They didn’t live all that far away. And things weren’t horrid between them. So why all the distance?

The Admiral gave an adorable yawn and then turned his head to snuff at Jon’s shirt, and Jon stared down at him with such a painfully fond smile that Georgie couldn’t breathe for a second. 

She cleared her throat, “So…”

“Right,” he said, stiffening slightly, before sighing. “Right. So, you know that my arachnophobia was a result of a bad experience when I was a child, yes?”

Georgie nodded. 

“So, um. And I’ve also told you about my grandmother, and the ways she’d use to try and keep me occupied somehow?” 

Drumming her fingers against her stomach, Georgie nodded again. 

“It. Uh, it started with one such book.”

Jon spoke, and Georgie listened, entranced, almost. Listening to him recite what had happened, voice wavering a few times yet containing the faintest smidge of distance that made it feel like he was recounting something that had happened to someone else and not himself. 

She felt horror curdle in her gut when she realised how young Jon had been, and how utterly without any kind of support except for a shitty old grandmother who probably couldn’t have cared less if Jon had been eaten by a giant fucking spider. 

And she believed him. 

Of course she believed him. 

Not because the recounting didn’t sound batshit and something off of someone’s bad acid trip–because it absolutely did– but rather because Jon was telling it to her at all. Because Jon would never reveal something like this to her if he didn’t have solid proof that it had happened. 

Jon hated being called a liar. He loathed it. It was one of those things about him. He’d never present anything to anyone without at least forty five pages worth of evidence proving why he was right or why what he’d said was true. 

“I still don’t remember his name, you know?” Jon said, throwing his head back and staring up at the ceiling. His hand had stilled in the Admiral’s fur, who was trying to make biscuits on Georgie’s legs, rucking his nails through the fabric of her trackpants. 

“Jon,” she began, but Jon just shook his head firmly. 

“I spent… For the first few years after it had happened, everyone around me always told me that it never happened, and that I was probably just a child with an overactive imagination— or worse, just an attention seeking liar.” 

Georgie’s eye twitched a little, but she held her tongue. Jon glanced at her, lips quirking for the briefest of seconds as his hand stroked a firm path down the Admiral’s back. He’d probably fall asleep soon, and then both Georgie and Jon would be stuck on the sofa until the cat decided bed time was over. 

“Well, those few years were followed by several years of my own forced scepticism, worn like a coat for so long and so firmly that it almost became a second skin. I almost began to believe those people, began to believe that perhaps it had never happened.” 

“What made you change your mind?”

Jon hummed, looking down at the Admiral as he yawned again, eyes slipping shut. “You know, I don’t think anything did. Change my mind, that is. My mind had been made up long ago. I always knew it was real. I just didn’t want it to be real.” 

“Really? I’d have thought everyone would have liked some giant human eating spiders to be real. Way to bash on their dreams, Jon. Live and let live,” she said, hoping to lighten the mood a bit but wondering whether she’d just piss him off. 

“Shut up,” he muttered, but he’d also given a short, snorting laugh when she said that, so she counted it as a victory. 

“I did end up joining the Magnus Institute, though. Trying to figure out what, exactly, had happened to me. The first few weeks were… unenlightening, but then…” 

“Then?”

“Then I came across the name Jurgen Leitner. Turns out he’s somewhat of an infamous person across the more esoteric and eccentric circles. And suddenly everything that had happened to me came back in sharp, stark, horrific clarity, and I knew it had been real.” 

“Jon,” Georgie said very seriously, “If the Admiral weren’t sleeping right now, I would have gotten up to hug you properly and very tightly.” 

Jon smiled at her, something relieved and very very tired in it, “I know. But don’t you dare wake the Admiral up.”

“Obviously. I’m not a heathen.”

The sceptical look Jon threw her told her exactly what he thought of that statement, and Georgie would have flicked his forehead if it weren’t for the cat. 

“So… what’s that got to do with the, you know,” Georgie waved her hand about a bit, “The arson?” 

Jon grimaced, “Right. Well, the book was there. In the Archives. On Sasha’s desk. I burnt it.” 

Georgie froze. “The book was there? Fuck, good riddance then!” 

“Yup,” Jon said. “That sentiment is shared not just by me, but apparently Elias as well.”

“Elias as in head of the institute Elias Bouchard?” 

“Yes.”

“As in he told you good job for burning down potential Institute property along with definite Institute property?” 

“He offered me a promotion.”

“He did what?”

“Yup.”

“Jon, that’s shady as fuck, you know that, right?” 

“It wasn’t even the first time he offered me that job, you know? Was weirdly insistent about it too. At first I’d been flattered, but not flattered enough to blindly say yes because I’m definitely underqualified for the job, but the second time got under my skin, somehow.” Jon's voice was the slightest bit flat as he spoke, and it made Georgie even more worried about what, exactly, had gone down between Bouchard and Jon when he'd been offered that promotion. 

She did not like the implications of that one bit. “That’s double shady.” 

Jon nodded. 

“Wait— wait, you didn’t take the promotion, did you? Please tell me you didn’t take it. What even is the position?”

“Of course I didn’t, I’m not that stupid, I have some self preservation. And the position’s for the head archivist.” 

“Wait, what? Head Archivist? What about the things that come before? What about junior archivist?  What about senior archivist? What about deputy archivist? Weren’t you, what, a researcher first?” She had no idea what an Archival position entailed, but she knew it sure as shit wasn’t this. Didn’t you need degrees for archiving? Wasn’t there a specific degree for archiving? There was one for library sciences, she knew that much. And none of those degrees had anything to do with the masters in history that Jon actually had. 

“I don’t think any of them are actual positions in the archives, Georgie. And yeah, I was a researcher. Now I’ve been… transferred to the archives as archival assistant.” 

That also did not make sense, but it made more sense than Head Archivist, at least. Except it was still bad because he’d been transferred to that very same department. And also– “Uh, is that a demotion?”

“Honestly couldn’t tell. And fucking hell, Georgie. The state of our room in Oxford is like Operating Room levels of clean in comparison to the goddamn Archives.” 

“Goodness. That’s a very serious allegation to make, Jon.”

“I think I’m actually downplaying it a little, Georgie.” 

Georgie put her hand to her chest in mock shock, “ Really?” 

“Truly.” 

They both stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. 

The Admiral sneezed, loud enough to startle them out of their slightly hysterical laughter as he purred loudly, sleepily, and then hopped off Jon’s lap and to the floor, darting under the sofa. He didn’t come out the other side, so Georgie assumed he’d just curled up right there. 

It was fine, Georgie had laid out a blanket there for a reason. 

“Did we wake him up?” Jon asked. 

“Probably.” 

Jon threw her a withering look, “Couldn’t you have lied?” 

“Always rather a harsh truth than a comforting lie, Jonathan. Always a harsh truth.” 

“You wound me.” 

“I’m sure I do.” 

Jon shook his head fondly, before picking Georgie’s legs up and off his lap. Georgie quickly scrambled into an upright position as Jon pulled his legs onto the sofa as well, turning towards her and leaning sideways at the backrest. 

Georgie only hesitated for a second before shifting towards him, and then wrapping her arms around him. He’d always been on the scrawny side, and then there was her–  big, fat and tall. She completely enveloped him in her arms and he— well, he melted, the tension leaking out of him like some kind of deflating balloon. 

“That’s fucked up,” she said softly. 

“I don’t know what to do, Georgie.” His voice was muffled in her shirt, and she tightened her arms around him a bit. 

“Do you think he’s being regular, corporate evil or do you think it’s more spooky evil?” she asked after a bit, and Jon pulled back to give her a flat look. Georgie just raised her brow, and Jon sighed. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know which one I would even prefer at this point.” 

She ran a hand through his hair, pulling off the hair tie and running her fingers between the tangled strands of hair. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, “After all, we have the Admiral on our side.” 

They stayed like that, for hours, falling asleep on the sofa to the sound of some bullshit telemarketing happening on the television. Her back didn’t thank her for it, but Jon did. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Looks Like Ya Rolled Snake-Eyes

By the time Sasha came back down to the Archives after her meeting with Elias, Jon had almost gnawed the skin off the inside of his cheeks, his stomach twisting itself into knots of dread.

If it hadn’t felt dreadfully unprofessional, he might have been tempted to start going through the latest batch of the Admiral pictures that Georgie had sent him late last night. And maybe he wouldn’t have cared so much about looking unprofessional if it weren’t for the infuriating sensation of being watched constantly. Of being watched and found wanting.

It was just Tim and Sasha and Martin here. They wouldn’t do anything if they caught him on his phone, let alone yell at him or fire him. He didn’t know why it felt that way, why it always felt like there was something just waiting for him to slip up, to stumble, for a crack, an opening to pounce on him and rip him to shreds.

But Sasha came back down, and she was—she was fine. Mostly. Kind of. Her expression didn’t look quite fine but at least she wasn’t… wasn’t what? Dead? Was it really something Jon had been expecting would happen?

You never know.

He brushed the thought away and hurried over to Sasha with the others. She had a scowl on her face and looked—as Georgie would say—ready to throw hands.

“God,” Sasha began, “I don’t remember Elias always being this ridiculous, smarmy bastard.”

“What did he do?” Jon asked anxiously.

“Um,” Martin said, taking a few steps away, “I’m gonna make you some tea.”

Sasha nodded, smiling at Martin as she sighed. She threw the file she’d been holding at the nearest—Tim’s—desk, and ran a hand through her hair.

“We’ve been working here for a week,” she said, “And he’s being unreasonable and infuriating.”

Tim directed her towards a chair, where she sait with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands.

“It’s like he’s trying to make me look as incompetent as possible, as if I couldn’t possibly be able to handle this job and that maybe I should give it to someone more equipped to handle it.”

Jon flinched a little at that, worried that her ire might turn into resentment towards him. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her about Elias’ attempts at making him the Head Archivist. What if she thought he was doing it on purpose? That he wanted to steal her job but had to make her feel inadequate before he did?

Did Elias have the power to forcefully make him the head? Is that something he could do?

Jon could just quit if it came to that. Probably. But he’d be jobless then. And…

No, Georgie would help if that happened. Maybe even Tim and Sasha. Martin, maybe. They’d realise that he didn’t want this—

“What did he say?” Tim asked, the scowl on his face mirroring the one on Sasha’s, “I swear to god… if he’s so concerned by the state of the archives, why didn’t he pull it together while Gertrude was the head? What was he doing then?”

“Exactly!” Sasha said, waving her hands around wildly, “He kept telling me what I should be doing, like. Alright, yes, he’s my boss, but he isn’t the one who has to sort through the mess in the archives, is he? It’s so easy for him to say, oh you need to start digitising, Sasha. You need to start recording, Sasha. There’s a lot of backlog, Sasha. You know the state of the Archives, Sasha, you know you’ll have to buckle up if you want to make any progress, Sasha. Ugh,” the sound of disgust that escaped her was so visceral that it made Martin blink in surprise from where he was holding four mugs of tea and carefully making his way over to where they were standing.

Once the mugs were passed around a bit and everyone, especially Sasha, had settled down somewhat, Jon tentatively asked, “Digitising and recording?”

Sasha blew on her tea, “Yeah. Apparently, that’s something an archivist is supposed to do.”

Tim let out a short, barking laugh, making everyone turn towards him, “It’s just… I don’t get it? Sasha might be the most qualified for this job, mainly because she actually worked with the previous archivist, but that’s kind of the… bare minimum, isn’t it? No one in the institute seems to have an archiving degree. The closest would probably be the folks at the library. Like Martin.”

Martin baulked a bit, “I’m not qualified for this either!”

“I know,” Tim said, almost soothingly. “As I said, none of us are. I don’t know what Elias thinks he’s doing, harping on you about this job when he’s the one who messed up with the previous archivist.”

“Did he?” Sasha murmured softly, “I don’t know, it just feels off. You’re right, you know? I only worked for Gertrude a few times. I was never actually an archival assistant. She didn’t have any assistants, or they’d have been far more qualified for the job than I.”

Tim looked stricken, “Shit, I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to say you aren’t qualified, it’s just—”

“I know, Tim,” Sasha said, smiling, and it looked genuine enough that Tim relaxed.  

“She never had any assistants at all?” Jon asked tentatively. Now that he thought about it, he felt a bit stupid. Of course she didn’t, they’d be here if she had, wouldn’t they? If not as the head, then at least still working here. Why didn’t she have any assistants, though? She was old. Probably needed far more help than Sasha did.

“Well,” Martin began haltingly, “I mean, I’m fairly certain she used to. I’d sometimes see some people coming upstairs to check out books for the Archives. I’m not… fully certain whether they actually worked in the archives though, and I didn’t really see the guy more than a couple times. And uh, there used to be some rumours about the archives, sometimes. About the assistants.”

Jon gripped his mug a bit tighter, “Do you remember the follow up attached to that one statement… It mentioned someone named Sarah Carpenter. She was mentioned as an Institute representative, but she could have worked in the archives.” 

Sasha hummed, brows creased in a thoughtful frown, “I’m sure I can pull up some previous records to see who has worked here before. Gertrude couldn’t have been alone the entire time, I’m sure of it.” 

“I could probably hit up Rosie for some more information. She’s worked here for a very long time.” 

“Well,” Sasha settled, “Guess that’s what we’re going to be doing instead of whatever bullshit Elias wants me to be doing.” 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Jon asked, “He is our boss, after all.” 

“Who’s telling him? Certainly not me,” Tim said. 

“I mean, I won’t either, ” Jon said hastily, “It’s just—” 

“Relax, Jon,” Sasha said, “It’ll be fine. We’ll continue with the archiving work as well.” She said the word archiving with very obvious disdain in her voice, before her shoulders slumped a bit. “God, this is more stressful than I’d realised. And I don’t have a good feeling about this.” 

Jon didn’t either. 

That day, while going to work, Jon paused at an alleyway near the institute. 

He’d heard a very soft meow over the noises of people commuting. 

Immediately freezing, he made his way over, eyes roving over the dumpster at the corner, as well as a pile of shredded newspapers being pawed through by a small, scruffy, black cat. It was making plaintive, mewling noises and Jon felt warmth bloom through him. 

Well, it’s not like he was getting late; he could afford a few minutes. 

He slowly took a few steps closer to the poor thing and kept his bag on the ground before crouching, making himself as small as possible. He then put out a hand., making a small noise that always got the Admiral’s attention, and saw the cat’s ears twitch. 

It was so small. Just a baby. Little kitten. Probably not even old enough to be away from its mother yet. Jon clicked his tongue again, “Hey, little guy. Shh, it’s alright, come here.” 

The kitten sneezed. 

Jon felt a small giggle burst through his lips before quickly stifling it. He snapped his fingers lightly, trying to draw its attention. It finally looked at him, and tried its best to snarl with its tiny mouth.

“It’s alright, baby,” he said, leaning forward a bit, “Come here, come on. I won’t hurt you.” 

The cat sneezed again and started backing away, making Jon sigh. “Alright,” he whispered, raising his hands in surrender, not wanting to scare it further. “It’s alright. Don’t worry, I’ll leave. I’m leaving now.” 

Moving as slowly as possible, he picked up his bag and stood up, maintaining eye contact with the kitten the entire time. He took a step back, and the cat stopped moving. He took another step back, and he could visibly see its hackles lower. 

It sneezed again, and he couldn’t stop the smile from crawling over his face. He’d come back again tomorrow, but this time with some food. Hopefully the cat would still be here by then. 

Cats were hardy things, and despite the danger it might be in out on the streets like this, Jon chose to believe it would be alright by tomorrow. Maybe if he managed to build enough trust in it, it’d even allow itself to be picked up, and Jon could take it to the vet. 

It was unlikely it would have a chip, but he still wanted to make sure. 

He sighed, and turned away, starting to walk towards the institute again, when he heard footsteps behind him. He tried to ignore them, even as discomfort shot through him. It was probably just another person making their way through the morning. 

But they sounded so close, like any moment they would bump into Jon. 

Jon frowned, turning a little to tell them off for invading his personal space– and went still. 

There was no one there. 

Heart pounding, he turned back around to start walking, but the sound of footsteps picked up as soon as he took his first step. Loud, clicking heels on concrete steps. He whipped back to look, like he’d be able to see someone duck behind a wall cartoon style as soon as he turned. 

Almost expectedly, there was no one there. 

He gripped his bag tighter– could he use it as a weapon? It was heavy enough, he supposed, to land a mean blow if he swung it with enough force. But that would require him to be able to see his pursuer. Which he couldn’t. 

He walked backwards a few steps, and for a few seconds everything was alright except for the fact that he was walking backwards like a lunatic. But after about five steps, the sound of footsteps started again, this time also coming from behind him. 

Jon stopped and turned back, but once again, nothing. No one. Except for an old lady standing at the bus stop, squinting at the bus routes and timings chart. 

Jon swallowed. He just had to get to the institute. That’s all. The footsteps would stop as soon as he got to the institute. He didn’t know why he thought that, except he did. It’ll be fine. He had to believe the footsteps would stop at the institute or he wouldn’t be able to make it anywhere. 

He wished he had his earphones or something, so he could connect it to some loud, obnoxious music as he covered the last of the distance to the institute.

He walked, and didn’t dare quicken his pace, because the thing following him always walked the tiniest bit faster than he did, and it was fraying on his nerves. If he walked any faster– prompting the thing to walk faster, he’d have a breakdown. 

All in all, it probably took less than five minutes until he was climbing up the stairs of the institute’s doors, but by then Jon was near ready to throw his bag behind him at whatever it was that he couldn’t see, and making a run for it. 

As soon as he crossed the threshold of the institute, the footsteps stopped. 

He walked a few more experimental steps inside, ears piqued towards the very distinct sound of sharp heels on the now marble floor, and nearly collapsed on the ground when he couldn’t hear anything. 

He rushed down the stairs in such a hurry he almost tripped, ignoring Rosie’s concerned call out of “Jon?” 

Tim and Martin looked up from his desk when Jon came in, both their faces immediately morphing into concern as they saw whatever was on his face. 

“Jon? Are you alright?” 

“I… uh,” Jon began, blinking at Tim. 

“Jon?” Martin asked, standing up. 

Jon shook his head, walking towards his desk and setting his bag down slowly. Nearly instinctively, he looked towards the stairs down to the archives, like he’d now be able to see whatever it was that had been following him catching up to him. 

Even if it had caught up to him, it’s not like Jon would be able to see it, was it?

He shuddered, blinking a few times, and flinched violently when he felt Tim’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Jon, did something happen?” 

“I don’t…” he began. What could he say? That a pair of phantom footsteps had followed him to the institute? That sounded crazy. He sounded crazy. He didn’t have any proof. Maybe nothing had happened and he had just been hallucinating. He was certainly stressed enough for it. “Um, it’s nothing.” 

“It’s clearly not nothing. You look freaked out. And you’re never late.” 

Was he? Late, that is? Jon blinked, looking down at his watch to see that he was, indeed, almost fifteen minutes late. He felt a dull panic begin to beat a staccato rhythm in his chest, his eyes snapping over to Sasha’s office, the door standing a crack open. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—” 

“Relax Jon, it’s fine. We’re just worried,” Tim said. He hadn’t yet removed his hand from his shoulder. 

“I think you should sit down,” Martin added, pulling out a chair. 

Jon sat down heavily, and then, almost on cue, Sasha’s office door swung open, revealing her, “Hey, has Jon come in yet— Jon?” 

“Hi,” he said weakly as she hurried over to them, her laptop clutched in one hand. 

“What happened?” she asked. 

“Jon was just telling us,” Tim said. 

Jon could feel a flush creeping over his cheeks, and resisted the urge to press his cold hands to them. Goodness, this was embarrassing. He was creating a fuss over nothing, and wasting everyone’s time. And it probably had been nothing. Phantom footsteps? Really? He’d have eviscerated a statement talking about goddamn ghost footsteps following people if he ever had the displeasure of researching one. How would one even go about researching it anyway?

“Sorry,” he began, letting some of his embarrassment creep into his voice, “Um. I, uh. I thought I was being followed. Turned out to be nothing, though. Nothing to be worried about, obviously. It’s fine now.” 

Rather than dropping it, like he’d hoped, Sasha’s frown only got deeper. A quick glance around told him that so did Tim and Martin’s. 

“Following you? Jon, that doesn’t sound good. Did you see who it was?” 

No. That’s the whole problem. He could deal with a human following him, he could deal with someone he could see. He couldn’t deal with something that didn’t exist. 

“No, it’s fine,” he said quickly, “I saw no one because there was no one. It’s fine, Sasha, don’t worry about it. I’m sorry for being late, it won’t happen again.” 

Sasha waved a hand dismissively, “Forget about being late, I frankly don’t care if you come in hours late on some days. You’re scarily punctual as it is. I’m more worried about the stalker thing.” 

“There is no stalker, Sasha. It’s fine!” Jon insisted. 

“Right,” she said, scepticism lacing her voice. “Right.”

“Jon,” Martin said, “Just– be careful, alright? We already think there’s something shady going on with the archives, we need to know if you, or any of us, might be getting stalked or something.”

Jon nodded, heart constricting a little. What if that thing had followed him here? What if it was here, inside the archives, right now? Listening to Jon cover up for it with flimsy excuses and delusions? What if he was putting everyone here in danger by not warning them properly?

Would they even believe him if he did tell them what had happened?

Jon shook his head, like it could clear the panicky haze that kept trying to descend upon him. 

Nothing, it was nothing. He just cleared his throat and said, “Of course, Martin. But really, it was nothing.” 

“Okay,” Tim said, giving Jon’s shoulder a squeeze and sending Jon’s heart racing the tiniest bit again, “Okay, Jon. It’s fine.” 

Jon nodded. It was fine . 

Sasha also nodded, more decisively than Jon had, and set her laptop down on Jon’s desk, opening it up, her fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard as she started speaking. “Okay, alright then. I checked into the institute records, and yes, Gertrude actually did have several assistants.” 

Thankfully, everyone’s attention was very quickly consumed by the information Sasha had managed to dig up. Jon too, shifted closer to where she was pulling the records up.

“So, I was able to find records of Fiona Law, Eric Delano, Emma Harvey, Sarah Carpenter, and Michael Shelley. According to these records, and a bit of records into families, death certificates, and uh, police records, I was able to find out that Emma Harvey and Sarah Carpenter died during their tenure as archival assistants. That's... worrying, but understandable enough.”

“Is there even more worrying information than some archival assistant dying on their tenure?” Tim asked, eyes wide with appropriate horror. Jon was inclined to agree. 

Sasha waved about a hand vaguely, “People die, it’s normal. Things get slightly weirder as we move on though. Eric Delano though. He resigned from his post, but then he was declared dead. It was deemed as a murder. Case still unsolved. Body was never found.” 

“But that happened after he quit, right? Does it have any relation to the archives?” Martin asked. 

Sasha shrugged, “It could. We cannot afford to miss out on anything.”

“Right,” Tim nodded seriously, “and we can ignore the two people who died while on job?

“I mean, only one of them actually died on the job?” Sasha said, but there was an uncertain frown on her face now, “Emma Harvey was caught in a house fire. Um... same as Sarah Carpenter, actually. I…” she blinked, as dread pooled in Jon’s guts. “Saying it out loud does make it sound weird, doesn't it? Except while the house fire Sarah died in happened while she had been investigating a statement, Emma died of smoke inhalation in her own home. No real correlation between the two. Still, it is a bit weird they both died in fires…” 

“Right.” Tim was looking at Sasha’s screen, a bit uncomprehendingly. “Setting aside that worrying bit of information... What about the other two?”

Sasha shook her head, like clearing cobwebs, “That's where things get really interesting. According to the database, they're neither dead nor have they quit.”

“What?” Jon said. 

Sasha’s mouth twisted unhappily, “Yes. They're still listed as employees of the Magnus Institute, but they've not been getting any pay at all and the last time they clocked into work was years before Gertrude... uh, left her post.”

“You can say dead. She is probably dead,” Tim pointed out. 

“Yes, forgive me if I don't want to think about my predecessor dying and there being some spooky shit going on involving that death.”

Tim winced. “Right, yes, sorry. Wasn't thinking.”

Sasha sighed and covered her face with her hands, "No. It's fine. Technically, you're right. She did die. Especially given all the blood that was found on the table. Her body may not have been found yet, but she's definitely dead.”

“Good Lord,” Jon whispered. He could feel a headache coming on, and there was something heavy lodged in his gut, something uncomfortable and awful. 

“Yeah,” Sasha said wryly. “The thing about Fiona Law is that, well. She’d worked for the previous head archivist as well, for several years, actually. And Gertrude was head for about fifty odd years. Which means– It means Fiona would be like, over hundred right now. And she isn’t marked dead or retired.” 

“Could it just be that the database hasn’t been updated…” Martin asked, looking hopeful but also like he didn’t really expect a good answer. 

“That would be the most logical explanation, wouldn’t it? I wish– I hope that’s true. But something tells me things aren’t that easy or straight forward.” 

“God, Sasha. When we started looking into stuff like this, I was actually expecting some bullshit about Gertrude being some kind of cranky bitch and everyone leaving her alone because of that. Not… not this,” Tim said, pulling out a chair and collapsing on it. 

“Neither did I,” Sasha said, an unhappy expression on her face as she stared at her laptop. 

Jon, unfortunately, had been expecting something like that ever since he found the Lietner sitting there, almost innocuous, on Sasha’s desk. Things were never easy or straightforward when things like Leitners were involved. Elias’ behaviour only solidified those suspicions. 

And now this. 

Not to mention those goddamn footsteps. Jon almost hoped it was some kind of undiagnosed mental illness, or sleep deprivation, or too much caffeine, or something with a totally mundane explanation. Except he probably had some of the worst luck known to humankind. At least that’s what Georgie always said. 

He didn’t say anything about the footsteps again though. Not until he was absolutely, completely, fully certain about it. He couldn’t afford to not be certain about it. 

He couldn’t afford to put his coworkers in danger by not telling them about it either— but what if it really was nothing? That would just make them worry more about him and his hallucinations. Goodness, what a fucking mess. 

“We could probably do a bit more research?” Jon said quietly. “I mean, that’s what we do, right? Research. Look into things. Verify them. Investigate, really. And since this pertains to us, to this job, and quite possibly our safety, we really should be looking further into this.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Sasha said. “The fact that literally none of these assistants are here anymore is shady as fuck. Fifty years worth of assistants, and Gertrude had no one left by the time she died? God, this is so fishy, why didn’t I realise this before?” 

“I mean, you had just gotten promoted,” Tim said. 

Sasha snorted, “ Some promotion. I wasn’t even Elias’ first choice. No offence, Jon. I know it isn’t your fault.”

Jon just nodded, and then Martin spoke, slowly, brows furrowing, “Um, do you think Elias would be angry about us looking into Gertrude’s assistants? We should probably be cautious about how much time we spend on it. I don’t trust him.” 

“Me either. He’d seemed… fine, before. I don’t know, it feels like this came from nowhere. But it couldn’t have, could it? It couldn’t have come from nowhere. He must always have been like this.” 

“Yeah, he has,” Martin said, scratching his nose self-consciously when all three of them turned to him with sharp gazes, “Look, I was grateful for him giving me a job here, alright? But it always felt like he was… I don’t know. Like he knew something I didn’t, and that something had the power to hurt me really, really badly. He always gave me the creeps.” 

Tim frowned, “He… I never personally felt that way, but he does have that kind of feel to him, doesn’t he? Like he knows more than he lets on.” 

Jon thought about how Elias had looked when they’d talked about the Lietner. The knowing look in his eyes, like he could see right through Jon and into his childhood and perhaps even through that flimsy wooden door through which several pairs of long, thin, hair limbs had reached out and taken a meal that was meant to have been him—

“Also, Rosie really doesn’t like him either,” Martin said quickly, like he was trying to cover something up, “I– uh, obviously, don’t uh, tell her I told you this. She has a really good professional mask that she maintains. But she really doesn’t like Elias either. Ever since her interview, actually.” 

“Wait, really?” Sasha asked, her eyes wide. 

Martin nodded. 

“Damn,” Tim whistled, “Hot damn. Gotta respect that mask of hers, then.”

“I mean, women learn to do that, you know?” Sasha said, lips pursed a bit, “When working under male bosses. I’d know.” 

“Gosh, that sucks, I’m sorry, Sasha,” Tim said, swivelling around to face Sasha properly, who just waved her hand a bit. 

“I really thought this promotion was a good thing. And I’m still trying to maintain that. At the very least, the pay increase is good. And also if I do quit, I’d have some really good credentials.” 

Jon fidgeted with his hands a bit. Every day in the Archives made him feel more and more glad that he hadn’t taken up the position offered. Not just because the position itself seemed shady, but because he might have ended up losing what little friendships he had managed to cultivate at the Institute. 

When Sasha clapped her hands together, the sound echoed through the room, making Jon startle a little. She herself looked a little startled at how loud the sound had been, before quickly recovering, “Alright, well. More research, but like, we gotta go stealth, shove the secret archives research in between the not so secret archives research.”

“Always nice to have a pet project,” Tim grinned, although it looked a bit strained. He kept glancing back at the laptop screen, like it would suddenly change itself to say April Fools! The entire debacle about the missing or dead archival assistants was just a joke!

It wasn’t even April. 

Jon was, quite possibly, losing his mind. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Slow Acting Poison

When Jon woke up, it was to hair in his mouth. 

Hair in his mouth, long and deep enough that he immediately started retching and coughing, eyes watering as bile rose in his throat. He rolled off the bed, dragging the blankets down with himself as he got to the floor on this hands and knees, trying to pull out the fucking strands of hair lodged inside his mouth. 

When he gagged for the upteenth time, trying to shove his fingers down far enough to get a firm grasp on the saliva slick hair, he had to drag himself to the bathroom to keep from sicking up all over his bedroom floor. 

Jon had to spend a good five minutes there, heaving over the toilet as he finally managed to pull out most of the strands of hair. And there were at least half a dozen of them, some of them having tangled up in a disgusting wad that looked far too much like the limp body of a house spider. 

He couldn’t look at it for more than half a second before he was flushing it down, spitting out a few more times for good measure. 

The hairs had all been light coloured, probably some of the grayer strands from his head, but that didn’t take away the bizarre spider imagery his mind conjured up. He took several deep breaths and slowly walked over to the sink, gargling a few times before getting to brushing his teeth and getting ready. 

The feel of his own hair sticking to his face made him shudder, it was scattered all over, tangled and ruffled from the overnight sleep. Georgie had told him to maybe braid it up or use a silk scarf as he slept if he didn’t want it to get hopelessly tangled every day, but Jon could never really bother.

Not before, at least. 

Waking up like this had been quite jarring. He should probably invest in a silk scarf, maybe, if not just cut it all off. 

He tugged at a curl framing his face, frowning at it. He really didn’t want to cut it off. But if he woke up one more morning eating it, then he would seriously consider that. 

He glared at himself in the mirror as he forcefully dragged his hair back using his fingers, tying it up in a tight, awful looking bun so he could shower without getting it wet. The only thing it accomplished was pull painfully at his scalp, and throw his face into stark clarity against the harsh light of the bathroom. 

He looked awful. The dark circles under his eyes looked as prominent as they had during exam season in university, and that was saying something. He looked a little bloodless, actually, and his eyes were slightly red rimmed from how hard he’d been coughing earlier. 

He sighed, and turned away from the mirror. He needed to get ready. He’d been late the day before, he couldn’t afford to be late today. 

Jon left the house early, earlier than he would have to to be able to reach on time. He took the same route to the office that he had taken the day before, even though something small and scared inside of him rebelled at the idea. It was almost like he was tempting fate, asking to hear those footsteps again, asking to be followed. 

The footsteps hadn’t come back when he’d left the institute the day before. There was nothing. It had been fine. It had been fine all the way to the tube, in the tube, and from the station to his house. No inexplicable sounds at all. 

So, really. He was feeling quite justified in taking the same route today, especially given the cat he’d seen there. The little baby didn’t deserve to be neglected just because Jon couldn’t trust his own damn hearing. He’d brought a small bag of cat treats on the way home last night, and was feeling quite good about it. 

Even if the cat was no longer there around the same alley, he could take the pack to Georgie. These were the Admiral’s favourites, after all.

He didn’t spot it at first, not immediately. He had to move further into the alley, just to make sure, when–

Aha!

There it was, small and black and nearly smothered in the shadows of the alleyway. It peeked out from behind the dumpster and stared at him warily. 

Jon quickly crouched down, a few of the treats already in his hand. He gently threw across a couple of them over to her, making sure to keep his moves as slow and gentle as possible. The little thing still jumped back a little at the throw, but the treats landed a safe distance away from it, with nary a sound. 

It was small, yes, but Jon was fairly certain it was also old enough to be able to eat these treats. 

Jon made gentle, clicking sounds with his tongue, trying to coax the cat forward. 

And it did. It sniffed, then took one step closer, and then sniffed at the treat again. Its ears twitched and Jon could feel his heart swelling within his chest. Then it ate the treat in one go, its mouth moving soundlessly and laboriously around the little morsel of food. It didn’t waste any time in eating the second piece, a little further away from the first, a little closer to Jon. 

Jon held absolutely still as it came even closer, his hand held out with three more pieces on it. It looked extremely wary as it took another step closer to him. Its tail swished behind it. Then it buried its face within his hand, and subsequently, the treats, quickly gobbling them down. 

Jon wanted to coo out loud at the sheer adorability of the cat, and it looked so soft, despite the grime and probably fleas that covered its fur. He really, really wished he could take it with himself, but refrained. At least for now. As the treats vanished from his hand, the cat rubbed its cheek against his palm, soft and insistent. 

Using his free hand, he dug around a bit for a few more of the treats, and scattered them a few ways away from himself, which quickly snagged the cat’s attention away from Jon and towards the tasty new morsels. It didn’t waste any time in hopping over to it, getting to work. 

Jon got up, even as he mourned the loss of the cat. He couldn’t afford to have it follow him to work. 

Sighing, he left, steps hurried yet reluctant. 

No sound of footsteps followed him this time either. 

“Okay, so, does anyone remember statement number 0132806?” Tim asked without preamble during breaktime, while Martin made tea and Sasha heated up some cup noodles in the shitty breakroom microwave. Jon was sure one of these days the blasted thing would end up electrocuting someone halfway to death. 

“Uh,” Martin said, while Sasha just stared blankly at Tim.  

“Is it the one with the Lietner? The—um, I think it was… Ex… Ex Altiora ?” Jon said, and Tim whirled to him, snapping his fingers towards him, “That’s the one!”

“What about it?” Sasha asked, leaning towards Tim with an almost hungry look in her eyes. Jon could feel it reflected in his own. 

A statement about a Lietner, for one, was almost always a true statement. And break times were reserved for the undercover archival talk—that is—talk about what the hell had gone on with Gertrude and her assistants. So, if this topic included both a Lietner and the archives, maybe he’d also be able to find answers about how A Guest for Mr. Spider had gotten there. 

“So, Gerard Keay and Mary Keay, right?” Tim said, dragging it out with a delighted spark in his eyes, the one Jon remembered very well from Research. One where Tim had found a particularly juicy bit of information. 

“Yes?” Sasha said, impatience clear in her voice. 

“Well, I was supposed to do the follow up for it, and I told you about the whole murder case? Spooky dead lady’s ghost, and her also very spooky son who turned out to actually be helpful to our statement giver.” 

“Tim.” Jon couldn’t control the exasperation in his voice. 

“Right, right. Eric Delano--” Tim started.  

“Eric Delano?” Sasha said, the whiplash clear in her voice. 

“Yup, yup. Eric Delano was, apparently, married to Mary Keay. She was one of the prime suspects for his murder. Nothing ever came of it, though. I was, in a stroke of very good luck, also able to find some medical records pertaining to Eric. Apparently he’d been admitted in a hospital right after he quit, for about a couple weeks. Severe eye trauma. He’d been declared fully blind. Had been doing therapy when he went missing.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, the smile slipping off his face a bit now that he’d relayed his piece of information. “Looks like murder runs in the family, huh?”  

“Technically, I mean, they were never actually convicted for it?” Martin said, a frown etched on his face even as he passed on everyone’s tea mugs to them. “Still, it’s all very… suspicious.” 

“That’s one word for it,” Jon muttered. 

“I can give you, like, five more words,” Tim said, “Like shady. Spooky. Weird. Peculiar. Strange. Bamboozling.” 

Unable to help it, Jon snorted, while Sasha let out a short bark of laughter. It wasn’t even that funny, really. And yet. 

Only person to quit—blinded and then murdered. God, that sounded horrible. The other two died in fires, one on a work trip and one in her own home while asleep. Two missing. 

Jon had looked more into Michael Shelley. There hadn’t been much at all. He’d followed up a bit with the CV Jon had found on the database, and the information had checked out. His college credentials and the one place he’d worked at before joining the Magnus Institute. 

There had been a missing persons report filed by a cousin of his, about three months after the last salary payment was sent out. Jon could not find any single bit of information about any kind of follow up. Couldn’t even tell if the case had been closed or was still, as improbable as it felt, running. 

This all screamed ‘shady’ so loudly that it almost felt overboard. The Archives couldn’t have been more suspicious if they tried. 

God, why had none of them tried to look into this stuff before they got transferred here? Well, Jon never really had much of a choice in his own transfer, but he’s sure the others could have refused it if they wanted. Maybe except Sasha. But Elias had never really wanted her in that position anyway. 

When he’d relayed this information to Sasha, she’d looked unhappy, but not quite surprised in a horrified way. More like she’d been expecting some kind of grim findings anyway. 

Jon, on the other hand, stubbornly tried to cling to the hope that all the gruesome deaths and disappearances of the previous archival staff were really horrid coincidences and not some weird archival curse. 

It was starting to look more and more like a curse, though. At this point it only felt like Emma Harvey had the most… mundane… story, for lack of a better word. Still awful, but at least house fires were something that could be explained away without supernatural interference required. No connection to the Institute at all. She hadn’t even lived close to the institute. Whereas Sarah Carpenter on the other hand, had actually died on a work trip. 

Gertrude’s body was still missing, and none of them could find any records of any kind of investigation. Either on going or closed. 

Jon was beginning to feel less and less like he’d dodged a bullet when declining the archivist position, and more like he’d chosen a slow acting poison instead. 

When leaving that evening, Jon didn’t try to leave with the others, the way he had the day before, to try and make up for his absolute terror at being followed by phantom footsteps again. 

Looked like the footsteps had just been a one off event, though. Which… that was a little embarrassing, actually. Which was ridiculous. He’d already told himself that he’d rather they be a hallucination than some— some fucking ghost stalking him. 

It did feel slightly anticlimactic, though. They’d… he could admit to himself, in the privacy of his own mind, that they’d freaked him out quite badly when it had happened. But the incident hadn't repeated itself. Not the entire day before, nor today. Simple, unaccompanied walking. 

He didn’t appreciate the slow build up of anxiety and dread that accompanied him every time he separated from the others, but he could hide that well enough. And he doubted it would repeat now. It probably really had just been stress. 

Now that they’d had a couple more leads into Gertrude and her assistants– along with more than a few questions– he was feeling… slightly more settled. There was a purpose to him, now. A direction he could work in. He had joined the institute as a researcher, and he knew he was good at it. And he liked it; he liked doing research, finding proof, either to prove or disprove something. 

And finally he had new leads and new mysteries, mysteries regarding something personal. Something that affected not just him but some of the only friends he had as well. 

And he could, perhaps, even count Martin in that. 

Needless to say, most of his dread had ebbed away from him by the time he stepped into the tube home. There was the usual rush of the work day ending, and he couldn’t find a seat in that. But he didn’t mind– this was regular. Honestly, he’d have been more surprised if he had found a seat. 

He just stood near one of the hand rails, gripping it so he wouldn’t go tumbling into the next person as soon as the train stopped, and waited. 

His commute home wasn’t that long, and he was truly, really grateful for it. The train ride only took about twenty minutes, and then there was an additional ten minutes of walking to and from both his house to the tube, and from the tube to the institute. 

It was a lot more convenient than some others had it. 

The first ten minutes he didn’t look up to see what stop it was, he didn’t really have to. He’d been counting the stations the train had stopped at, and his won’t be for another three stops. Yet, when he tuned in to actually pay attention to the cool, automated voice announcing what station it was, it sent a jolt of unpleasant surprise through him. 

It wasn’t any station he knew. It wasn’t any station that came between the two stations he got on and off at. He quickly pushed past a couple grumbling people to look up at the station chart, staring at the blinking light indicating what station they were at. 

This was in the complete opposite direction to where he was supposed to go in. 

What the hell.

He had taken the same train he always took. The exact same train. How the hell did he manage to get on the wrong one? He’d never made such a mistake since his first few months after moving to London. He didn’t make mistakes like this. He’d been commuting the same route for years now. 

Had they made some changes around the station? But there had been no announcements about it, no signs pointing in the right or wrong direction. Nothing at all. And it had been the same the day before as well. 

He tamped down on the panic threatening to burst through him, wincing when the doors of the train slammed shut. He’d have to get off at the next stop and change back to the correct metro. It’d be fine. 

He was just a little high strung from the footsteps, probably hadn’t paid attention to where he was going. It was fine. Not the end of the world. He’d just get off at the next stop, change to the right train, get off at his own stop, and then walk home. 

Everything was fine. He should probably try to get some more rest instead of staying up past one in the morning trying to look more into Pinhole Books and the case on Mary Keay’s murder, like he’d been planning to do. He couldn’t afford to be this distracted. 

The next station came, Jon got out, and everything was fine.  

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Edge of the Precipice  

Jon hadn’t slept well. 

For some reason, he’d woken up during the night at about half past two. Well, he knew the reason, of course. Strange, thumping noises from the flat beside his. Like someone was moving around furniture, but instead of pushing it across the floor, they would lift it up, walk two steps, and then set it down again. 

Over and over and over again, for the next thirty minutes or so. 

Jon had been grinding his teeth so hard he’d genuinely been a bit concerned for their condition. By the time the sounds stopped, his head had started hurting quite badly. A steady pounding against his skull that almost seemed to echo the thudding noises. 

It had taken him two paracetamols and about one full hour of lying awake in bed and staring up at the popcorned ceiling to actually fall back asleep. He’d gone to bed around one in the morning, managed to sleep for an hour, before being awoken for nearly two hours. 

He had to wake up at seven. 

He didn’t know how much actual rest he got. Even after the way he’d told himself that he would rest more. He couldn’t afford to have a repeat of the train incident. That was just plain embarrassing. 

He left his house, bleary eyed, limbs shaking just the tiniest bit. He’d forgone breakfast, feeling a bit too queasy. He’d get something during lunch. A sandwich, perhaps. Hopefully his stomach would be more settled by then. 

The key to his house slipped from his hands twice before he finally managed to lock the door, scowling at it heavily, like he could scare it into behaving properly. He turned to walk down the hall, before pausing for a second. It was about a quarter to eight, not terribly early. 

Because unlike some people, Jon was considerate. 

No, eight wasn’t too early. And he’d be polite. Just a polite word about not moving furniture at two in the morning when you live in an apartment complex with thin fucking walls. 

But when he reached the door, he found it heavily padlocked. Boarded up. Like it hadn’t been occupied in months. He stared at the door, at the padlock, at the padlock starting to rust. 

For a moment, he felt the nearly irrepressible urge to break the damn thing off and go inside anyway. Maybe he’d find the asshole in there, waiting to confront him. 

It looked old. Old enough that he should be able to pick it easily. And if not, maybe a pair of bolt cutters would do the trick. The landlord should probably check into it. The building wasn’t very well protected anyway, anyone could break in. 

Like him. He could break in, see what the noises had been about. Could it be that some kind of animal had found its way in? Probably. 

Jon shook his head, taking a step away from the door. If it was an animal, he really, really didn’t think he was equipped to deal with it. What was he even thinking? Breaking and entering?

He might trespass every now and then when it came to research, but that was just due diligence. He wouldn’t do it unnecessarily. Honestly, what was he actually expecting to find inside anyway? He’d try to inform the landlord about the noises he’d heard during the night, and that would be enough.  

Jon did not end up getting a sandwich for lunch. He didn’t get anything at all, really. Today was a day dedicated to sorting out statements, and not their ‘personal’ research into Gertrude and her assistants. He’d typed up about twenty of them onto his laptop to put in the Institute Archive Database. Most of them were such straight bullshit that Jon wanted to tear apart the files completely. 

But he didn’t. He had some self control, regardless of evidence to the contrary. He had already done enough property damage as it is, he didn’t want to do more. Especially when he knew he was already on Elias’ radar. There were some statements that probably needed more follow up before he could discredit them properly. Or credit them, who knew? 

Sasha had said they could leave off the follow up for the statements that were recording digitally for a bit longer. That they should focus on the statements that weren’t recording, because they then only had one copy of them. 

They needed a proper record of them somewhere, and if they had to copy and hand write them themselves, then so be it. Since a few of the unrecordable statements were actually almost a hundred years old, with the paper liable to disintegrate at the slightest mishandling. 

The climate control of document storage didn’t even work, which meant every document in there was in danger as well. Horrid, mind numbing work. 

Jon was good at research. He’d applied for a job as a researcher, not as an archivist. Assistant archivist. Archival assistant. Whatever they were calling it. Archiving was awfully tedious, required him to treat bullshit like it was actually valuable, and kept them all trapped in a stuffy basement where he was sure one of these days one of the shelves would collapse on him and kill him in a slow, agonising death before anyone could move it from him. 

Anyway, all that is to say, Jon didn’t quite get the time to eat lunch. He actually worked straight through it. Sasha wouldn’t have minded if he had taken a lunch break, of course. She might actually be upset that he didn’t take a break, actually. But he just… he felt awful, all the time. Tired, annoyed, and shaky. 

He’d wanted to get some sense of accomplishment. Something from a good day’s work. To feel some tangible progress. 

He wasn’t quite successful. He just felt worse, actually. Martin had brought him tea about four times throughout the day though, so that was nice. He’d even given him a couple biscuits, saying that he looked, to quote him directly, ‘peaky’. 

He supposed he did.

So, with only several cups of overly sweet tea and some biscuits, Jon was starting to actually feel the effects of hunger. His stomach gurgled a bit embarrassingly, and he could feel the tell tale nausea that came with not eating. His legs shook a little as he walked to a little street shop that sold really good sandwiches. 

He nearly broke down when he saw the queue there, but held himself together with the last remaining threads of his sanity. This was fine. It shouldn’t take too long. He’d stand in line, and he’d get his turn, and he’d get his sandwich, and then he’d go home. And sleep. 

Sleep sounded good.  

When Jon unwrapped the sandwich he’d just stood in line for about twenty minutes in, he felt his heart sink in sharp disappointment and just the smallest bit of anger. To be quite honest, he felt too tired to get properly angry.

Still, the pit within him yawned wide open, and he felt his eyes sting the slightest bit. 

He glanced back at the shop again, already swarmed by the myriad of customers who’d been in line behind him, and felt whatever tiny bit of resolve he might have had within him crumble.

He really didn’t want to eat the mustard sandwich though. He could probably go home and have some cereal. That’d be fine, wouldn’t take too much effort. Milk and cereal. 

He didn’t know what to do with the sandwich. He could probably put it in the fridge for when he felt hungry enough to eat it in a fit of desperation, maybe. 

But he knew himself well enough that he could say with surety that the sandwich would rot to hell and back before Jon actually ate it.

Still, the thought of just throwing it away irked him something fierce.

God, he wished he’d had the guts to actually go back and demand the correct order. Who knows, there was probably some poor sod who’d gotten Jon’s actual order and was fuming just as much as he was. Maybe even more. They probably even had the courage to actually go back and get the correct order done.

Jon’s head throbbed.

He glanced around, like the correct course of action would just show itself up in some dark corner of the Thursday night streets on a dreary, damp evening. And then he spotted it, the answer.

A homeless woman sat bundled up in a coat and a scarf, a little bowl filled with a handful of pennies in front of her. She was scribbling on a little notebook held in her lap, tongue poking out from between her lips, sunken cheeks the slightest bit flushed, as her brows furrowed in concentration.

Jon hurried over to her, clearing the scowl from his face to look less threatening, and held out his sandwich to her when she glanced up at him, half curiously, half warily.

“Here,” he said awkwardly, “They, uh. Got my order wrong. You can have it. If you want, that is.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes darting to the sandwich in his hand. She squinted a bit, as if expecting it to jump out and bite her or something, and Jon felt himself flush a little. Was he being rude? Did this count as rude? Should he have just thrown the damn thing away?

But then the woman’s hand shot out, curling around his wrist in an icy, vice like grip. It felt wrong, like it had too many fingers and too many joints. It was, quite literally icy. He could feel his skin going numb from the cold of it.

The shock of it stunned Jon so much that he was frozen for the first two seconds, before dropping the sandwich and staggering backwards with a strangled yelp.

He stared at the woman, eyes wide and heart thumping in his chest, ears ringing.

The woman… looked normal. She was holding the sandwich with normal, human hands. Her eyes were wide too, and she still looked very wary. There was a hint of alarm on her face as well, along with—was that concern?

God, what the fuck?

Her hands were firmly in her own lap. He glanced down at his wrist. It was still cold and numb. If he thought too hard about it, he could still feel the hand—was it a hand? He could still feel it, wrapped around his wrist.

He shuddered, flapping his hand about a bit, like he could somehow shake off whatever the fuck had decided to grab at him.

“Hey,” the woman asked him, gripping the sandwich tightly, making the plastic wrapping around it crinkle, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Jon said automatically, even as he took another step back. “I’m fine. Enjoy your meal.”

He turned and… he didn’t run. He had more dignity than that. But he walked away, as fast as he could.

No one—nothing followed him. The phantom feeling of the hand around his wrist didn’t leave him until he fell asleep. Didn’t leave until he woke up the next morning with a purpling bruise around his wrist in the shape of a seven fingered hand. 

The roof edge that Jon was leaning against had far too many birdshit stains on it, and Jon was wearing a dark brown sweater that would definitely show something like that were some of it to rub off on it.

Jon couldn’t bring himself to care overmuch as he leaned his elbows against it, pulling a long drag from his cigarette and inhaling the smoke, relishing in the slight burn at his throat.

God, he’d forgotten that cigarettes tended to do that, the little heaviness at the base of his throat, accompanied by that stinging sensation that had sent him into coughing fits the first few times he’d tried smoking.

It almost felt comforting now, even as guilt and shame churned in his stomach.

He stared up at the dull, greycast sky, blowing out the smoke. He didn’t bother trying to make smoke rings, though he could. He’d been very proud of that skill. How ridiculous. How simple. It felt like it had happened so very long ago, when it hadn’t actually been that long.

He’d been good about not smoking. He had. Except now he constantly felt like he was on the edge of something horrible, about to topple over into something he’d never be able to come back from, and the lighter had been there, and he’d been unable to stop himself from buying that pack of cigarettes last evening, it’d just been there and it’s not like Jon really spent his money on much these days, so he’d thought—why not? Before he died or some other horrible fate that most statement givers—at least the real ones—fell to?

The bruise was still there. Horrible and aching and ever present, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t even a particularly hot day, but Jon had been unable to stop himself from wearing a full sleeved sweater, to try and cover it up.

He knew he was being stupid. This was real, tangible proof that something was wrong. Even if that woman had grabbed his hand, even if she had gripped him hard enough to leave bruises without him even noticing her move, Jon had seen that she had a regular, human hand, with a usual number of five, regular length fingers.

He should talk to the others about it, before the bruise faded and he lost the one piece of evidence he had.

But first, he wanted to finish the cigarette he was having. Just the one. After that he’d be throwing away the entire pack he bought. No cigarettes, no temptations. He’d control himself better. He wouldn’t buy another pack.

He had to believe that whatever was happening, he’d survive it. He’d survive it long enough to regret picking up smoking. He had to—

“I thought you quit?” a voice spoke up from behind, and Jon got startled into nearly dropping the cigarette.

He thinks he might have had an honest to god breakdown if he’d dropped it. The only cigarette he’d allowed himself—and dropped. Wasted. His last salvation.

But he didn’t, he held onto it, nearly crushing it in his hand. Sighing, he turned around to face Tim. “I… had. I’ve just been, uh, very stressed lately. With, you know,” he waved a vague hand around, “Everything.”

“Mhm, yeah, I can see why that’d be stressful,” Tim said, a small concerned frown on his face as he took a few steps closer, “Are you alright? I know, as you said, pretty stressful. All of us are struggling a bit… but this seems to be hitting you pretty hard. And it’s understandable, of course, with the way Elias had cornered you for the head archivist position…”

“It’s… it’s not just that, actually,” Jon said carefully. The decision was an abrupt one, split second. He hadn’t even been thinking all that much about it. But he knew he had to speak now, to hold himself accountable, or he’d rapidly descend into a spiral that would end with him talking himself out of telling anyone anything. “There’s a few other things.”

Tim blinked, until they were standing next to each other. Jon leaned back a bit against the shit stained wall, looked down at his cigarette, then sighed again. He quickly crushed it against the wall and threw it down the roof. His hands shook the tiniest bit.

“Hey,” Tim said softly, “What is it?”

“I think I need to make a statement.”  

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Over the Hubbub and the Hum

“Statement ends,” Sasha said quietly, turning the tape recorder off. She looked up from the recorder and towards Jon, who fidgeted a bit in the hard chair he sat on. 

They should probably invest in better chairs if people were going to be giving statements directly to Sasha. While he knew most events were probably false, a lot of them were still distressing; there was no need to make this any harder on statement givers than it had to be. 

“Jon,” Sasha said, drawing him out of his thoughts, “I wish you’d said something earlier.” 

Jon frowned, “Would you have believed me?” 

There was the smell of smoke still clinging to his clothes, and he was starting to seriously regret that last cigarette. The taste lingered in his mouth, in the back of his throat, and he felt the tiniest bit nauseous. He really should have stuck to himself, not smoked that last one. And he hadn’t even taken full advantage of it. 

What had possessed him to toss it away halfway through anyway? It wouldn’t have made that much of a difference. 

Christ, he needed a smoke. 

He knew he was getting distracted, but he had to get distracted, had to think about anything but the feeling that he’d just been flayed alive and spread out on a dissection table, to distract himself from feeling like everything he’d said had just been broadcasted on the television or something. 

Sasha was blinking at him, looking surprised, “Believed– Jon! Of course we’d have believed you! I’d like to think I know you enough by now to be able to tell just how serious you’re about things like these. A massive sceptic like you, you’d never have lied about something like this.” 

“I…” Jon said, something unexpected blooming in his chest, “Um.” 

“I’d never have dismissed you, Jon. I hope… I hope you know that.” Sasha looked incredibly vulnerable in that moment, and Jon abruptly felt guilty for making her feel this way. 

“It’s not… I’m not saying you wouldn’t have believed me, it’s just… Even I didn’t believe myself, you know? I mean, the footsteps could still be completely unrelated to the hand thing anyway, right?”

Sasha looked as sceptical as he felt, because why would there ever be any kind of coincidences ever when everything could be one tangled ominous horrible mess? They weren’t lucky enough for the footsteps to just be in his head. 

“Still, it’s better to be cautious. We need to figure out our next course of action.” 

“We do?” Jon asked, surprised. It’s not that he hadn’t expected something to happen after he made his statement, except he also kind of… hadn’t expected any change to happen either. What could they even do, really? Against something they literally could not see?

He’d felt silly, trying to talk about the wrong train over the tape. He’d planned not to talk about the train at all, really. Except he had. The words had been drawn out of him, detail by excruciating detail. It had felt important at the time. Natural. Completely on par with phantom footsteps and ghost hands. So I got followed from a dark alley to the Institute by footsteps from a person I couldn’t see, and a ghost hand grabbed me so hard it left bruises. Oh, and also, I got on the wrong train on the tube a couple days ago!

Fucking ridiculous. Why did he do that? Sasha was probably judging him for it. She might have believed him about the hand, especially with the bruises as his proof, and maybe even about the footsteps. Or at least believed that he had heard them, whether they’d actually been there or not notwithstanding. 

But a wrong train? While he was already high strung from everything else going on in the archives and the things they’d been discovering lately? He shouldn’t have said anything. 

Sasha leaned back in her chair, her face so troubled that Jon instantly felt guilty. He perhaps shouldn’t have said anything—

“I don’t want to make you feel like I think you’re incapable of taking care of yourself, Jon,” Sasha started, and oh shit. That wasn’t a good start. 

“Sasha—”

“But I do genuinely believe that this could be something very serious. Whoever– whatever it is that seems to be stalking you, it’s already hurt you once,” she said, gesturing to his wrist. Jon quickly pulled his jumper back over it from where he’d folded it up to show her. 

“It’s fine. I just thought you all should know. I mean, it started right as I got transferred to the Archives, right? So I thought it might be related.” He wanted to wring his fingers together, but Sasha was already concerned. He didn’t want her to see just how anxious Jon was feeling, or she’d fuss worse than Martin. 

“Yes, it could be. Which makes it even more important that we all look out for each other. Maybe the thing’s after you right now, maybe tomorrow it’ll come after me, or Tim, or Martin.” She leaned forward again, her forearms resting against the surface of the table. 

Why did Sasha have to make so much sense? Maybe Jon could dismiss his own concerns, but when it came to the others… Maybe he should have brought it up sooner. But he didn’t. And now they all might be in danger too. 

“Jon,” Sasha said firmly, “It’ll be okay. We’ll look out for each other.” 

She reached out to grasp the hands Jon had kept on the table in an attempt to stop himself from flapping them about in agitation. She was warm, a comforting contrast against the chill in his own hands. 

“Yes,” Jon said, a little numbly. He was so very tired. The thumping noises had come back last night. He’d added those into the statement as well. The possibility of the noises just being a family of racoons was non zero, yes, but he’d been woken at the exact same time as yesterday. Twenty seven minutes past two. And then the noises had continued on till exactly three in the morning. 

And Jon had never been lucky enough for it to just be racoons. 

“Let us all try not to be alone when we go out, either on follow ups or when going back and forth from our homes. And you have all our numbers, Jon, you can call us at any time you want. Even if it’s two in the morning. Definitely call if the thumping noises start again.”

Jon wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t justify calling his coworkers at two in the morning in any way. What if it really was just wild animals?

At most– at most– he would consider calling Georgie. He knew her well enough for it, and could call her a friend. 

He wasn’t quite so certain about the archival staff. 

God, that sounded so rude when he thought of it that way. He wasn’t opposed to the idea of calling them friends. Nor did he not consider them friends. They were… friendly acquaintances, maybe? They could be friends. But he wasn’t quite certain if he could call them friends. Yes, he’d known Tim and Sasha from before, of course. And maybe if they hadn’t all been transferred to the archives under the current conditions, he would have called them friends. 

But now a days Jon constantly felt like they were just waiting for him to mess up. To make a mistake. A kind of gotcha! The moment where they’d be able to throw the fact that he wasn’t qualified in his face. 

Even though he hadn’t taken the job. 

He knew he was being unfair. He hoped he was being unfair and that all his fears were unfounded because they were all sweet. And considerate. And probably did consider him a friend. And Sasha was concerned about him. And they weren’t unreasonable, they wouldn’t think like that about him. 

But the feeling of being under constant surveillance, of being scrutinised all the goddamn time, it never left him. It made him paranoid, anxiety flaring uncontrollably. 

“I…” Jon started, and Sasha must have seen something on his face because she sighed. 

“Alright, okay,” she took in a deep breath, like this was tedious, and Jon wanted to climb under the table. “Just… if you don’t want to call, text, at least? Just drop off a text if the thumping noises start, and when they stop. Just, keep us updated, alright?” 

“Okay,” Jon agreed. He could do that much. Texts weren’t too bothersome, were they? They were normal. Something that probably wouldn’t even wake her up. 

Sasha smiled, “Great. Tim takes the same route as you, doesn’t he?” 

“He takes the tube in the opposite direction.” 

“Hm,” Sasha nodded, “Well, you can go to the station together then. And god knows, this might actually force you to leave work on time every day.” 

“I don’t stay that late,” Jon said, frowning, “And anyway, shouldn’t you be encouraging it? Me working more?” 

“Not when there’s a fucking ghost haunting you, Jon. And anyway, I’m against unpaid labour. Don’t work overtime if you’re not being paid for it. It’s basically slavery. Elias probably loves it.” 

Well, yes. That’s why Jon did it. He wanted to keep Elias from firing him. Which seemed more and more likely every day. And with this… haunting, as Sasha called it, Jon was even less productive than usual. Making mistakes, having to redo his work, forgetting things more. He really didn’t want to give Elias any reason to get rid of him. 

The man was already upset with him about turning down the head archivist position. 

“Jon, it’s fine,” Sasha said. She was still gripping his hands in her own, squeezing comfortingly, “Truly. If Elias didn’t fire Gertrude for the mess left here, then I doubt he’d fire you. Or me, for that matter.”

“For some reason, comparing ourselves to Gertrude really doesn’t fill me with much confidence,” Jon said, squeezing Sasha’s hands back. “I really don’t think you need to burden Tim with babysitting duties.”

“It’s not a burden, I swear,” Sasha said, and then reared back her head a bit, taking a deep breath, Jon realised what she was about to do a split second before she yelled, “Tim! Could you come here, please!” 

“Sasha!” he hissed, but it was too late, the door was already swinging open and Tim came strolling in. 

He paused when he saw their linked hands, and Jon hastily pulled back, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks. Tim just smiled, “What’s up?” 

“You wouldn’t mind accompanying Jon to the tube at the end of the work day, would you?” 

Tim blinked, and then a frown crept up across his face, and Jon could feel his stomach sinking. Tim didn’t want to do it, of course he didn’t. It would also come in the way of any evening plans Tim could make, having to make sure Jon got home safely. Like he was some school going kid on his first excursion out with friends. 

“Of course not,” Tim said easily, and oh, his voice sounded so soft, “Are you alright, Jon? I know you were making a statement, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you know I’m here for you, right?” 

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt too full. He had to cough a few times to clear it, before speaking, “You really don’t have to—”

“Nope!” Tim said, bending down to wrap an arm around Jon’s shoulders, “Travel buddies now! Do you want me to wait for you at the station every morning as well? We could come in and go out at the same time. Feed something to the rumour mill as well. It’s been getting awfully dull here.” 

“Tim,” Jon said, squirming half heartedly in Tim’s hold, but couldn’t really contain the small smile creeping up his face. 

It didn’t feel like Tim was lying. He didn’t seem to mind all that much. And maybe… maybe a part of Jon was relieved too. To not live in absolute terror every time he commuted back and forth from the Institute and his home. 

He looked up to see Sasha looking at Tim fondly, and felt himself relax. 

Jon knew this was bound to happen one of these days. Perhaps, in some distant part of his mind, he’d even hoped it would happen, despite how unprofessional it really was. And it was! Quite unprofessional. His landlord didn’t allow pets. He knew this. So what had he been hoping for, really?

Not this, certainly. He’d expected the cat to follow him home, not follow him to the institute. But the cat apparently hadn’t gotten the memo, and followed him to the institute. 

He didn’t even notice it, not until it started rubbing against his legs, meowing incessantly just as he was about to enter the institute. He tried to shoo it away, but even he could tell his attempts were half hearted at best. It looks so pitiful, so small, so… so adorable. How could he just leave it outside, while he went in? The area wasn’t even familiar to it, how would it navigate its way around?

So, when he opened the doors and went inside, he pretended, really hard, not to notice when the little black bur shot in alongside him. Somehow, Rosie missed the cat as well, only offering Jon a small smile before going back to whatever call she was on. 

Jon suddenly had a lot of sympathy for the way Martin had somehow accidentally let a dog into the archives. The cat had crawled up to his knees by the time Jon shuffled across the hallway and towards the stairs leading down the Archives. 

Jon looked back once, probably looking incredibly suspicious, before quickly bending down and picking the cat up, placing it inside his coat. Its little baby claws tried to scratch at his sweater a bit, and he winced, wondering if they were sharp enough to completely unravel the thing.

Probably not. But this was one of his older ones, through enough washes to have gotten a bit more worn out than the others. It wouldn’t take much. 

Oh well, even if it did end up happening, he could just use it to make a little cosy bed for the cat. 

Maybe he should name it. 

Wait– no. Stop. He needed to stop getting ahead of himself. The cat didn’t belong to him (at least not yet– stop it, Jon— ), he couldn’t make up fantasies in his head. He didn’t even know whether it was chipped. Although that was highly unlikely. 

Still. Still. 

He hitched it up a bit more carefully inside his coat, and slowly made his way downstairs. 

He tried not to think about what he’d do during the entire work day. Because— what would he do? He couldn’t keep it hidden inside his coat the entire time, could he?

Could he? It was a fairly warm and cosy coat, the cat was a fairly small and currently well fed one. If he kept a careful eye on it, it should be fine. He could keep one tiny ball of fluff a secret. For one day. He could say he wanted lunch from outside, and then go release it when he went out. Not before feeding it, of course. He’d bought another packet– a larger one, of the treats it favoured, right after he realised the cat wasn’t going to move from its preferred alleyway anytime soon. 

Well, it did move, but the need for the larger bag of treats still stood. He should probably invest in proper food for it—

Once again, he could feel his head running away with fantasies of the cat. 

He pushed open the door to the Archives, and saw Tim look up from his desk, face lighting up in a way that made Jon’s stomach tingle.

“Hey Jon!” he began, “I was really surprised when you actually ended up taking Sasha’s advice to take a half day today. I was very sure you’d come in even earlier than usual just to spite her,” Tim laughed. 

Jon shrugged, taking care not to jostle the cat, “I mean, I did want to sleep in a bit. Especially after the last few days of, well. Everything.” 

Tim nodded, serious for once. Jon had let the other two listen to the tape of his statement a few days ago. Maybe if they had a proper explanation for why, exactly, they were on babysitting duty, they wouldn’t resent it too much. Not that he thought they resented him anyway, Jon told himself firmly. 

They were good, and considered him a friend. Tim had literally said so when they’d gone back to the station last evening. Still, the doubt remained. That he didn’t belong here. That he wasn’t suited for this job, wasn’t suited to this little circle they’d created amongst themselves. 

“Come on, sit down. I hope you had breakfast today. You did, didn’t you? Or do we need to order take out. It’s almost one anyway, we can take an early break.” 

“No,” Jon said hastily. If they ordered lunch, he wouldn’t be able to drop the cat outside when he went for his own lunch, “No, no. It’s fine. I ate breakfast. We can take our lunch break at the regular time, no issues. And anyway, I wanted to check out this new kebab shop that has opened round the corner– you know the one? The one with the obnoxious blue lettering on a green background?” 

“Oh!” Tim said, “Yes! I’ve been meaning to check it out too. We can go together.” 

Ah shit. Fuck. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine. You don’t have to accompany me everywhere, Tim. And I mean, there weren't even any weird noises last night. So it’ll be fine. I got here okay, didn’t I?” he said, voice lilting upwards a bit as the cat buried its cold nose into his collar. Jon quickly hitched his coat up a bit to hide whatever bit of fluff might be visible above it. 

Why was the cat still so cold? Was it okay? Was it sick? Had it caught a cold?

“Jon?” Tim said, standing up, and Jon barely stopped himself from taking a step back, “It’s fine, it’s not out of obligation. I really do wanna check out the kebab shop, you know? We could make it a thing, all four of us can go together. Archival hangout session!” 

“Right,” Jon mumbled, “Right.” 

“You okay?” 

And goodness, he was fine. This had been a bad idea. He shouldn’t have let the kitten come in with him in the first place. How was he going to explain this—

The cat mewled.

Both Tim and Jon froze. 

“Jon. Jon, what the fuck was that,” Tim said, his eyes wide. 

“Um, nothing?” Jon tried, taking a step away and resisting the urge to pet the little bulge at his chest to shush the cat. “Did you hear something?” 

God, he was a shit fucking liar. He could practically see the way Tim’s eyes narrowed and zeroed in on his coat, right where the cat was hidden. 

“Jon…” he began slowly, “ Jon , is that a cat in your pocket?” 

It was at that moment that the door to Sasha’s office swung open, and she stepped out, “Oh hey, Jon! You’re here. How did you sleep?” 

The response was another meow from within Jon’s coat, and he could feel his face heating up to unhealthy levels. Sasha, too, froze. 

“It is!” Tim exclaimed, “Jon! Did you bring a cat into the archives?” 

“Jon did what ?” 

And oh god, Martin was here too, now, carrying a box of files from the Document Storage and standing there gaping at the three of them. 

Looking at Martin now, Jon was filled with a different kind of guilt. He’d, kind of, blown up a bit at Martin for bringing a dog into the archives. Well, blown up was a bit of an exaggeration. Jon had literally set fire to Sasha’s desk and god knows how many statements. He didn’t really have room to judge. 

Except judge he had, if only within his own head. And now he’d gone ahead and gotten a cat inside. 

This time he couldn’t even call it an accident. He had brought the cat in with full knowledge that it was clinging to him, had let it follow him to the archives, and had hidden it from Rosie as he brought her in. 

The cat meowed again, and Jon felt his shoulders slump. He’d just look like an idiot if he tried denying it now. 

“I’m… sorry?” he said, more a question than an actual apology.

Tim looked like an excited toddler, nearly bouncing on his toes as he came even closer to Jon, “You did! You brought a cat into the archives!” 

“Look,” Jon said defensively, “Look, it’s just. It followed me here, alright? I wasn’t trying to bring an animal into the archives. It just—” 

“Can I see?” Sasha piped up, and good lord, there was the same excited glint in her eyes as there was in Tim’s. “I’d really love to see, oh my god. It must be tiny, to fit inside your coat like that. Please let me see, Jon.” 

Jon blinked, and slowly opened his coat, gently wrapping his hand around the cat currently clinging to his sweater and prying it off. It really didn’t want to let go, and tried it’s best to dig its claws in, but it was just so fucking tiny, Jon was easily able to pry it off and into his hands, where she immediately started trying to lick his palm. 

There was a gasp and a thump as Martin set down the heavy box, making his way over. And suddenly there were three people crowded around his hand. 

“Does it have a name?” Martin asked, voice pitched low and soft, one hand raised as if he wanted to pet. 

Jon shook his head, “I told you, it’s not mine. It just followed me here.” 

“And you decided to give it a new home in your coat, yes?” Sasha asked, amused, but the words were bellied with the way she reached out to drag a gentle finger over the cat’s back. 

At this rate, Jon was going to develop a permanent blush on his face. 

“Do you think we should feed it?” Martin asked, and his eyes were very wide as they were fixed upon the cat. He looked nearly as adorable as the fluffball did. Nearly. 

Jon shook his head, “No, I fed it before coming here.”

He realised his mistake a split second after saying the words, when all three of them paused and looked at him. The cat huffed a bit when the hand stroking its back stopped, but Jon was too busy stammering out excuses to take care of it. Tim was outright laughing at him, Sasha and Martin didn’t look too far from joining in either. 

“Yes, you definitely didn’t know it was going to follow you, Jon,” Sasha said, and Jon snapped his mouth shut for one hot second before bursting out. 

“What was I even supposed to do? Not help it? It just looked so small! And it had been scared, and alone. And really, the place where I found her is directly on my route to the institute, so it wasn’t like I had to go out of my way to help it.” 

Sasha raised her hands up in mock surrender, “Hey, I’m not complaining. I’ve always been a cat person myself. And you seem to,” she giggled, “have it well at hand.” She nodded towards where the cat was trying to nibble on Jon’s fingers. 

“We should give it a name. Do you think there's any way it could be chipped?” Tim piped up, and Jon shook his head. 

“Uh, I’d been planning on taking it to the vet over the weekend, though.”

“Great!” Tim said, “We can go together then. Right? Does your building allow cats?” 

No. No it didn't. And it wasn’t like he had forgotten that fact, more like he’d been actively trying his best not to think about it. Because while he could admit to himself that he had gotten quite attached to the cat, he didn’t really want to face the fact that he didn’t actually have a plan for what he was going to actually do with it. 

Tim frowned, “It doesn’t?” 

Jon grit his teeth, and Tim looked around to the others. “Do any of your buildings allow cats?” 

Unsurprisingly, but also very disappointingly, the other two shook their heads as well. He’d probably have to give up the cat for adoption. He looked down at the small thing, and it yawned at him. And Jon just wanted to put it inside his sweater and not let anyone touch it ever again. 

Sasha hummed, “Could we keep it in the Archives?” 

“What?” Jon asked, startled out of his mourning. 

“Wait, what?” Martin echoed. 

But Tim was already clapping his hands together, “Oh! Yes, why not? It’s not like anyone else but the janitor comes down here, and even the janitors only do so twice a week instead of every day. Apparently, no one really liked Gertrude. Too unsettling.”

“Oh, is that why? I’d wondered. I’d actually been thinking about talking to them about it, actually. But I don’t think I need to, anymore, if this little guy’s going to be staying here with us.” Sasha was looking at the cat with such a fond smile that Jon felt some of his possessiveness drain away. “Either way, that’s info that should probably go into the suspicious Archives folder as well.” 

“Ahead of you, boss,” Tim grinned, “I already added it.” 

Sasha rolled her eyes, but then held out a hand in a silent request for the cat. Jon didn’t even have to struggle all that much with himself to relinquish the little beast. 

“Goodness,” Martin whispered, “That face should be illegal,” he said, staring at the way the cat was scrunching up its nose. “I can come with when you take it to the vet, right?” He asked, looking at Jon. And even if Jon had considered the idea of saying no, looking at Martin’s face, any possible denial would have died anyway. 

And so they all planned to go to the vet together after work.

For the first time in a really long while, Jon finally felt like things might be going right. Which was weird, given the circumstances, but looking at the way the others cooed and fussed about the cat made something flutter in his gut, not unlike what he’d felt when the cat had come to him willingly for the first time. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Be Gay Do Crime

Despite being considerably shorter than Martin, Jon could walk fast when he wanted to. Very, very fast. 

“Jon!” Martin hissed at him, trying to keep up with his pace. 

Oh god, they were going to get arrested, for fuck’s sake. 

“Jon!” he repeated, more insistently than before. Jon just waved his hand at Martin in a shushing kind of gesture, and Martin felt himself flush a bit in indignation. “Jon, listen,” he said anyway, although he turned his volume down considerably, “ Listen, are you sure this is a good idea? It’s literally breaking and ent—”

“It’ll be fine,” Jon said, “I’ve done this before. That’s how research works.” 

He stopped as they completed a full circuit around the house, and Martin barely kept from doubling over and wheezing for breath. 

Were all researchers like this, then? Were Tim and Sasha also hiding a criminal streak beneath their cheerful demeanors? How many times has Jon broken into some place? He wasn’t even good at it! But he was still acting like this was a casual Tuesday for him. 

It wasn’t even nighttime. They were trying to do this in broad daylight. 

Sasha had implemented a strict buddy system for field work after Jon had given his statement, and at first Martin had been excited about being paired up with Jon because— and he could admit it to himself, alright? He was a poet. If he couldn’t be honest with himself, then the poems wouldn’t come out good— Anyway, all that is to say, he had a tiny, small bit of a crush on Jon. As in closed off, stiff man, with a really unfairly attractive face, and oh god that voice—

Right, right. Focus. 

He’d been excited to be paired up with Jon. And this would be Martin’s first field work as well. Library work never required any kind of follow ups that would lead him outside the Institute walls. So, this had seemed like a good step forward in his career. And besides, Jon had worked in the Research Department for about four years now, surely he knew what he was doing, right?

The actual follow up had been very disappointing, actually. The statement giver had said something about being stalked by a man with fourteen faces. They’d given a number of addresses for the places he’d seen this stalker at, but three out of the five addresses given were complete bullshit and didn’t exist. And one out of the other two places they’d checked out had recently been closed down due to a carbon monoxide leak, and the other was a bookshop instead of a butcher shop. The owner had been very unhelpful. 

Probably a discredited statement, yes. And the work had been done in less than two hours. 

Jon had decided this was an excellent opportunity to do some extra research. 

Not on the statement, no. But on their personal archives project. 

Which apparently included breaking into Gertrude’s house. 

Breaking into Gertrude fucking Robinson’s house. 

Jon was, quite possibly, a little bit insane. They weren’t even trying to hide their presence, and yet he had the audacity to shush Martin when he tried to speak too loud. As if Jon wasn’t the most conspicuous person on the entire street. 

They’d found out the day before that her house hadn’t yet been re-let due to some legal issues. Something regarding the fact that Gertrude had gone missing and not been declared dead yet. That was a good thing, supposedly. At least according to Jon. 

“Imagine all that we can find out from checking out Gertrude’s home, Martin,” Jon said, resolutely creeping around the little garden surrounding her house. God, she had an actual fucking house. Not a flat. How much money did the head archivist make? 

Especially someone who kept the Archives as disorganised as her. 

Maybe the secret to the Archives was that it was just a front for some kind of organised crime circle or a drug ring. That would explain the disappearances and the secrecy, wouldn’t it?

But then why would Elias have wanted to give Jon the position?

Maybe Jon was actually part of the circle? And was just a fantastic liar. He did seem very well versed in the whole breaking and entering thing. God knows what else he must have done. Lied on his CV, maybe? That’d make two of them. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be judging Jon for being a criminal, given how Martin was making his way through life and careers. Sometimes a little bit of crime was okay, alright? Be gay do crime, and whatnot. Although he wasn’t sure if Jon was queer. He had to be, right? No one wore sweater vests like Jon if they weren’t at least a little bit queer. 

He had to believe Jon was queer, even though it did nothing for Martin’s chances with the man, because come on, it’s not like Jon would ever actually like him that way, even if he was into men. 

Let Martin have his fantasies, for god’s sake.

He couldn’t contain the blush that rose on his cheeks when Jon grabbed at his wrist, pulling him around the house, looking for a window low enough and big enough for them to be able to climb through it. 

Jon made a noise of triumph as he found said window, and Martin peered at it. It was, very clearly, locked. There were heavy curtains pulled shut behind it, obscuring any view to the inside of the house. Martin experimentally tried to open it, but it was locked. Not like Martin hadn’t expected it to be locked. 

He almost felt relieved, maybe now Jon would let it—

Jon was taking off his coat. 

“Jon, what are you—” 

“It’ll be fine,” Jon said shortly, picking up a—

“Jon! You’re not going to break the window—”

“It’ll be fine!” Jon said quickly, “Look, we’ve come this far, we have to look for some clues, at the very least. We can figure out so much from the way a person lives. Lived, whatever.” 

“Done a lot of stalking in your time, have you?” Martin asked, his voice going high and more than a little hysterical. Jon shot him a glare. 

“I have, actually,” Jon said, and he sounded so fucking completely serious even as he wrapped his coat around his arm and picked up the heavy rock in it. Jon was a noodle of a man, did he really expect himself to be able to break the goddamn window?

Martin quickly pushed the man aside before he could break his wrist or something, snatching the rock away from him. “Let me,” he said, even as alarms blared in his head. What was he doing? He was supposed to be trying to stop Jon from doing something idiotic, not– not become an accomplice . 

But if the question was between helping Jon break into a dead woman’s house and letting Jon break in by himself, Martin would be choosing the lesser of the two evils. Either way, there was a reason Sasha had implemented the buddy system, right? So that no one got hurt. 

Jon gave in easily, standing back to let Martin do the dirty work. 

“We’ll have to be quick after we break the window, someone’s sure to call the police,” Jon said casually as he picked up their bags and readied himself— for what? To sprint around the house while sirens blared outside? Martin hesitated. 

“Hurry up,” Jon added, growing severely at him, and oh hell. 

Martin reared back his hand and smashed the stone against the glass window. 

“You did what?” Sasha asked, her eyes wide as they darted from Jon to Martin. Martin felt like he should be panting, but the tube ride to the Institute had given him ample time to catch his breath, except the adrenaline hadn’t quite left. Because oh my god they’d almost been caught, what the fuck Jon. 

“It was Jon’s idea!” Martin said, then immediately felt bad for throwing Jon under the bus like this. Oh shit, he shouldn’t have done that. Partners in crime and what not, right? He stammered, “I mean—”

“It was my idea,” Jon said, nodding sagely, almost looking proud of himself. “I think we got away with it.” 

Martin whirled around to face Jon, “ Got away with it? Jon, we heard sirens! We literally broke in through her window. ”

Jon just waved a hand dismissively, “We’ll be fine.” 

Tim, the bastard, was laughing his head off, “Don’t worry Martin, this ain’t Jon’s first rodeo. I think he’s got some weird god of trespassing looking over him. He’s never once actually gotten caught.” 

“Then why aren’t you better at it?” Martin asked, burying his face in his hands and hoping he could have been holding their newly named cat, the Duchess, right now, but the big baby had jumped onto Jon as soon as he came back into the Archives, not sparing a glance to anyone else. Said baby was now chewing on Jon’s hair as he absently petted her back. 

It was so adorable that Martin couldn’t even remain all that angry at Jon anymore. 

“I’m not an expert,” Jon said, wrinkling his nose, “It’s just I know how not to get caught. I’m used to the police. I know how to avoid them now.” 

“That’s a very concerning statement, Jon,” Sasha said, both her brows raised as she stared at him. Jon just crossed his arms across his chest. Sasha sighed, “Well. You haven’t been caught yet. If the police come knocking… we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

“Or burn it,” Tim muttered, and Sasha threw a pen at him, which he dodged, snorting and grinning unrepentantly. 

“So,” Sasha said, rolling her eyes, “Did you find anything useful?” 

At this, Jon’s face fell. “No, not really. She lived a very minimalist lifestyle, actually. From the looks of it, at least. Two interesting things, though.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah,” Martin said, dragging out the words a bit. He was a bit freaked out by it, actually— “There were, uh. Pictures there? As in the only pictures she had in her house were the ones on the covers of some of the books she owned. And in all of them, the eyes had been carefully cut out. All of them. Every single one.”

“What the fuck,” Tim said, previous smile wiped off his face.

“Oh, she also had a laptop. Well, I assume she had a laptop, because we saw a laptop charger there. I tried to look for the laptop as well, but we could hear the sirens by then. Although, I don’t think the laptop would have been hidden under the bed or something,” Jon’s words came out a bit muffled from where the Duchess was now trying to climb into his hair. He gently plucked her off his face. 

“I see,” Sasha said, sighing as she sat down on the chair, spinning around a couple times in it. Then she dragged her feet on the ground, stopping herself and throwing her head back a bit. “Do you think her laptop might be still around here, somewhere?” 

“Maybe? That would be really helpful. Almost too helpful, honestly,” Tim said. 

The Duchess meowed her agreement as Jon scratched her behind the ears. 

“The eyes thing is, uh. It’s very concerning, actually.” Sasha kicked her legs a few times, chewing on her lips a little. 

“Something straight out a horror story, almost,” Tim said. 

“Not helpful,” Sasha said, clearing hoping she had something else she could throw at him. Another pen maybe. 

“Well,” Jon said, “Can we at least agree that breaking into her house was a good idea? Martin’s been awfully nervous about it the entire time. I mean, we did get a new lead, right? With the laptop. And also, I’m sure the eye thing isn’t because she was senile. Which, Sasha, you’re quite certain she wasn’t.” 

“If I’m sure about one thing in regards to Gertrude Robinson, it’s that she was completely , fully, absolutely in her right mind,” Sasha said. 

“Well, then. Sooner or later, I’m hoping the eye thing will make sense as well.” Jon had sat down now, the Duchess curled up on his lap, and Martin felt the last of the adrenaline and panic ebb out of him. As Sasha said, they’d deal with the police when it came to them. And anyway, Jon had seemed quite well versed in the ‘running away’ part of the whole breaking and entering thing, even if the actual breaking and entering was dicey. 

“To be quite honest,” Sasha said, lowering her head to look at the three of them, “I don’t really like where all this is going. The more we uncover, the more uneasy I feel.” 

“Do you want to stop?” Tim asked, frowning. His question was genuine, though. He’d stop if Sasha told them to, and Martin felt the same. Maybe some things were better left buried?

“I don’t think I could, actually,” Jon said quietly, and Sasha nodded her head. 

“Me either. It’s… it’ll haunt me, bug me day and night if I don’t at least try to get to the bottom of this. I need to know, you know? There’s a… there’s a reason for all of this.” 

Jon blew out an annoyed breath from his nose, “Elias probably knows. Pity we can’t ask him.” 

“God, don’t tell me. That smug bastard definitely knows a lot more than he’s letting on.” 

“Jeez, Sasha, let it all out, why don’t you?” Tim laughed, “It’s not like the walls have ears or anything.” 

“Who fucking knows with this place?” Sasha said with surprising intensity, “Maybe they do. Maybe Elias has the entire place bugged.” 

“I’ve never been happier that any kind of CCTV camera footage goes all wacky inside the archives. Imagine if he had a means to be watching us right now. It was bad enough when we were in Research and had to do all our shit talking when we were on the field. Now that we’re doing spooky research into Gertrude, even more grateful.” Tim ran a hand through his hair, kicking his legs up onto his desk and flipping a finger at the corner wall, which still held a dead camera on it. It wasn’t working, much to the disappointment of everyone, who’d hoped the murderer would just show up in the footage. 

“It is weird though, right?” Martin frowned, sitting down as well. He wanted to have some nice black tea with as much sugar as Jon preferred. Maybe that’d settle the last of his nerves. “I mean, the CCTV even works in Artefact Storage, possibly one of the most freaky places in the Institute. After we took care of that weird eye artefact, the cameras there work fine. So why not in the Archives?” 

“Didn’t Elias say it was due to the Archives being in the basement or something?” Jon said. 

“That’s a load of bull if I ever heard any,” Tim said, “My mobile network works just fine here. What makes surveillance cameras different?” 

“So Elias is lying to us,” Sasha said, “What’s new?” 

“Still can’t believe Elias used to be a pothead,” Jon muttered, and everyone else in the Archives froze, turning towards Jon, who suddenly looked a little self conscious. “What?”

“He what?!” Tim said, at the same time, Sasha asked–

“How do you even know that?” 

Martin blinked, because this might as well happen, right? Of course Elias was a pothead, why not? The prim, proper, stuffy man who looked like he belonged in Victorian England used to smoke weed. Weren’t Victorians known to snort cocaine anyway? He wasn’t sure. He should look that up. 

“It wasn’t that hard to find out,” Jon said, defensive, “And, I mean. He has been acting suspicious, no? I figured if we’re looking into the others, we should be looking into him as well.”

“Mhm,” Sasha said, “Yeah, alright. What did you find?” 

“Disappointingly little. The Elias we know seems remarkably different from who he apparently used to be. And he took over as head of the institute at a very young age, he hadn’t even worked here for a decade before he was promoted after James Wright died.” 

“Not suspicious at all,” Tim muttered. 

The Duchess meowed loudly, insistently, and Jon turned his attention back to the royal brat, “You just ate, young lady. Surely you can’t be hungry still?” 

“Don’t fall for her wiles, Jon,” Sasha said, “She knows your weakness.” 

“Don’t worry, Sasha,” Jon said, squishing the cat a little, “I’m a certified cat veteran at this point.” 

Martin stopped himself from raising his hands to press against his overwarm cheeks. Despite everything, he felt like he belonged here. With Jon, with Tim, with Sasha, and of course, with the Duchess. Even though the cat had yet to warm up to everyone as much as she had with Jon. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Man Door Hand Hook Yellow Door

[CLICK]

SASHA
Are you sure you’re all right to do this now? You can take a few days off to recover if you need.

JON
[ slightly nasally, like his nose is blocked ] I’m… I just need to get this out right now, you know? I don’t… uh, it’s still, well. It’s still fresh in my head. Enough that I could probably recount it. And it’s still slipping away every second. I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it for any longer than I have to.

SASHA
Alright. I understand that. I’m just very worried, you’re still– you know, um, bleeding.

JON
It’s fine. It’s almost stopped. 

SASHA
Sure, but only after you soaked through an entire towel, Jon.

JON
Can we just start?

SASHA
Yes, of course. Statement of Jonathan Sims, assistant archivist at the Magnus Institute, regarding…

JON
An unspecified amount of time spent within endless corridors, I suppose. 

SASHA
Right. Statement recorded direct from subject, February 18th, 2016. 

JON
[ clears throat ] Right, so. I’m not… I’m not quite sure what date, or even day it was. But it was, um, a few days after I broke into Gertrude’s house with Martin. Tim and I had left the institute together, like we’d been doing for several days by then. Also, I feel the need to add, I hadn’t experienced any other weird stalking in those few days, not even those weird thumping noises from the house next door. Everything had been fine. I thought– well, I thought whatever supernatural thing had been haunting me, it had finally given up. Turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong. [ a low, bitter chuckle ]

Anyway, Tim and I parted ways at the metro station, he took the train he usually took, and I took mine. I didn’t make any mistakes, I was very careful, I got on the right train. The only, uh. Strange, I suppose? The only strange thing, for lack of a better word, was that there was a seat remaining. Even though there were several people standing around. Now, I’m not stupid, I’ve been travelling by the tube long enough to know if a seat has been left vacant like that, there’s usually a good reason for it. I didn’t sit there. Except when I looked back at it after a station had passed, it was occupied by this man. I didn’t think much of it, of course. The man looked completely unremarkable. Just, tall, thin, with long, curly blond hair. 

I didn’t really pay much attention after that, except watching the windows and uh, kind of obsessively checking which station I was at. I’ve– I’ve started doing that now, after that first incident. I got off at my station, as usual, and was making the short walk to my flat, when I heard the footsteps again. I almost didn’t want to turn around to verify, but I’ve been told often I’d be the first character to die in a horror movie, so… [ nervous chuckle ] Obviously, I turned around. 

There was no one there, as I’d expected. I started walking faster, which made the footsteps faster as well, and I kind of started to get really unsettled and panicked. I tried to push it down, to maybe take out my phone and call one of you, but before I could actually do it, I tripped over something and fell. My bag and my phone went skittering away from me, and I scraped my palms and knees pretty badly. 

And then a voice from above me asked, “ Need a hand?” I startled pretty badly, looking up at the face the voice belonged to. It was the same person who’d been sitting in that seat on the train. Probably the only reason I recognised him was the hair. Because his face… his face didn’t look the same anymore. 

He was smiling down at me, showing off his teeth. Really, really white teeth. I don’t know why that’s the thing I noticed about his smile, but they were some of the whitest teeth I’d seen. When I didn’t respond, he bent down a bit, until his face was very close to mine, and then he said, “I have two.” 

Something about the way he said that— that’s not a normal statement to make, is it? [ a touch hysterical ] I mean, who says that? I tried to scramble away, and he didn’t make any move to touch me. I managed to get to my feet, and he was still standing there, watching me.

I just asked him to excuse me and picked up my bag and phone. Then I– well. I’ll be honest, I kind of just fleed? Didn’t really see where I was going either, and he let me. I looked behind once, and he was just standing there, watching me run, that smile plastered across his face. That’s also when I noticed his hands, and um. They didn’t look normal. They weren’t normal hands. I cannot stress just how normal they weren’t. They were fucking huge, and the number of fingers was wrong, and they looke bloated and boney all at once and just—

SASHA
Jon, I need you to breathe.

JON
[ takes in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly ] Right. Sorry, it’s just. His hands, they weren’t normal. And all I could think about was the bruise I’d gotten just days before. At that point I had started to panic quite badly, so I wasn’t looking where I was going very well. Which, in hindsight, was a huge mistake.

I, uh. I got to the door to my building, and. And I remember thinking that oh, they got a new paint job done on it, and I remember wrinkling my nose a bit at the garish yellow colour. But I didn’t think further than that, I’d already pushed it open and entered. 

The door slammed shut behind me as soon as I realised my mistake. 

I was not in my apartment building. What I’d entered looked like a long corridor, stretching out before me. The walls were this, uh. I remember they were green, at the start. I can’t recall if they were painted or if they were wallpapered. And there were these really old fashioned scones on them, all lit up, dimly illuminating the corridor. The carpet looked like it belonged at some second grade motel, and I think I could smell some kind of faint mould or rot on it. When I turned around, desperate to leave through the same door I entered through, there was. [ a pause ]

God, it actually sounds a bit cliche, doesn’t it? The same corridor stretched out behind me, no sign of a door at all. And it was so long on both ends, long enough that I couldn’t actually see the ends. Just a gaping darkness, waiting for me. Almost inviting me. 

I was alone in there, and I couldn’t hear anything but myself. 

[SHUFFLING SOUNDS]

[A CHAIR SCRAPES ACROSS THE FLOOR]

SASHA
Do you want to stop—

JON
No, it’s fine. I’m fine now. I just need to gather my thoughts. 

[ a deep breath ] I started walking, and I kept walking. I don’t know when the walls changed colours, or when the carpet changed to marble floors, or when the scones on the walls were replaced by light bulbs. I don’t know if it was an abrupt change or a gradual one or if there was a change at all, maybe I just didn’t remember what had actually been there at first? Except I clearly remembered thinking that scones belonged on stone walls, and that it was weird the flames hadn’t left any scorch marks above them. So the walls and the scones had definitely existed. 

I don’t know how long I walked for either, but after a while I reached an intersection. The corridor branched off to both the right and the left sides, and also stretched out in front of me… I know I made a choice, I just don’t know which one it was. But after that the turns got more frequent. So did the changes in decor. I tried to keep track at first, but it was hard. They changed so quickly, and yet it was always so subtle. If I was paying attention to the walls, the floor would change, and if I paid attention to the ceiling, the walls would change. 

Sometimes I thought I heard music. I don’t know where my bag or phone went. I don’t know if I even had them with me when I first found myself in that place. I only realised I didn’t have them with me when I thought of calling one of you. Why the thought of doing that didn’t cross my mind sooner, I couldn’t tell you. 

At that point, I must have been walking for at least one full day, although it was impossible to tell in that place. My legs ached, and I felt both hungry and thirsty. I’d found no more doors, but I had found a corridor full of mirrors. Most of them looked like normal mirrors, but some of them were strange. A few didn’t show my reflection at all, and some showed my reflection, but very distorted. Like one of those funhouse mirrors you find at amusement parks. I thought I saw something move within the mirrors out of the corner of my eye a few times, but whenever I turned around, there was no one there. 

I stopped turning around after a while, even as those small glimpses drove me crazy. After a while I started taking all left turns consciously, because, I don’t know. These corridors couldn’t truly be endless, right? That’s just impossible. Even if we consider the supernatural, the idea of a truly infinite space just… It was too much. I had to believe there was a way out. That there was an end to this place. 

There wasn’t. I couldn’t find the end. Sometimes I’d sit down in a place, just… slide down the wall and curl up. I don’t know if I ever truly slept in there, but I know that whenever I, uh, came back to myself, I’d be in a different place than where I’d settled down in. 

No matter how much I walked, nothing ever felt familiar. No matter how much I stayed in the same place, nothing ever got more familiar. I don’t know how long it went on for, I couldn’t tell the time there. The seconds hand on my watch would spin and spin and spin, but I think the hours and minutes hands went backwards sometimes. If I stared at it too long, it would make me dizzy. But I know it was a long time. Long enough that I probably should have died from dehydration. But I didn’t. I kept feeling thirsty, and hungry, and so so tired that sometimes I would sit down and not move for what felt like days. 

And then I saw him. It. I don’t know if that thing was a person at all. It appeared at the end of a hall, and my first instinct was to call out for help, to run towards them. I’d been in that place for so long, and all of it was spent alone, except for those almost touches of whatever was ghosting me in the mirrors and turns. 

It looked like a normal person at first glance, but when I took my first few steps towards it, it started warping itself. Too tall, too lanky, its limbs were the wrong proportions, and it was shifting, like smoke. Except it felt solid. And its hands. That’s what linked it to the same person I’d seen before, outside these halls. The blonde man. 

I stopped advancing towards the figure, but that’s when it started running towards me. It ran, like one of those goddamn horror movie jump scares where the ghost would crawl towards you so rapidly that one second it’d be several feet away and another it’s right in front of your face. Except this thing wasn’t crawling, it was running, on two feet. I think it was two feet, at least. It was running, its long legs hitting the floor with thumps that echoed across the hallways, and its arms swinging wildly, torso bent forward, aimed right at me. 

It ran so fast, I expected it to be upon me in seconds. But it also felt like the corridors themselves were also elongating the faster it tried to come closer to me, making it just the bit further away. I don’t know, it was dizzying, and… God, I think I would have passed out if that was something that was possible within the corridors. But unconsciousness is a mercy the place would never give me. I’d learnt that by then. 

[ voice wavering for a second ] It wasn’t enough, of course. The thing was upon me in seconds, and I fell backwards, hard. But, it— it didn’t kill me. Or maim me. Or anything I was expecting. I must have closed my eyes at some point, because when I opened them, I was staring up at that blond man again. He looked… he looked the same as he had when I’d seen him before. Grinning that wide grin with the white teeth, staring at me with this– this manic gleam in his eyes. He asked me, same as before, “Need a hand?” 

I… [ clears throat, embarrassed ] I screamed, pretty loudly, and the man straightened up from where he’d been bent down to look me in the face. I think he frowned at me. Its face did something weird, at least. And then he told me that I was very rude. It… it actually called me archivist when addressing me, actually. I didn’t think much of it before, but in hindsight is a bit weird, isn’t it? I mean, I guess, technically, I could be called archivist, but it’s not really—

Anyway, right. Yes, he– it– he called me rude. I think I cursed at him a bit, and then I asked him to let me go. 

He just laughed, and said, “Not yet, archivist. You’re too good a snack to spare so easily. I think I’ll keep you for a bit longer.” 

Suffice to say, that freaked me out pretty badly. I think I tried to hit it? I lunged at it, and he caught me easily within its huge hands, pointed like his fingers had been sharpened into blades or corkscrews. It raked one hand down my face, and while I was busy clutching at the bleeding cuts, he… well, it disappeared. 

My face hurt, and I could feel the blood, hot and wet and sticky, dripping down my face. But when I pulled my hands off my face, they came away clean. Like there was no blood at all. Like there was nothing there at all. Except I could feel it, still. Making its way sluggishly down my face. I sat there for a long while, long enough that the walls and the ceiling and the floor were all changed by the time I came back to my senses. 

It… it went on like that, for so long. I… you said I was only missing for two days, didn’t you?

SASHA
Yes. You broke into Gertrude’s flat on the 12th, went missing on the 15th. Today is the 18th. You didn’t text me on 15th night— well, technically 16th morning, about the strange noises. But I just assumed that it meant you weren’t woken up in the middle of the night. But then you didn’t come into work on the 16th, didn’t respond to any texts by any of us. We tried calling you as well, but there was no answer. We, um. We went to your flat as well. 

JON
[ lost ] You did? 

SASHA
[ embarrassed but determined ] Yes. I found your address from the employee records. All your information is there. And you were already being stalked by some weird ghost thing, right? We were all worried. So, we went to your flat. All three of us, but it was locked. It didn’t look like you’d made it home at all. We were going to wait one more day before calling the police, but we tried to do our investigation as well. We tried to trace your steps a bit, checked the train timings, the station you got off at. I hacked into the security footage for the station, and you got off at your station. You were fine, there. So whatever happened, probably happened on your route home. 

JON
[ soft ] Oh. 

SASHA
We… we met him. The blond man. 

JON
You what?

SASHA
The second time we went to your building, he was there. Leaning against the wall of the main entrance. Smiling at us. We ignored him at first, but then he spoke, asked us if we were looking for someone. When I asked him who he was, he said we could call him Michael. 

JON
Michael?

SASHA
I know, it feels like too big of a coincidence to ignore, right? Michael Shelley. I thought so too. But I didn’t bring it up right then. And either way, Michael is a fairly common name, isn’t it? So I didn’t spare it much thought. I was sure he wasn’t human. And if he had been before, it wasn’t anymore. So, I asked him what it was. And he laughed this really horrid laugh before spouting some bullshit about how a melody would describe itself if asked. I was ready to storm off in anger when Tim asked Michael whether he knew where you were. 

JON
And did he answer?

SASHA
I mean, I suppose? He just said yes. And then fell silent. Obviously, we all burst out at that, demanding to know where you were, he just grinned, opened the door to the building, and went through, shutting it in our faces. When we opened the door to go after him, he was gone. 

JON
And I was there.

SASHA
And you were there. [ a deep breath ] Jon, you looked terrible when we saw you. 

JON
[ sarcastic ] Thank you. 

SASHA
No, really. There was blood all over you. You were still bleeding from your nose when you stumbled into us. You could barely stand. Tim literally had to carry you the short distance from the door to the cab we booked. And the blood didn’t slow down until we’d reached the Institute. And then there were the cuts across your face. Scabbed over, but still present. You’d been gone for two days, Jon. We were so fucking worried. 

JON
Sasha…

SASHA
[ a small sniff ] Sorry, I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t mean— anyway, um. Do you want to continue your statement?

JON
[ a pause ] There’s not much left. The next time I saw him, he just… appeared. I’d been dragging my nails across the walls to see if my nails would break off or leave any sort of mark on the walls. He was just… there, and he told me that I was being rude again, damaging someone who had invited you in themselves. That’s the phrasing he had used. To be honest, I was so far gone at that point that the sentence didn’t even freak me out, like his earlier one about a snack had. 

I just stared at him tiredly, and he started laughing. This really loud, awful, shrieking laugh. Like several people laughing at once, but trying to make it sound both natural yet come out in perfect sync. And failing spectacularly at it. It made my head hurt, and my nose start to bleed. Over the sound of his laughter, I heard the sound of a door creaking open. It felt loud, easily heard over his laugh. And, well. And then I saw you. 

SASHA
Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?

JON
I’m sure. I doubt the doctors would be able to do anything against a supernaturally caused nose bleed anyway, and the bleeding’s stopped. Martin took care of the cuts as well, so it’s fine. 

SASHA
[ fiercely ] It’s not fine, Jon! You were kidnapped by some weird monster, and we could do nothing to help you. You were trapped there for who knows how long! You’d already given a statement, we knew there was something wrong, we knew you were being– being followed or something! And we didn’t do anything to keep you safe. 

JON
[ gently ] You did, though. You did your best. We didn’t know what was going to happen. And it’s… alright, maybe it’s not fine, but I’m here now, right? 

SASHA
Right. Yes, yes you are. And we’re going to take some new measures too, now. You’re not going back to your building again. Not for the next few days. You’ll stay with one of us. And… and none of us will be alone. I don’t want any of us alone. Alright? We’ll have a meeting about it, to make sure everyone’s on board, but I’m sure they’ll all agree. 

We’re going to my house right now. We’re gonna get you cleaned up properly, get some solid food in you, and make sure you get some rest. And then we’ll figure out a plan of action. 

[SILENCE FOR A FEW SECONDS] 

JON
[ voice soft ] Alright. 

SASHA
Good. 

[CHAIR SCRAPES AGAINST THE FLOOR]

[FOOTSTEPS] 

SASHA
Just lean on me a bit, okay? You’re still a bit weak on your legs, and I don’t want you falling. 

JON
[ grumbling ] Yes, alright— oh, Sasha, the recorder’s still running. 

SASHA
What? Oh! Right. Recording ends, I guess. 

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

When Tim first saw Jon through that doorway, covered in blood, clearly delirious, barely able to recognise them, barely even able to stand— Tim had frozen. 

He’d always cursed this response, the way he always froze, forget fight or flight, Tim was fucking useless when it came to people he cared about being in danger. He’d frozen when it happened with Danny, and he’d frozen when it happened with Jon. 

So, he’d frozen, just stuck there, staring, his brain blue screening on him. He’d watched uncomprehendingly as Martin had shouted, as Sasha had shouted, and as Jon had stumbled towards them and called out, “Tim?” 

Tim’s not even sure if his was the only name Jon called out or if it was the only name that jolted him out of his state of complete motionlessness. 

At that, he would have loved to remain frozen and just go off in his head, berating himself for fucking up yet another time by not springing into action quicker, letting someone else die, just doing nothing, just piling up on the body count he seems to be building up. But somehow, some way, by some fucking miracle, he’d found it in himself to move, to catch Jon, to not let go even as Jon squirmed and struggled at first, to carry him towards the car even when the blood pouring from Jon’s nose made his hands slipper and harder to hold onto Jon with. 

He hadn’t messed up, not this time. 

They’d gotten out, they’d mostly even stopped his nose bleed, bandaged up his face, and made him drink at least half a mug of water before letting him give his statement to Sasha. 

Those two were unbelievable when it came to the whole archiving job, recording and evidence and ‘ this kind of thing is important, Tim.’ 

Tim couldn’t even bring himself to make fun of them for it, though. He was just glad they were both feeling okay enough to actually go through the whole recording spiel. Because he remembered Sasha’s face when they’d realised Jon was missing. He remembered it, that awful expression she’d made, the one with all the guilt and anger and horror, everything so messed and intertwined that Tim didn’t know what to do with it, how to fix it, how to bring Jon back. 

He’d probably worn a similar expression. 

After all, wasn’t it his job to go with Jon to the station? To make sure the man being stalked by a supernatural entity got home safely? Hadn’t he ignored the signs once before? Why hadn’t he taken it seriously the second time? 

He hadn’t had the time to berate himself while carrying Jon’s mostly prone body to the Institute, and he hadn’t had time to berate himself when listening to the recording of his statement in the car ride to Sasha’s house, and he hadn’t had time in the middle either, reeling with the sheer shock of everything, of all the blood he’d never wanted to see. Least of all coming out of someone he considered a friend. 

But right now, sitting on Sasha’s beat up couch, with Jon leaning against him, eyes fixed on the television which was playing some kind of soap, Tim had all the time in the world to figure out what in the hell was wrong with him. 

Jon was alive now, warm against him, even as he shivered the tiniest bit, while Martin puttered about in the kitchen and Sasha in her room, getting towels and blankets and some clothes for Jon. 

This easily could have been another day trying to chase up on useless leads looking for Jon, or talking to cops who couldn’t care less about anything that sounds remotely supernatural, or perhaps— 

And this was the bit that always made Tim feel like his heart was about to shrivel right up inside his chest— that perhaps they wouldn’t have found Jon alive at all. That Michael would have dumped Jon’s body in a dumpster somewhere, left behind to be found days later by some unfortunate folk. 

Would they even have found out at all? From what Tim knew, Jon didn’t really have any immediate family. He hadn’t even had his phone on him at the time. Would anyone have thought to inform his place of employment? Would they have found out through some sensationalised news report about an unidentified body found?

It haunted him, made it hard to breathe, but he did. He inhaled, and counted, and he counted again as he exhaled. He did it because he couldn’t afford to freak out. He shouldn’t be freaking out. Jon should have the monopoly on freaking out, at least for now. He’d been the one to spend countless days within some kind of fucked up nightmare corridors. What right did Tim have to have a panic attack?

“Bethany is an idiot,” Jon mumbled, startling Tim out of his spiralling thoughts. He turned his head, smushing his face against Tim’s shoulder. 

“What?” Tim asked blankly. 

“She didn’t even try to see the face of the person she thinks Paul is cheating on her with,” he muttered, the words coming out a bit muffled. Tim still didn’t quite understand, not until he looked at the screen in front of him and– oh. 

Was Jon actually paying attention to it? They’d put it on mostly for the background noise, because the place felt too quiet. Because all of them were restless and didn’t know what to do and Jon didn’t want to be alone or in silence. 

Tim felt a giggle bubble up in his chest, and mostly managed to keep it in. He couldn’t keep the amusement from leaking into his voice when he spoke, though, “But then where will all the drama come from, Jon? We need to raise the stakes.” 

Jon mumbled something incoherently into his shirt, and this time Tim let himself chuckle a little. He felt his shoulders loosen up a bit, too. 

Jon was alive. Jon was alive. Jon was alive. 

“Hey,” Sasha said, coming into the room carrying a bundle of clothes and a towel, “I’ve got some sweatpants and a shirt for you. The sweats might be a bit too long, but you can just fold up the ends. The shower’s at the end of the hallway.” 

Jon picked his head up and looked at Sasha blearily, then at the bundle in her arms. It was quiet except for the sound of Bethany and Paul having a row, before he said slowly, “Alright.” 

He pushed himself off of Tim, getting up on unsteady feet. Tim got up too, ready to catch Jon if it looked like he might fall over. There were too many sharp edges here for him to fall safely. 

Jon threw him a look, but also grabbed onto the arm Tim extended for balance. 

Sasha looked a bit worried, “I do have a railing in the shower, so it should help you stay upright, but also, just… please call out if something happens, Jon, and… I don’t want to treat you like– like a child, or an invalid, but—”

“I’ll keep the door unlocked, okay?” Jon said quietly, not looking at Sasha. “It’s fine. I’m capable of knowing my own limits.” Then, probably realising what he’d just said, he scowled a bit, “Most of the time.”

At least the man was self aware, Tim thought fondly as he helped him to the shower. 

It wasn’t a long walk, and Jon was already looking steadier on his feet as he took the clothes from Sasha’s hands and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Sasha looked at Tim, and he shrugged at her, then promptly sat down on the floor in front of the bathroom. Because if Jon did end up falling and hitting his head or something, he might not actually be able to call out for help at all.

He wasn’t… he wasn’t going to leave Jon alone. Not yet. Not ever, if possible. But he tried not to examine that thought too closely. 

Sasha smiled a bit, and said, “I think I need to help Martin find the fresh milk. I hope he didn’t use the spoilt one. We’ll order take away after Jon’s done, so he can weigh in his options.” 

Tim nodded, and then she was off. 

Or, well, she tried to leave, but then the door to the bathroom creaked open the tiniest bit, and a small voice called out, “Um, Tim? Sasha?”

Tim was on his feet so fast he almost got a head rush. “What is it?” he asked, while Sasha hurried even closer, and Jon swung the door wider open. 

His face looked drawn and ragged, and it sent Tim’s stomach plummeting. He repeated, “Jon, what happened? Are you alright?”

“It’s… um…” Unexpectedly, there was the smallest of blushes rising up in Jon’s cheeks, and Tim frowned a bit. “I know it’s a bit stupid, but the… er, the mirror, in the bathroom, could you–?” He cleared his throat, looking away from both of them, and Tim felt a grimace climb on his face. 

Sasha swore, “Oh, fuck. Right, I’m sorry. Would covering the mirror work? I can use a spare towel to cover it.” 

Jon fidgeted with his fingers a bit, his shoulders, which had nearly climbed up to his ears, slumped. “Yes please, and thank you. I’m sorry about this, it’s just—”

Sasha held up a hand, “You don’t have to explain yourself, okay? I’ll just cover the mirror. It’s all good.” 

Jon nodded, looking relieved. Tim wanted to reach out and touch, to soothe him. Whatever he was doing with his fingers looked painful, almost. The twisting and pulling. But it’s fine. Tim just felt a little stupid, because of course mirrors would be a bad idea, given all the corridors and all the fucked up mirrors. 

It didn’t take long for Sasha to come back, carrying another towel in her hand as she bustled past Jon into the bathroom and quickly tucked the top ends of the towel under a few heavy bottles of detergent and floor cleaner kept above the mirrored cabinet. 

Embarrassment coloured Jon’s face as he watched Sasha work, so Tim just bumped Jon gently on the shoulder, smiling at him but not staring long. He retreated when Jon relaxed a bit. No need to scrutinise him, no matter how much he wanted to stare like a hawk. The man already had issues with asking for help. Even asking for the mirrors to be covered was a huge feat for him; Tim didn’t want to put him off. 

Jon’s shower was fairly quick, and Tim could feel his heart slowing a bit as Jon stepped out of the bathroom, long hair still damp and plastered to his face, hanging limply around him. He’d used Sasha’s green apple shampoo, it seemed, and the rose honey body wash. The steam that erupted from the bathroom was testament to it. 

Tim grinned– Sasha’s clothes positively swallowed Jon, and he looked quite adorable. It also looked extremely comfortable, especially compared to the stiff, blood crusted clothes he’d been wearing before. While Jon’s crips shirts and sweater vests did give Jon a really lovely academia look, Tim had never been under the delusion that it could be comfortable in any sense of the word. 

This was all soft clothes and warm wool that covered most of Jon with room to spare. 

“C’mon,” Tim said, smiling a bit when Jon scowled at him half-heartedly, “We’ve already ordered pizza and some orange chicken. Wanted to leave the last option up to you. Do you have anything in mind?” 

They walked back to the living room, and this time Jon’s gait was a lot more steady, and a lot less of his weight rested upon Tim. Tim was glad that Jon was feeling better, but it did make him feel a little… bereft. Kind of useless, almost. He wanted to do something tangible. 

Jon eased himself down on the couch like some ninety year old grandpa, his joints popping like one as well, making Tim grimace a little. There were already two cups of steaming tea on the table. Jon’s plain, and probably with heaps of sugar, and Tim’s with a splash of milk. 

The tea maker himself was sitting on the plush rug on the floor, nursing his own cup of tea, while Sasha reached over with about two dozen takeout menus and spilled them over in front of Jon. She herself had a huge mug– a bowl, really– of coffee in her hand. 

Tim smiled. That woman took her caffeine with more cream than coffee, and added the sugar to match. She sometimes even poured a few spoonfuls of chocolate syrup in it. Tim had tried it once, and it had actually been quite good. But Tim had never been much of a coffee person, preferring tea himself. Something that Martin had been extremely soothed by after finding out that Sasha would rather a coffee over tea any day. 

“Thanks Martin,” Jon mumbled, while Tim made do with a finger gun in his direction. Martin smiled, but he still looked far too pale. Tim supposed they all did. 

Jon was staring at the pamphlets with some trepidation. 

“Hey,” Tim said gently when Jon made no move to pick up any of them, “Did you already have anything in mind? You don’t have to order from any of these.” 

“Right,” Jon murmured, looking away from the sheets of glossy paper. “I… not really? Can’t you choose?” 

“We already did. Wanted to know your preference too, that’s why we’re ordering multiple things.” 

“Um,” Jon looked around, and nearly flinched when he saw the way Sasha was staring at him. It ended with both of their cheeks darkening as Sasha looked away and Jon cleared his throat. 

Tim understood the sentiment. It did feel like Jon would just disappear from their sights if they took their eyes away for even one full second. That shower had been torturous. 

“Er, have you ordered anything for dessert?” Jon asked. 

“Nope!” Sasha said enthusiastically, “What would you like? I mean, ice cream is a classic, but might not be the best choice in this weather? But hey, I’m not a cop. I’m down to ice cream anytime. Or did you want something hot? I know this place which makes a mean choco lava cake, we could just reheat it in the microwave.” 

“Ice cream sounds fine,” Jon said, looking at Tim and Martin for confirmation. 

“Great! Should we order one large tub or individual cups for everyone?” Sasha was already picking up the phone. “If we do one large tub, we’d need a consensus on the flavour.” 

“Everyone likes chocolate here, right? Everyone for choco chip say aye,” Tim said. 

“Wait, like, regular choco chip or mint choco chip?” Martin asked, and then everyone’s gaze swivelled back to Jon, and Tim wanted to laugh a bit at his deer in headlights expression. He’d just have to get used to the scrutiny though, because Tim had been there when all three of them had started spiralling at the realisation that Jon was missing. They weren’t going to forget that anytime soon. 

“Mint, I suppose?” 

“Lovely!” Sasha said, pressing on the call button and holding the phone up to her head. Tim knew for a fact that she wasn’t quite all that fond of mint choco chip, she thought it was too minty and not chocolatey enough. But no one was going to say no to Jon. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, but today they’d let Jon have at it. 

Jon had picked up his cup of tea and was cradling it in his hands, staring down at it as steam rose gently from it. He looked a little lost, and Tim felt similar. Martin, too, was staring at Jon’s mug of tea a little too intensely. 

Tim cleared his throat, “So, who wants to watch Tangled?” 

“Tangled, really? ” Sasha asked, laughing at Tim even as she put down her phone and went towards her cupboard.

“I’m not the one with the collection of literally three dozen Disney princess movies, Sasha,” Tim said. 

“Yes yes, Tangled is a classic, except you’ve watched it, like, what was it? Fourteen? Yeah, fourteen times now. I’d know, because I was there. ” 

“It is a classic,” Martin said, “I’ve only watched it twice though.” 

And then, once again, they all turned to look at Jon. If this were a show or a movie, there would be a laugh track playing right about now. 

Jon blinked at them all uncomprehendingly, “What?” 

Very patiently, and without any hint of condescension, or any hint that something might be wrong, Sasha said, “How many times have you watched Tangled?” 

Jon blinked again, and Tim was starting to get a little worried. Then he said, “Um, zero?”

“Wait, what?” Tim said, and he realised he’d been a bit too loud when Jon flinched a little. “Sorry, but, like. Never watched it? You haven’t seen Flynn Ryder? You haven’t seen Tangled? ”

“No.”

“Well, we’ll be remedying that right now,” Sasha said briskly, pulling out the CD triumphantly and picking up the TV remote to switch from cable to VCR. “This is a crime against Flynn, Jon. You need to watch it.” 

“I…” Jon looked around, “Alright?” 

“Yup,” Sasha said as she inserted the CD, “Yup yup. There we go.” 

There they went, putting on the movie for Tim and Sasha’s fifteenth watch, for Martin’s third, and Jon’s first. 

The movie was… fine. Good, even. The songs weren’t quite Jon’s type, but even he could see the appeal of Flynn Ryder. Even if he would never say it out loud. He’d just hummed when the others had raised their brows at him– or wriggled them at him, in Tim’s case. 

The visuals were pleasing, at the very least. Even though the storyline was awfully predictable and kind of cliche. 

The food, on the other hand, appealed to Jon greatly. He didn’t know the last time he’d eaten anything. He’d drunk Martin’s tea, yes, but he hadn’t eaten anything since before he went into Michael’s corridors. 

Objectively, he knew his dehydration and starvation were only a matter of two days, the time that had passed in the real world, outside of the hellscape he’d been trapped in. But for him it had been quite a bit longer. It had taken quite a lot out of him to not burst into tears when he’d taken the first bite out of his pizza. 

The crust was thinner than he liked, and pepperoni had always had that sweetish taste to it that had never appealed much to Jon, but god, he’d been fairly certain he was going to die in those corridors, some horrible, unspeakable death there. And he’d been hungry, constantly. 

He knew he wasn’t always the best at keeping track of food. He knew he often got too caught up in his research, in some kind of information rabbit hole, in work. He knew he sometimes forgot to eat and wasn’t all that fussed about it. 

But for some reason, the hunger and thirst had been near impossible to ignore within the corridors, and yet it had never been encompassing enough to truly distract him from the sheer incomprehensibility of the halls he traversed. 

The food was good, and the tea was amazing, and Jon was starting to feel like maybe none of this was real at all. 

He heard the bell ring, but for a moment couldn’t really put the sound in place as the ‘doorbell ringing’ in his head. It just felt like noise to him. He startled a bit when Sasha got to her feet to answer the door, and he watched her walk towards it. She was wearing a long brown woolen skirt and a baggy jumper a shade lighter than the skirt. He looked at the way the fabric moved as she walked, and his vision swam a little. 

He slowly set down his plate and fork on the table. He’d taken a few bites of the orange chicken. It had tasted good, maybe. It certainly smelled good. And he could feel the tangy aftertaste in his mouth. But he didn’t quite remember actually eating it. 

He suddenly felt cold, despite the warm clothes Sasha had leant him. 

“Jon?” Tim said. At least, Jon thought Tim said. Jon turned his gaze away from where Sasha was coming back. She had something in her hands. 

Probably the ice cream, Jon realised after a few moments. Right, they’d ordered mint chocolate chip ice cream, hadn’t they? He liked mint choco chip. He remembered several nights he’d spent with Georgie just shovelling ice cream into their mouths instead of having a proper dinner. 

They should do that again sometime, probably.  

He didn’t know where his phone was. He hadn’t even seen the Admiral’s pictures in so long. He needed to text her. They’d been talking more lately, she might get worried if he went radio silent on her. 

Would she have noticed him missing at all?

His hand felt warm, and he looked down to see another large hand holding his, the skin darker than his own. He followed it up to Sasha’s face, her brows creased in concern, “Jon?” 

“Yes?” he said. 

“Do you know where you are?” she asked. And he nodded, then paused, then shook his head. And then he shrugged. 

“I… not in Michael’s corridors,” he settled on saying when Sasha’s face did something that made Jon feel bad. 

He knew these weren’t Michael’s corridors because he was always alone in them. And he’d been cold. And there had been no couches, and he was fairly certain he was sitting on a couch right now. 

But maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe this was all a lie, some new torture cooked up. After all, giving a tiny bit of hope before snatching it away made for better terror than not having any hope at all, right? It was a classic trope.

He stared at Sasha’s face. “Probably,” he tacked on belatedly. 

Maybe-Sasha’s face crumpled a bit, “Probably?”

Jon frowned, “Almost definitely. I mean, if we looked at the facts, at the things I can feel right now, and see right now, and hear right now, then I’m probably not in the corridors. But also, how much can I really trust my senses here, right? The corridors have a way of making you question yourself. That was one of the first lessons I learned when I was inside, you know? Don’t trust what you see. Don’t trust what you feel. And don’t trust what you hear either.” 

Someone made a choked off noise towards his right, but Jon didn’t dare turn towards them. Sasha’s face was doing something weird again, but it felt the tiniest bit grounding. Jon wouldn’t put his finger on it if asked, it rather felt a bit like a spooked animal, that if Jon pointed it out, reality would slip away from him. 

But something about it all made everything feel the tiniest bit more real than the moment before. 

He swallowed, “Um, did you get the ice cream?” 

Sasha nodded, “Yes, I did. Jon, is there anything I can do to convince you that this is real?” 

“I don’t know,” Jon said. At least he wasn’t feeling hungry. He’d always felt hungry in the corridors. Which meant he’d just eaten food. Which meant he wasn’t in the corridors because there was no food in there. At least, no real food. No food that would make Jon feel not hungry. His eyes roamed about a bit and landed back on his plate of orange chicken. 

Had he eaten his entire slice of pizza? He couldn’t see a half eaten slice anywhere near, so he probably had. 

The loss of time discomfited Jon horribly, and he tried not to glance down at his left wrist. He’d taken off his watch when he’d gone to shower, he remembered that much. There would be nothing on his wrist. The watch was ruined anyway– it worked backwards now. Ticking rhythmically, in sync with the clock on Sasha’s wall. He’d know, he’d counted, he’d looked and checked and rechecked. The seconds, minutes, and hours hand all moved as was perfectly normal for a watch– only his wrist watch moved anti clockwise. Backwards. 

The thing probably belonged in artefact storage now. 

“I think I’m okay,” he said quietly. 

“Right,” Sasha said, “Right. Um, Tim, could you grab a few spoons from the kitchen. I think we could all just share the tub, right?” 

“Righto, Sash,” Tim said. Or, well, Jon assumed Tim said. The voice sounded like Tim, at least, if a little strained. 

Jon cast his gaze about a bit for Martin. He’d accounted for Sasha, and for Tim, he needed to account for Martin as well. 

To Jon’s surprise, Martin was actually kneeling next to the couch as well, quite near to where Sasha herself knelt in front of Jon. How had he not noticed him before? Goodness, was his peripheral vision really that terrible? 

Sasha squeezed his hand, snapping his attention back to herself. “Do you maybe want to come down on the rug as well? Couch’s not big enough to hold all four of us at once, and I’ll move the coffee table so we can all sprawl out.” 

Jon slid off the couch. 

The rug on Sasha’s floor was really nothing at all like the floor of Michael’s corridors. Or what could have conceivable been the floors. Layouts didn’t always make sense in there, if ever. Comfort had no place there, and Sasha’s rug was the very definition of it. Plush, soft, and warm. He sank his fingers into it, staring at the way his fingers almost seemed to disappear into it. 

He could hear himself breathing, and then there was warmth on either side of him as Sasha and Martin smushed into his sides, and then someone guided his hand around a spoon, which he clutched at desperately. He was starting to realise something was wrong. 

Not with the room, or wherever he was, but with himself. That he needed to snap out of this. 

“Have the first bite, Jon,” Tim encouraged, thrusting the cold, and absolutely humongous tub of ice cream at him. It didn’t touch Jon at all. He didn’t think he’d have been able to bear it if the cold, wet surface of the plastic tub had hit his skin in any way. 

He slowly took a bite. It tasted exactly like he’d expect mint chocolate chip to taste like. 

The taste of it brought such a burst of relief through him that he was hardly able to breathe for a moment, he hardly even swallowed the one spoonful he'd taken. Then he took another, even as the sudden shock of cold made his head ache. 

“Did you know buttermilk is sometimes used as a natural emulsifier in ice cream?” Jon asked suddenly. He’s a bit surprised at the sound of his own voice, it was always a toss up if the sound that’d come out of his mouth in the corridors was his own or someone else's. The fear of hearing something that was not him had been enough to keep him from screaming most of the time. 

“Oh?” Martin said, “I only knew about egg yolk.” 

Jon nodded, “That’s another. Of course, most ice cream companies don’t really bother with natural emulsifiers, sticking to the chemical one’s like polysorbate 80.” 

“That should be easy enough to check,” Tim said, turning the ice cream tub to look at the ingredients list, sticking his spoon in his mouth and holding it there as he used both hands to turn the tub. 

The mintiness of the ice cream was spreading through his mouth, pleasant and cold and sweet. Grounding him just as much as the press of warm bodies against his own. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: The Virgin Sacrifice

Jon was stapling papers. 

He sat on his desk, with a box full of loose statement sheets, and he stapled them. 

Technically, he shouldn’t even be at work right now. Sasha had wanted to give him a few days off to recover, but no one wanted to leave Jon alone any more than he wanted to be left alone, so he’d tagged along. This time he was wearing some of Tim’s clothes that he’d brought. Slightly more professional than the jumper-sweatpants combo he’d been wearing at Sasha’s house, but still not really the epitome of what Jon would call work attire. 

The sound of Tim typing away at his laptop, of Martin making phone calls in the breakroom, and of the clock ticking in the archives was soothing. It was familiar and was completely dissimilar to anything he’d heard within the corridors. 

And of course, there was the Duchess, perched in his lap, purring loud enough that it rumbled through Jon. He’d occasionally reach down a hand to give her scritches, or drag a hand down her back, and she’d arc and purr louder. 

He’d missed her. He’d missed her so much and he’d been so afraid that she might want nothing to do with him after he got out–if he ever got out– from that place. 

They hadn’t yet gone back to his place, and while Jon would have really liked to put on his own clothes, he didn’t think he was quite ready to go back either, not unless he wanted to scale the wall and climb in through the window instead of using the building entrance. 

He didn’t trust his athletic abilities enough to give that option more than a passing thought. 

It needed to be done sometime, he couldn’t keep wearing his coworkers clothes, and he couldn’t keep sleeping at someone else’s house. 

And he couldn’t keep putting them in danger in case Michael came back for an encore. 

Although convincing them of that would be quite hard. 

Maybe they thought they were being subtle, or maybe they just didn’t care enough to be subtle in the first place, but Jon had caught all of them looking at him at one point or the other. An intense stare, like they couldn’t believe he was there, like they would rather he never left their sights at all. 

He was reminded of the few papers he’d read on quantum physics, about the observer effect. How an electron might change the way it behaves depending on whether it’s being observed or not. 

Some other time, maybe Jon would have minded it. Maybe he’d have felt like he was being coddled. Being put on stapling duty kind of felt like proof of that. Sasha had even told him that he didn’t have to do it, that it wasn’t anything urgent, and if he wanted to just lie on the shitty break room couch and play with the Duchess, then that was fine as well. 

Instead of snapping at her that he didn’t need to be treated like fragile glass, Jon had just murmured something about wanting to do something solid with his hands and taken the box from her. So, he sat and stapled. 

The Duchess kept reminding him of the Admiral. And the fact that he didn’t have his phone on him. He really needed to find a way to contact Georgie, tell her he was alright, and say hi to the Admiral. 

Logically, he knew it hadn’t been that long. Only about five days since his last text to Georgie. That she probably wouldn’t start worrying properly until at least a whole week had passed, but Jon still found it hard to wrap his mind around the fact that he’d only been gone for two days. 

That the entirety of the horrors he’d experienced inside those corridors were packed neatly within a span of two days. It was disproportionate, and it felt unfair. 

He knew it would have been worse if he’d actually been missing for several months, of course he knew that. Objectively, being missing for so long would have been bad. He might have been evicted from his house, Elias might have fired him as a no show– or something. 

Well, that was a bit convoluted, given Michael Shelley and Fiona Law were still, technically, employed, but whatever. 

It still felt unfair. It felt like it undermined everything he’d suffered in there. The better thing to wish for would have been that he’d spent only two days in there. To have only experienced two days in there, exactly as it had happened. His mind apparently didn’t agree. 

He just breathed and stapled and tried not to think about it. Two days lost, and what had he gotten in exchange? Months worth of nightmares. 

He could probably email Georgie, but that felt horridly formal. 

Besides, he didn’t even have his laptop on him anymore. He’d lost both things when he’d gone into the hallways. 

God, a new laptop would eat a chunk out of his budget. Not only did the supernatural corridors have to give him trauma, they had to take his laptop to boot. It was like salt on fresh wounds, and he’d certainly cursed Michael enough for it already. 

Trauma he could deal with, he’d been dealing with it since he’d been eight years old, but losing his laptop stung. It had had so much of his things saved up on it, things including some papers and documentaries that he’d really been looking forward to. 

If he’d had his laptop, he might have even taken Sasha up on the offer to sit in the breakroom and do nothing. Doubtful, but right now he didn’t even have the option. 

He sighed, and continued stapling. God, Gertrude’s disorganisation never failed to astonish him. 

He hadn’t said it to Sasha yet, although he was fairly certain she’d probably thought of it herself already, but sometimes he wondered if actively trying to organise the archives might just be a bit of a bad idea. That perhaps there might be some reason that Gertrude had kept it like this. That perhaps a proper organisation might tip them over into something they should rather avoid. 

Goodness, maybe he should have gone to the library instead, checked out a book or two and read. He’d asked Sasha for some work because he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, except the stapling was so tedious and mindless that he found his thoughts wandering anyway. 

When the department phone rang, Jon nearly stapled his fingers together with the sheets. He cursed a bit, dropping the stapler on the table and glaring at the phone as Tim went over to pick it up. 

“Hey, this is the Archives,” he said, which probably wasn’t how you were supposed to pick up calls to the department phone but Jon didn’t actually know what was the right way, so it’s not like he had a leg to stand on. 

“Hey Rosie,” Tim said after a moment, and then his face paled so fast that for a moment Jon was afraid he was going to pass out. “Are you, uh. Are you sure? Like, is it urgent?”

Jon got up, the Duchess putting on a token protest before she hopped off his lap and disappeared into the break room. He walked over to Tim, half hoping he might be able to figure out what was being said on the other end, but Rosie’s voice was an indecipherable murmur. 

The glance Tim threw his way had Jon tensing, “Right, um. I mean, I suppose he’ll have to be, no?” Tim gave a nervous laughter, “Alright, thanks Rosie. Have a good day.”

Then he hung up, and just stared at Jon with an expression of mild panic that sent alarm bells ringing in Jon’s head. 

“What is it?” he asked, and was really surprised when his voice came out even. 

Tim shook his head, “We should discuss it with the entire team.” Then he grabbed Jon’s hand in his own and pulled him towards Sasha’s office, calling out for Martin to join them for an emergency as he went. 

This didn’t sound good. It didn’t sound good at all. 

“Tim, what—” Sasha said as they burst into the room with Martin, who’d somehow ended whatever call he’d been on and ran towards her office as well. 

“Elias wants to have a meeting with Jon,” Tim announced, and Jon’s heart, which had currently been in his throat, plummeted down to his stomach. 

“ Shit,” Sasha said, pushing away her laptop and standing up, “Shit.” 

“Yes, exactly,” Tim said grimly, and Jon stood there, feeling a bit numb. 

He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to take the walk to Elias’ office and sit there with the portrait of Jonah Magnus staring down at him, and he wasn’t ready to play whatever word games the man might concoct, and he wasn’t ready to be scrutinised by the man Jon had stalked enough to know that he’d been suspended from his university for a week for trying to sell weed on campus. 

“Okay,” Sasha said, “Okay, okay. Did you, um, try cancelling?” 

“Rosie said it’s important, and that Elias had been really insistent.” 

“Fuck.” 

“I can…” Jon started tentatively, “I can handle it.” 

“You shouldn’t have to, Jon,” Sasha said, looking incredibly frustrated, “You shouldn’t even be at work today. You should have been resting. God, any of us could have stayed back with you. We were idiots. Of course Elias is going to question your absence the last three days. He’s nosey like that, isn’t he?”

“When’s the meeting, Tim?” Martin asked hesitantly from where he’d been trying his hardest to unravel the jumper he was wearing with his bare hands. “Do we have time to plan what we want Jon to tell him?”

“In ten minutes,” Tim said, and this time both Martin and Sasha cursed. 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Jon asked tentatively, before instantly regretting that decision. Because his mind conjured up the worst possible scenarios. Maybe he’d be fired. Or maybe Elias would murder him. Were there any cameras in Elias’ office? He wasn’t sure. But did it even matter if there were cameras or not? He was head of the institute, he could just delete or fabricate new footage. 

“Can we invent an emergency or something?” Tim asked, “We can say he got sick. Sick enough that one of us had to drop him off home, maybe?”

“We might be just blowing it out of proportion?” Jon blurted, trying to remove the image of Elias lunging at Jon with a pen in hand from his head. Because what the fuck would Elias even gain from killing him? The most plausible outcome seemed to be imminent unemployment. And… that was bad, yes. 

But being trapped in supernatural nightmare corridors for an indeterminable amount of time had a funny way of putting things into perspective, didn’t it?

He was more worried about opening Elias’ door and accidentally stepping back into those corridors than anything else. 

“I…” Sasha rubbed a hand across her face, “Yeah, probably. But we know there’s something weird going on in the archives, and we know Elias is probably quite aware of it as well. And with his entire thing with trying to make you the head archivist, it doesn’t really invite a lot of trust, does it?”

“I’m not saying we trust him, it’s just. No need to mount a rescue mission, yeah? You can do it if I’m not back in thirty minutes,” Jon said, even as his heart beat a staccato rhythm in his chest.

“Jon, maybe you’re joking but we’re absolutely rushing in guns blazing if you’re not back in thirty minutes,” Tim said, and he even sounded mostly serious. Martin nodded too, and he looked a lot more serious than Tim.

Jon smiled nervously, “Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said, then glanced at the clock. “I should probably leave now.” 

Sasha stared at him very intensely as he stood there, not moving. And then she nodded, “Right. God, I really hope it’s all just a bit of harmless needling or whatever gives Elias the kicks.” 

“Yes, yes. Okay, see you,” Jon said, a touch awkward, then turned to leave. 

Jon walked up the stairs, and passed Rosie in the reception area, where she smiled at him, her usual, professional smile. Something Jon called the ‘customer care’ smile. It only served to make him more nervous. 

But at least Rosie, too, knew about his meeting with Elias. And he knew for a fact that she kept meticulous records of who went in and out of his office, even impromptu meetings, and especially meetings arranged by Elias himself. So, if Jon did end up disappearing under mysterious circumstances, Rosie would be one more witness. 

He shook off the morbid thoughts and tried to smooth out the sweater he was wearing, a really fluffy thing that didn’t quite go all that well with his usual style. His trousers, too, were rolled up once so as to not catch on his feet with every step. 

Wishing he were wearing his own clothes, he tugged at the jumper a little bit, then immediately stopped when it threatened to slip off his shoulder entirely. Maybe he should have taken Tim or Martin up on their offer of staying home with him, but he’d been an idiot who’d not wanted their own work to be disrupted because of Jon, and since no one would budge on the topic of not leaving Jon alone, he’d come into work. 

Jon really, really didn’t want to meet Elias. 

None of them had yet informed the man of what had happened, and Jon wasn’t sure how much he ought to. He hadn’t given them any time to prepare at all. None of them had been able to come up with some sort of plan on the fly. 

They didn’t know what Elias wanted, but it couldn’t be good. And everyone's agitation was really starting to get to him. Elias had always been an… intense man. But something had changed after he’d been given the proposal for the promotion. After he’d rejected the promotion. And it certainly felt like it had changed for the worse, although he couldn’t be sure. 

Elias had been perfectly cordial, of course. He’d been pleasant. And people generally didn’t think of promotions as something threatening. 

His own fault for trying to work at a place like the Magnus Institute, Jon supposed. What did he expect from an Institute dedicated to studying the esoteric and the paranormal? A normal work environment? It was literally in the name. And nothing had been normal even in the Research Department. 

He just never had to deal with Elias so closely before. Not since his initial interview where he’d been given the job as Researcher. Where he’d already been intimidated by the man. 

When he reached Elias’ door, he took a few moments outside it, just standing and staring at the carved wooden door, the ornate door handle, and taking deep breaths. The door was the same as it had been when Jon had come in for the first time, twenty four years old, fresh faced and terrified. 

He was still terrified. But he could be reasonably certain that this door wouldn’t lead to an endless corridor with horrible decor that would give any interior designer an aneurysm. 

He knocked, three short, rapid knocks, completely different from the way Mr. Spider had knocked, and almost immediately, Elias’s voice called out, “Come in.” 

Jon half expected the door to swing open ominously of its own accord, but no. He had to put his hand on the door handle and twist it down, pushing the door open, where he paused for a second to see if what was on the other side was actually Elias’ office or not. 

It was; large portrait of Jonah Magnus included. 

He went in, and sat down stiffly when Elias gestured towards the chair.

“Hello, Jon,” he said, a smile on his face, and a gleam in his eyes, despite the slightly concerned furrow to his brows. Jon didn’t trust it one bit. 

“Good morning,” Jon said. 

“I apologise for having a meeting this early in the morning, but Rosie informed me that you’d come into work today. Yesterday too, if I’m not wrong? But that probably shouldn’t count, considering it was only briefly and that you hadn’t looked very good,” Elias said, “Are you alright?” 

Jon coughed, once, and tried to meet Elias’ eyes as he nodded. 

“Are you sure? You’re usually not one to take leaves, from what I know. You've always had an excellent work ethic, something I really admire about you. It was one of the reasons I wanted to give you the position of the head archivist.” 

Oh, there we go again, Jon thought. Again with the position thing. Surely he can’t still be trying to get him into that post, right? Surely not. Elias wouldn’t do Sasha dirty like that, not after she’s had this position for more than a month already. He tried to focus on that part of the sentence, and rather staunchly ignored the fact that Elias admired his work ethic. 

But it probably meant he wasn’t going to be fired, right? Elias wouldn’t fire someone he thought had a good work ethic? Maybe all those days working himself into exhaustion and leaving way past his mandatory work hours would pay off. 

They were paying off, Jon reminded himself. Too well. 

Belatedly, Jon realised Elias was staring at him expectantly, waiting for a response. 

Jon cleared his throat, “Thank you.” He suppressed a cringe at how awkward he sounded, and the fact that he hadn’t answered his question at all. 

Elias nodded anyway, “I heard there was quite a bit of blood involved? When you came in yesterday, I mean.” 

“Ah,” Jon said, “Yes. It’s fine now. I had an… unfortunate encounter. I’ve already given a statement about it.” 

“Oh?” Elias said, his brows going up. He sounded surprised, just a little bit. “Can I ask what it was about?” 

No, I’d really not recall it further, thank you. 

“I was trapped in these, erm, inexplicably designed corridors for a couple days,” he said instead, the words pulled out of him like someone was trying to pull out his teeth. 

Elias blinked, “That sounds… harrowing.” 

Sure. That’s one word for it, supposedly. Jon nodded. 

“Well,” Elias steepled his fingers together, “I’m not an unreasonable man. I can give you a few days off work to recover, if you’d like. It would be paid, of course.” 

“No,” Jon said quickly, “No, that’s… that’s fine. I don’t need any days off. I’m fine.” 

He rather doubted that Elias’ reason would extend to giving anyone else in the archives a few days off, and he’d really rather not be alone. He knew that the others would be willing to take unpaid leave to help him. They’d already offered that today, but he already felt like a horrible inconvenience for everything already, and the weird panic attack he’d had the night before; he’d rather not add other things on top. 

“Somehow I expected you’d say that,” Elias said, sighing, like he was disappointed. But not too disappointed, “You’re very dedicated to your job.”

It’s really not about the work ethic, Jon thought, but didn’t say. Because if Elias wanted to assume that, then why not let him? It could be a good thing, right?

“I’d like to extend the head archivist position to you again, Jon,” Elias continued, and Jon’s heart sank. Of course it couldn’t be a good thing. Why would it be a good thing. When was it ever a good thing. Should he maybe start working less? Taking more days off? Come into work later? Would that put Elias off his back? Or would it just make him fire Jon? “I’m sure you’re well aware of the state Gertrude left the archives in, and I could really use someone like you in that job.” 

“I think Sasha’s doing a good job,” Jon blurted, and then couldn’t quite suppress his wince. Contradicting Elias probably wasn’t a good thing. But he didn’t really regret saying it either, because what the hell? Why would Elias say that when Sasha was doing such an admirable job already?

“There’s nothing wrong with what she’s doing, of course, but her progress has been…” Elias hummed, and Jon felt his eye twitch, “A bit lacking, you could say. She isn’t quite as dedicated to the task at hand that I feel like you would be. She hasn’t made audio recordings for several of the files that don’t record digitally, has she? That’s something I wish she’d focus on. She can be driven, I know, but she often focuses on the wrong things.” There was a condescending smile on his face, small, like he knew something Jon didn’t. 

And Jon felt very cold. 

There were a lot of words in his mouth, because why the hell didn’t Elias intervene with Gertrude if he’s so inclined to meddling with the archives? What was the hurry about recording the statements? And they were making progress on the statements. He’d himself recorded several dozen statements on his laptop. The ones that didn’t record digitally often took a lot longer on the follow up, for some reason, which meant they were taking a bit longer. 

He didn’t know why Elias thought he’d be better at the job. Especially after Jon literally told him about being kidnapped by some monster. That has to be detrimental to productivity, hasn’t it?

He didn’t say any of that, though. It felt like a bad idea, for some reason. He didn’t know. And there was dread crawling up his spine, because Elias knew. Didn’t he? He knew about their little side project. The one which included Jon trying to stalk Elias. 

Except Elias was still trying to get him into the head archivist position. 

The position was cursed, wasn’t it? It was definitely cursed and Elias wanted him in that position to… what? Maybe sacrifice him to some evil god in exchange for immortality. Did it require a virgin sacrifice? That was a thing, right? And Jon was definitely a virgin. But wait, did Elias know that? How did he know that? Why would he know that?

“Is it the pay that’s the issue?” Elias asked, “Because it’s negotiable. What would convince you to take the job?” 

“I just think Sasha’s better suited for the job than me,” Jon said, and his voice came out a bit small. 

“You’ll still have her on the team, it’s not like I’m going to fire her.” 

No, just demote her. And somehow that felt worse than just firing someone. 

“I really don’t think this is a good idea, Elias. I’m sorry, but I have to decline,” Jon said, and was so grateful that his voice came out even and firm that he could have wept. But didn’t. He kept his composure. 

Elias sighed again, his face a mask of disappointment, and Jon was hit with the whole I’m not mad, I'm just disappointed farce that people had. He really, really wanted to laugh, but the creeping feeling of being exposed, of dread, still hadn’t left. 

“I suppose I can’t really force you,” Elias said, “Do let me know if you change your mind.” 

“Of course,” Jon said, even though he doubted that. Maybe he should look into applying for jobs in other places. This really didn’t feel sustainable. 

“Alright then, you can go back to work, Jon. Do take care of yourself.” The smile was back on Elias’ face, and Jon only nodded stiffly as he got up. 

He barely remembered to check what was on the other side of the door before he stepped out of the office, and that almost rattled him more than the entire meeting with Elias. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Skins of the Past

“I think we should all go out for an early lunch,” Sasha declared after Jon recounted everything that had gone down in Elias’ office. 

It was about half past eleven in the morning. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Jon ventured carefully, “Elias doesn’t seem… Well, he doesn’t seem very pleased with you at the moment.” 

“Fuck Elias,” Sasha said vehemently, “He isn’t going to think well of me even if I work my ass off every single day for twelve hours, including weekends. What’s one early lunch?”

“He could fire you?” Jon said. 

“Let him. At least then his whole mind games will stop. My credentials aren’t so bad that I won’t be able to find a new job. Like yes, it might get a bit tight in there, but I’m fairly certain I’ll pull through easily enough.” 

Jon couldn’t really argue with that, so he said nothing. 

“Yeah, let’s go,” Tim said, jaw tight as he slammed his laptop shut with a thud that was barely quiet enough to not make Jon flinch. 

“There’s this really good sandwich place about fifteen minutes walk from here,” Martin piped up, “It’s run by this really sweet elderly couple. They’ve got this really good chicken wrap that I think you all should try at least once.” 

“Yeah, sure, that sounds amazing,” Tim said, relaxing a bit as he stood up. “Lead the way, Marto.” 

Tim came over and hooked his arm around Jon’s elbow, pulling him along as Martin paused for a moment, then shrugged, grabbing his jacket as well. Sasha pulled on her own coat and hooked her arm around Jon’s other side, wriggling her other hand in Martin’s direction, who flushed a bit but took her elbow as well. 

Jon couldn’t stop the heat from rushing into his own face as they all somehow marched up the stairs in a weird, tottering file, not letting go of each other's arms. 

Was this what Sasha meant by buddy system?

Rosie stared at them for about two seconds when they emerged into the reception area, before giving them a smile and thumbs up. Then went back to her own computer, typing into it rapidly, her fingers clicking against the keyboard almost rhythmically. Tim saluted her with his free hand, and they exited the institute. 

It was, like most days, another grey cast day. Slightly muggy, a bit chilly. Everything looked the tiniest bit washed out as they made their way through the streets. 

I don’t think this is a very effective way of walking, Jon wanted to say as they navigated the narrow footpath after they had to shuffle around to let someone else pass a third time. But he kept silent. Tim and Sasha were very warm on either side of him, and he really didn’t want to let go. Like little bursts of colour in the dull monochrome of the day. 

They got a few odd looks, but that was fine. Jon could almost forget about Elias’ meeting all together if he only concentrated on the way Tim’s hips would sometimes bump into his as they walked, or the way Sasha laughed when when a strand of hair got into Jon’s mouth and he tried to dislodge it by shaking his head vigorously rather than free a hand to pull it out. 

When they arrived at the sandwich place, there was only one other couple sitting on one of the tables. It wasn’t a big place, could probably only sit a dozen people at once, and even that was being generous. The menu was handwritten and taped to the wall behind the counter. It only had about six food items on it, and two different types of sodas for beverages. There was another handwritten sign saying ‘ RESTROOM’ with a large red arrow pointing towards the left. The chairs and tables were plastic, and honestly looked a bit flimsy. 

The shop smelled heavenly. Jon could smell the telltale aroma of roasting garlic and onions in butter.  

They finally let go of each other's hands as they went to take a seat on one of the tables, while Martin went up to the counter to give their order. Four chicken wraps and three cans of coke. Sasha, apparently, didn’t like fizzy drinks. Jon wasn’t a fan either, but he liked them well enough. 

Jon pushed down the irrational urge to grab hold of someone’s hand when they sat down, but quickly folded them up in his lap instead, staring at Martin as he talked animatedly to the woman at the counter, laughing a bit. 

“So,” Sasha said when Martin came back to sit down with them, “In the spirit of not doing what Elias wants us to be doing.” She looked around at the others, before her gaze settled on Jon, “Michael Shelley.” 

Jon felt all the tension that had leaked out of him earlier come back. Not full force, not yet, but he could feel it seeping in all the same. “Yes?”

“I looked a bit further into the missing person’s report for Michael filed by Edward Dixon, and it was… well, the description given for Michael was awfully familiar. The photograph submitted was a bit grainy, and had absolutely horrid quality. I did manage to run it through some programmes, of course, but it didn’t improve it much. Still, a few things are clear. Michael Shelley had been a tall, thin white guy with long blonde hair and blueish grey eyes. Seems to match the description of our Michael, doesn’t he?” 

“I don’t know about the eye colour,” Jon said. Mumbled, really, because he didn’t like thinking about Michael’s face. And he couldn’t remember anything about his eyes. Certainly not what colour they were. He’d rather not remember anything at all, if he could help it. 

Except he did. He needed to remember so he could avoid falling for the same tricks. He needed to remember everything that had happened in excruciating detail so he could know what to avoid. 

“Well, that had been our theory, hadn’t it?” Tim said, “Because coincidences aren’t things that just happen. Not when it comes to supernatural stuff.” 

“What happened to him, then? Do you think he'd always been some kind of weird eldritch monster?” Martin said, frowning.

“He really didn't seem human,” Jon murmured, thinking about the way he had smiled at him. “But again, maybe he wasn't trying to look human to me, specifically. Because no one else on the train seemed to notice anything wrong with him.” 

“Elias must have known Michael, right? I mean, he was already head of the institute by the time Michael disappeared,” Sasha said, but she didn't sound very hopeful. Her fingers drummed against the table rhythmically. 

“Yeah, I'm sure Elias will be very helpful if we decided to ask him about a missing employee,” Tim scoffed, a scowl plastered on his face. His fingers were clenched into white knuckled fists. Jon wanted to take them in his own hand, because really, he’d give himself cramps if he kept that tension up.  “The fact that he’s still in the institute files as employed means Elias is most probably involved.” 

Jon kept his hands to himself, and instead tugged at a lock of his hair, trying to ground himself. The uneasiness from Elias’ meeting was still there, waiting in the wings, ready to pounce. Elias definitely knew about their extra research, he did, so really, what was the point in trying to hide it anymore? 

But straight up asking about it wouldn’t guarantee answers. And if Jon’s intuition was wrong, then they could be in a lot of trouble. 

“Do you think we could talk to Dixon about it? Get some confirmation?” Martin said as Jon curled the lock of hair around his finger tightly before letting it go, and then doing it again, and again, and again. 

“I don’t know, it’s been almost a decade since Dixon filed the report. And it seemed more like a courtesy than anything else. I don’t think they were very close,” Sasha said, sighing. Her fingers were still tapping the table. 

“If Michael Shelley had been human once, and let's assume he was– I mean, he’d been working at the Magnus Institute for a while before he disappeared, yes? Living like a person, I’m assuming. So, assuming that; is the thing we saw still Michael Shelley or just something wearing his skin?” Tim asked, and Jon felt distinctly sick at it. It wasn't something he had considered before, but it's not like it was completely out of the realm of possibility, was it? 

Man disappears. Man reappears. Man has changed. How much of the man who disappeared is left now? 

“Oh, that's awful,” Martin said, fingers wringing together on the table anxiously. It made Jon feel a little less self conscious about the way his own fingers kept winding around that single lock of hair. At this rate he was going to end up tearing it out. 

“It is,” Tim said, “God, this is fucked. I’m almost hoping he hadn’t been human before, that he’d always been this fucked up thing.” 

“None of the options seem good,” Sasha said, “If he’d always been like this, then that means a monster had been working at the institute for several years.” 

“And if he had been human, then something happened to make him this way.” Jon finished when Sasha trailed off. 

Both were bad, yes. The latter seemed more possible, though. Because the idea of a monster like that working at the institute and not being a big deal seemed less plausible than something happening to him that made him this way. 

It wasn’t like Michael was docile or passive or harmless. He’d very deliberately gone out of his way to hurt Jon, and Jon hadn’t even done something to him. He hadn’t even known about him other than the little bit of research he’d done into Shelley. He didn’t know if this was something personal or if Michael had a habit of picking and tormenting random victims. 

He hadn’t had much interaction with Michael, not really. Despite having been kidnapped by him, Michael had been a very absent kidnapper, letting the corridors do most of the torment instead. 

“The deeper we dig, the worse it all gets, doesn’t it?” Sasha asked, and then startled, along with everyone else, as four thermocol plates were set down abruptly on the table between them. 

Jon looked up to see the elderly woman from the counter standing there, pulling out three cans of coke from her apron pocket and setting them beside the plates on the table. How had she carried those four plates? She didn’t have a tray in her hand either.

Jon blinked at her, and she smiled at them. “Enjoy your meal.” 

She left. 

“Well,” Sasha said, “These smell amazing.” 

Jon couldn’t stop thinking about the skin thing, though. Tim had put it in his head, and now he couldn’t get it out. The idea of someone stealing someone else’s body, and then puppeteering it around, pretending to be them, doing grotesque things to their body and their memory. Of changing them on such a fundamental level that nothing of the original self remained. 

“What if the real Michael is trapped inside that thing?” Jon asked, barely thinking about what he was saying until everyone paused in the middle of removing the foil from their wraps. 

“I feel like this is all far, far above our paygrade,” Sasha said finally, and then very deliberately removed the rest of the foil from her wrap and took a bite. 

“Technically we aren’t supposed to be researching this at all,” Jon said quietly. Would Elias fire them for digging too deep? Would they regret trying to research it all? Was he letting them do this because he knew they’d find nothing? Or letting them do this because it was something he wanted them to find out?

“Eat your wrap, Jon,” Tim said, giving him a smile. “We’re part of a research institute, what did you expect?” 

“I’m not saying we should stop,” Jon grumbled, but obediently started eating his wrap. 

It was quite good, actually. 

After a few moments, only punctuated with the sound of chewing or the hiss of a coke can opening, Martin said, slowly, hesitantly, “Do you think something similar happened to Fiona Law?” 

“God,” Sasha groaned, “Are we gonna get accosted by a monster granny too, now? Because why not, right? Why the hell not.” 

Tim snorted, “I mean, it’s not like it’d be something new. Remember that statement about that old lady, Angela? And the guy who kept losing body parts?” 

“Tim!” Sasha said, although there was an exasperated kind of amusement in her voice as well, “We’re eating right now.” 

“C’mon, Sasha, you worked in artefact storage, you should have a stronger stomach than that.” 

“Not all of us worked in artefact storage, and we still have to eat,” Jon said, keeping down his wrap for a bit, because he vividly remembered the statement of Lee Rentoul. He’d have been tempted to dismiss it out of hand, but the fact that it hadn’t recorded digitally punched a glaring hole in his attempt at scepticism. 

“Alright, alright,” Tim laughed, and Jon loosened a bit. “I propose a ban on institute related talk for the rest of the meal. Yeah?” 

“Sounds good,” Sasha said, and Martin nodded, a bit too vigorously. Jon just shrugged, but was grateful for it. The entire thing had been off from the start, and it kept getting worse, and Jon would rather take a moment to not think about it at all than let it chip away at his sanity constantly. 

Tim started talking about a kayaking mishap he’d had, and Jon settled down to enjoy the chicken wrap. It was just the right amount of spicy to tickle his taste buds just the right way. And he would savour it. Nothing to make one appreciate food like a month without it. 

Lunch turned into a fairly long, drawn out affair, as none of them had wanted to leave and go back to the institute, especially not after the meeting with Elias and their subsequent realisations about one Michael Shelley. Jon excused himself to go to the restroom after a bit, pushing the chair back with a horrid squeaky sound as he stood up. 

There was only a single washroom. Two doors, one to the wash basin area with a mirror that had a fairly large crack at the side, and the other to the toilet. It looked clean enough, and there was no weird stench coming from it. 

He was careful not to look at the mirror as he washed his hands, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on his hands. Mirrors already unsettled him enough as it was, but a slightly dirty mirror which smudged up his reflection? That might tip him over the edge. And a mirror with a crack on it, reflecting everything a dozen times over and distorting each reflection?

He'd be lucky if he only had a panic attack. He almost wanted to call for Sasha or Tim or Martin, but shot down the idea almost immediately. He wasn’t that far gone yet. It was only a matter of about half a minute, he didn't need babysitters. 

Without looking up, he turned around, more than ready to head back to the others and leave. 

There was someone in there with him. 

Jon would have screamed if he'd had any air left in his lungs, but nothing really emerged from his mouth as he tried to gasp in a single breath. 

In hindsight, he probably should have looked in the mirror. 

Michael stood there, a grin stretching his face grotesquely, showing off far more teeth than should fit into his mouth feasibly. 

Jon glanced around frantically. It looked like he was still in the bathroom, of course. But could he really trust his eyes? Maybe when he'd opened the door to come in, he'd stepped into his corridors anyhow. But he'd checked. He'd checked and double checked, and the door hadn't even been yellow, and—

Had he really trusted his own senses to reliably tell him when something was or wasn't the corridors? God, he'd been so stupid. 

His chest was starting to hurt a bit from what he distinctly recognised as a lack of air. Would looking in the mirror have helped? If he'd had prior warning that Michael was standing behind him, would it have helped at all?

Probably not. 

"Hello, Archivist," Michael said– purred, almost. Jon shuddered. "I have something for you." 

"No," Jon said. Or tried to say. He was fairly certain he said it. "No," he repeated, the tiniest bit more intelligible than before. He needed to breathe. If he didn’t breathe, he would pass out, and he couldn’t pass out. Because what if he woke up somewhere else?

He had to breathe. He took in a deep breath, thinking of the way Tim and Sasha’s arms had felt, wound around his own, instead of how cold the corridors were. 

"No?" Michael asked, dragging Jon away from the very important task of breathing, and somehow his smile got larger, "You don't even know what it is, yet. Don't be rude." 

"For someone who kidnapped me, you're very focused on how rude I am," Jon said sharply, and then snapped his mouth shut with a clack. He probably shouldn't be sassing something that had, quite possibly, the power of life or death over him. Or sanity and insanity. 

He knew another day in the corridor, and he wouldn't come out of it with his mind intact. He knew something would be irrevocably broken if he went in there again. If he started wandering again. He didn’t know how he’d survived all those weeks– all those months, but he couldn’t go through it a second time. 

"I never kidnapped you, Archivist," Michael said, "You walked in yourself."  

The wave of indignation that passed through Jon was almost enough to wash away the terror crawling up his throat. “You tricked me,” he said hotly. “I didn’t walk in by myself. What’s wrong with you? ”

Michael laughed, and Jon instantly regretted his words. Because god. If the mirror behind him hadn’t been cracked before, it would have definitely cracked now with the way Michael’s laugh reverberated across the tiny room. 

“What isn’t? ” Michael said, swaying from side to side, forward and backwards, in such a way that it made Jon feel a bit dizzy. “But enough questions, Archivist. As I said, I have something for you. Two somethings for you, actually.” 

Was Jon supposed to play along? Would that make him let go? How bad could those two things be?

Wait, no, wrong question. They could be very bad, he was sure. He didn’t need to know. He didn’t need his mind to conjure up exactly how bad those two things could be. There’s so many things they could be and each one was worse than the last. 

Jon would have loved to take a step back, to move as far away from Michael as possible, but the cold ceramic of the basin was already digging into his back, and there was no escape. 

His gaze was fixed on Michael’s face, intently enough that he could only flinch back when Michael lifted his hands. He half expected to be slashed across the face again, but Michael didn’t come any closer. And then Jon did a double take. 

That was his bag. Michael had his bag. And his phone. 

“I figured you might want them back,” Michael said, “I’ve heard they’re a fairly essential part of people’s lives, no?”

Jon eyed them. Just that morning he’d been mourning the loss of those things, but right now he wanted to keep as far away from them as possible. Who knew what Michael had done to them? Maybe he’d put some kind of tracking device on them. Did Michael even need tracking devices though? He’d found Jon easily enough this time. The idea of him needing a silly little tracking chip or something in order to stalk him made a laugh bubble in his chest. 

By sheer force of will, Jon kept the laugh inside. “Why?” 

“Take it as a symbol of my… good will,” Michael said, eyes glinting, and that was when Jon tried to focus on his eye colour, which had been described as a blueish grey when he’d been human. But right now, Jon couldn’t tell. He couldn’t tell, they kept… they kept shifting as soon as he tried to give the colour a name. And not in a visible way. They were just… not the colour he’d thought they were as soon as he thought that colour. Were they blue? Nope, they actually looked gree— wait, that’s brown—

Jon averted his eyes, scowling. “Good will,” he deadpanned. 

Michael hummed, “Yes, that is what I said.” 

“You kidnapped me.” 

“I thought we already established that I didn’t.” 

“We didn’t establish anything, ” Jon said, and tried not to think about the sheer absurdity of the situation. Was he really arguing about the semantics of kidnapping with the very thing that had kidnapped and tortured him for what had felt like months? 

“Don’t you want your things back, Archivist?” Michael said instead, taking a step closer to Jon which made him yelp and press himself harder against the wash basin. His back was really starting to hurt now. He gripped at it with his hands, and the shock of cold from the ceramic helped in grounding him the tiniest bit. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” 

“Oh, definitely,” Michael said serenely. “Don’t you have important things on your phone?”

“I can get a new phone. I don’t need to take anything from you.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Michael laughed, “I promise they won’t hurt you.” 

“Oh, all my fears have been laid to rest now. Of course they won’t hurt me.” 

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” 

“We’re most decidedly not, ” Jon said, his throat tight. Should he just take them? It didn’t seem like Michael was ready to let it go. Would taking it make him go away? Would it make Michael let Jon go? Should Jon shout for help? Will his voice even reach the others? Would it make Michael angry? 

Jon grit his teeth for a bit, then inhaled deeply. “Look, what do you want?” 

“Hm,” Michael said, and his hair whipped about his face like some kind of fucked up octopus. Or maybe Medusa. “That is an interesting question. What do I want? What is my deepest, darkest desire, do you think? Do you want to take a guess?” 

Jon’s fingers itched with the urge to just tear his own hair out in frustration, surely that would hurt less than trying to keep up with whatever conversation Michael seemed to be having with him. “What do you want from me?” he added, taking care not to scream. 

“Nothing at all!” Michael said, “I have had my fill. For now, I just want to watch and see where it all goes. It’s more of a you thing, of course, but I find myself indulging every now and then.” 

That made absolutely no sense. 

“And if you really don’t want these,” Michael shook his things at Jon, “Then I can just try flushing them down the toilet. Do you think it’ll clog up?” 

It most definitely will. Jon had the most vivid image of the entire bathroom flooding, of the water leaking out from the toilet stall, to the wash basin area, and then out the door into the little shop, and of the old lady emerging with a huge butcher’s knife and coming at Jon for doing this to her shop and—

Shut up, Jon thought at his brain. What the fuck is wrong with you?

“I’ll take them.” The words were out of his mouth before he could really think about them. It’s not like Michael couldn’t hurt him some other way if he really wanted to. A phone and a laptop and some stray documents in a bag weren’t going to make a difference. 

Michael’s grin was firmly fixed on his face, and Jon was reminded of shark teeth. He'd read somewhere that they had about three hundred teeth in their mouths at any given time, and that if some fell off, they'd keep regrowing. He couldn't count quite that many teeth in Michael's mouth yet, but he was sure Michael's grin could get wider if he wanted it to.

“Of course, Archivist,” Michael said, and moved even closer to Jon. He thrust the things out at him, and with some effort, Jon managed to unclench his fingers from around the basin. He curled his fingers around the phone and the bag. They felt normal. He didn’t know what normal was, quite, but nothing rang alarm bells in his head. 

“I’m not the archivist,” Jon said before he could do something stupid like try and count Michael’s teeth.

Michael kept grinning, and Jon could feel himself growing even more uneasy by the second. He’d taken the things now, why wasn’t he letting Jon go? He couldn’t even run. There was a door, and if, by some chance, he wasn’t yet inside the corridors, he knew he would find himself there if he tried to run through a door right now. 

“No?” Michael tilted his head to the side, “I suppose it would be Sasha James, perhaps.” 

Jon stiffened at the mention of Sasha. Her full name. He didn’t know what Michael was, but Jon didn’t like it knowing her name. What else did he know about her? About Jon? About the others in the archives? What did he know about them and what did he plan on doing with that information? 

They’d be getting worried out there for him, he knew they were. They should have come barging in by now. He was taking too long. Why hadn’t they? This just felt like proof he was not actually in the restroom but in his corridors. Or maybe Michael had already gotten to them. Maybe they were the ones trapped in his corridors while Jon was out.

Wasn’t that what Michael had said? That he didn’t want anything from Jon? That he’d had his fill? That now he just wanted to watch? Watch what? Watch Sasha and Martin and Tim fumble about, stumbling and walking and running endlessly through a nightmare? 

“And I suppose you would be Michael Shelley?” Jon asked, trying to keep his composure and make the words come out as haughty as possible. Which wasn’t much, given that Jon was about two breaths away from collapsing into a weeping heap on the floor. It wasn’t completely off the table either. Maybe he should do it. Maybe it would offer some sort of catharsis for the terror bubbling up inside him, swelling through his chest, ready to tear out of his rib cage. 

At the words, Michael went very still, and Jon had the feeling that he’d somehow struck a nerve. He didn’t know if that was a good thing. 

“Been doing some research, have you?” he asked, “I probably should have expected that.” 

Jon narrowed his eyes, and then barged on carelessly, “What did you do to him?” 

Michael’s lips peeled back from his teeth, but this time it looked nothing like a smile, “I think the better question would be what he did to me. ” 

“And what is that?” 

“I think you should leave, Archivist. Take my good will where it is offered. Who knows when the offer might expire?” 

The door swung open to Jon’s left, and he could see the little sandwich shop beyond it, could see the white plastic tables and the red plastic chairs and he could smell the garlic and the spices and the chicken. 

Jon stared at the door, then at Michael, and then back to the door. He swallowed thickly, “How do I know this isn’t a trick?” He turned back to look at Michael, to try and indulge in the impossible task of trying to decipher his expression and see just how much trouble he was in. 

But there was no one there. 

Michael was gone, and the door in front of Jon was ajar. For one hot moment, Jon wondered whether the entire conversation had been a hallucination. Maybe the chicken they’d eaten was off. Or maybe Jon was just stressed from his meeting with Elias. Or maybe the old lady was racist and had tried to poison him. 

But the weight of his phone and bag in his hands was a solid, real thing, and he knew it had happened. His heart was still pounding, and his hands were getting a little slick with sweat. He took one shaky step towards the door, and another, and another. 

He put one foot out of the threshold of the door, and then looked back into the normal looking bathroom, and then he looked out to the normal looking shop. He could see Sasha now, with Tim and Martin’s backs to Jon. Sasha was looking concerned. And then Martin and Tim were turning around, and Jon took a leap of faith and walked out the door. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Devil’s Kettle

When Sasha first joined the Magnus Institute, she’d been a sceptic.

She knew a lot of the people who joined the institute did so because they’d had their own encounter with something they believe to have been supernatural in nature, and found some measure of comfort in devoting their lives to researching it, to understanding it. Some people found it weird, to go through something traumatic, and then to make it such a huge part of your life on purpose. 

But Sasha understood it very well. Why wouldn’t you want to understand the shape of something that changed you so irrevocably? Why wouldn’t you want to know every contour, every edge, the weight and volume of the very thing that impacted you in a way that cannot be ignored? Why would you want to ignore it? 

She understood that drive, but it had never been her drive. She’d never had an encounter, none of her loved ones had an encounter, nothing of the sort. She was just interested in academia, and in the paranormal. It was interesting, not just from a supernatural perspective, but also from a psychological one. There had been a time when she’d seriously contemplated changing her sociology major halfway through to one in psychology. She’d refrained, at the end. 

But fascinating stuff nonetheless. 

Mostly, Sasha joined the institute because it dealt in an interesting subject matter, and paid weirdly well for a job in academia. 

She understood very quickly just why the pay was so good, of course. And she lost her scepticism just as quick. Some of it, at least. Artefact Storage will have that effect on you. Cursed books, closets of darkness, scalpels of disease, mirrors of horrid death, bracelets of forgetting, chairs that eat people, and other items that would probably be straight out of some horror writer’s wet dream. 

The fatality rate at the artefact storage was infamous throughout the Institute. Whoever lasted the longest would become the head. Sasha developed a healthy respect for Sonja, head of artefact storage, very quickly after seeing her in action just one time. The people eating chair had tried to nab another victim, and Sonja had made Sasha very aware of how gay she was. 

Sasha wasn’t ashamed to admit that her crush on Sonja hadn’t quite fully gone away yet, she somehow managed. 

But that wasn’t the point. The point was that she certainly believed the supernatural existed, and she believed that it was dangerous, and she was well aware of the survivor’s bias when it came to the statements they received. For every real statement they received, there were probably three other victims who didn’t make it out alive. 

Jon had given two statements already, and she knew he had another. One about the Lietner he’d burned. She wasn’t going to push, even though she wanted to. Despite popular belief, Sasha knew when to back off. At least when her friends were concerned. Sometimes her teeth itched with the desire to demand Jon tell her what had happened, but she knew she had no right to pry like that. 

Right now, though, she wondered just how goddamn lucky Jon was. Or unlucky, perhaps. Three statements. Most people would be lucky enough to survive one. A lot of the follow up on statements often ended with them finding out that the statement giver was dead. 

The odds weren’t looking good, and she grew more and more worried about Jon, and what that meant for him. She knew the two statements he had given were about the same entity stalking him, but that didn’t make it any better. It probably made it worse. 

When Jon had come out of that restroom, clutching his phone and bag, looking like he was two seconds away from passing out, a wave of dread had passed through Sasha’s entire body. They’d left him alone to go to the goddamn bathroom, was nowhere safe for him now? Was any place safe at all?

Had it ever been?

And why did it have to keep happening to Jon? There was something there, specifically targeting Jon for some reason. Elias included. Elias was at the top of her list, actually, given the way Michael kept calling Jon the ‘Archivist’. The capital a was implied glaringly. 

She was starting to think that this maybe wasn’t a sexism thing. 

Currently, they all sat in the archives, chairs pulled up and around a single desk which was now home to a bag and a phone. 

“Should we give it to artefact storage?” Martin asked. 

Sasha sighed, “God, that’d certainly make things easier. Are we even sure Michael has tampered with these? They’ll probably just throw this stuff out or laugh at us. I’m sorry Jon, but you don’t really have the best track record when it comes to your scepticism.” 

Jon smiled dryly, “You don’t say.” 

“I mean, we haven’t even given them the backwards wrist watch yet,” Tim said, “I don’t know, if there’s really a possibility that these things can hurt us, we can just throw them away ourselves? I’m sure Sasha knows of some safe ways to dispose of items.” 

She did know of some safe ways to dispose of cursed items, although Artefact Storage used them very sparingly. They were researchers, investigators; destroying evidence, specimens, artefacts, no matter how dangerous, was not in their nature. This was a research institute dedicated to gathering knowledge and researching these things. They hadn’t even destroyed the people eating chair when it had tried to take a chunk off David. 

“For the record,” Jon said, “I don’t think they’re cursed. With the way Michael was speaking, I mean. It seems unlikely. But then again, he doesn’t really come across as the trust worthy type, does he?” 

“I mean, the wrist watch is definitely affected by the corridors in some way, but it hasn’t hurt you or anything, right?” Sasha asked, eyes falling onto Jon’s bare wrist like she expected him to still be wearing it. 

Jon shrugged, rubbing that same wrist absentmindedly, “Not when I was wearing it, no. I haven’t really looked at it since taking it off. It must still be in my desk drawer.” 

“Have you tried checking your phone and bag yet?” Tim asked, gesturing to said things, “Do you think whatever might be wrong with them would be visible the same way it was in the watch?” 

Jon shrunk back a bit, eying the things warily. He shook his head, “I… uh, I haven’t, yet. Wanted to consult you all before I did anything. Just in case.” 

“Yeah, good call. If you do it with us, we’ll be able to intervene if something does go wrong,” Martin said, before pausing, “I mean, I hope nothing does! But like, just a precaution, you know? Better safe than sorry, right?” 

“Right,” Jon echoed, reaching out for the phone. 

Sasha was nearly vibrating in her seat from the sheer anticipation. Yes, they were there to help. But what if they couldn’t ? What if whatever it was, was so damn fast or subtle or vicious that they’d be helpless to do anything against it at all? What if this became another statement? What if something happened to Jon in a way that it wouldn’t even be able to become a statement?

Her nails were digging hard into her legs, and would’ve probably drawn blood if it weren’t for the thick material of her skirt and the leggings underneath. Jon pressed on the power button. 

Nothing happened. Jon frowned and tried again, but the screen remained black. 

“I think…” Jon said, squinting at the dark screen, “I think the battery’s dead.” 

“Oh.” Sasha unclenched her hands. “That makes sense, I suppose?” 

“It might have been more freaky if they still had charge after four days, I think,” Tim ventured, looking just as unmoored as her. 

“Well, my charger’s at home. If the phone’s dead, I’m sure the laptop will be too. The charger for that’s in the bag, though,” Jon said, slightly brusque in a way that gave away just how hard he was trying to show he was in control. 

“This is horribly stressful,” Martin said, dragging a hand down his face. 

“Tell me about it,” Tim said, and Jon grimaced. 

“I’m gonna do it,” he said loudly, and then grabbed the bag and opened it. 

Sasha tenses, expecting… what? A little white rabbit to jump out and say ‘ boo!’ ? That was ridiculous. But something could have. Something could have happened. 

Nothing did. 

Jon opened it, and Sasha could see some loose statements and a couple manila folders wedged inside. There was a battered looking paperback in there, with the Institute library sticker on it. A thermos, too, and a balled up bundle of wool which Sasha was fairly certain was a scarf. And of course, the laptop and its charger. 

“I’m just gonna go… plug it in, I guess?” Jon said, looking down at the contents of the bag with a faintly baffled expression. 

“Jon?” Martin asked, his voice a little high, “Is something wrong? Did Michael take something? Or add something?” 

“No,” Jon said quickly, “No, uh. Quite the opposite, actually. I don’t know, this feels wrong. I felt like Michael must have done something. It’s almost anticlimactic.” 

“Yeah. If something’s too good to be true, then it probably is too good to be true,” Tim said, slumping a bit as he buried his face in his hands, groaning loudly. “God, what a clusterfuck. The Archives are definitely cursed. Not as much as artefact storage, maybe, but definitely cursed.” 

Jon stared at Tim for a moment before pulling himself to his feet. He gingerly pulled the laptop and charger out of the bag and then walked over to the nearest charging port. He moved slowly, cautiously, like expecting the things to explode in his hand any second. 

Of course, like the other two times, nothing terribly exciting happened. Jon came back, and sat down, tension still palpable in his shoulders. 

“Talking about cursed archives,” Sasha began slowly, “Michael Shelley.” 

“Michael fucking Shelley,” Tim said, voice muffled into his hands, but she could still make out the way his eyebrows had been pulled into a scowl. He lifted his head up, “Somehow the case of Michael Shelley keeps gaining new dimensions, and I hate every new revelation more than the last one. I miss the Research days.” 

“Tim Stoker,” Sasha said, forcing a smile onto her face, “You wouldn’t leave me here alone in his horror show, would you?”

“You just want me as a cinematic sacrifice so you can become the final girl.” 

“Ah, you’ve found me out, it seems. Whatever shall I do,” Sasha said, giggling a little bit. She took a deep breath, sobering up quickly enough, and Tim let the smile slip off his face as well. 

There was a not quite uncomfortable silence for a moment, before Jon broke it. “So,” Jon said slowly, “He hadn’t looked too pleased when I brought up his name.” 

“He was probably human once, then, with the way he talked?” Sasha said, and Jon shrugged. 

“I guess? But it also seemed like whatever he is now had been something different from Michael before. It’s… weird. He called himself Michael but also said that Michael did something to him, and just… it all sounds like one convoluted mess.”

“Much like the rest of the archives,” Sasha muttered, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was only ten minutes to two, and she wanted to be home already. For all that the archives intrigued her and piqued her curiosity in the worst way, something about the place felt stifling. 

She couldn’t take the rest of the day off, though. She had a meeting with Elias at two. He wanted to see a progress report. A goddamn progress report. She knew how that would go, she knew the entire thing would be mocking and posturing and condescending smiles and subtle jabs at her capabilities. It’ll be an exercise in restraint and patience and in not using the pepper spray she carried about. She had the report ready, of course. And she knew it was impressive. Impressive by any standards but Elias’, that is. 

She wondered if he was just this hard on her because he wanted Jon as the archivist, or if he’d have been this much of an ass to Jon as well. This was one thing she would be content never finding out. 

She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, grabbing the report off of the table. It was a thick file, and she’d already emailed an even more detailed version of said file to Elias the night before. It felt a little unreal, going on to work and a meeting with her boss right after Jon got accosted by another supernatural entity. 

Tim looked sympathetic, “Ah, the meeting?” 

“Yes,” Sasha said, letting bitterness seep into her voice, “This is the second time this month. Think he’s trying to send a message?” 

“Do you think he ever tried to get any progress reports from Gertrude, you think?” Jon asked, “Can’t imagine what she would put in them. Progress on how much worse she’s made the archives since she took over?” 

“Do you think she had something on Elias?” Tim said, “We already know there’s something going on in the Archives. But given the difference in the way he treats you and the way we assume he treated Gertrude, there has to be something. ” 

“It would be very helpful if Gertrude had left a tape recorder out here somewhere with all the stuff she had on Elias,” Martin said wistfully. Sasha could understand the sentiment. But again, half the fun of finding stuff out was the fucking around part of it, wasn’t it?

She blew out a breath, squared her shoulders, and prepared to meet Elias.

She’d been here for less than ten minutes and already her entire body crawled with the need to get up and leave. To maybe throw the pen holder on Elias’s desk at his face. To take a knife and gouge out the eyes on Jonah Magnus’ portrait, the ones that stared down at her in such a judgmental way that it made her want to shrink up and let the earth swallow her up. 

It didn’t help that Jonah’s eyes and Elias’s eyes were eerily similar. 

Elias wasn’t even looking down at the file in front of him, instead he stared right at her. There was something wrong with his face, like he was smiling without smiling. Like he was seeing right through her. He looked absolutely serious, but in a way one might look serious when indulging a toddler’s childish rambles. 

“I’m glad to see that you took my advice from last time, Sasha,” Elias was saying, “You’ve certainly increased the speed with which you and your team are going through the statements.” 

Sasha stayed silent. Was she supposed to thank him? But she could sense and addendum, the big, glaring, awful ‘ but’. 

“My goal is not to nitpick, of course,” Elias went on, and Sasha stayed very still on the chair, her back straight and staring at him cooly. “But I do feel that as head of an institute dedicated to research like we are, it becomes my responsibility to make sure that all investigation is done to the best of our abilities.” 

“Absolutely,” Sasha said automatically, even as her stomach sank. 

“And I can’t help but see a few inconsistencies, or, well…” Elias trailed off, sighing, “This is rarer, but sometimes the information is, quite frankly, completely incorrect.” 

“Oh?” 

“One example that comes to mind is the Trevor Herbert statement. I saw that the follow up said he died at the Institute? Before he could finish giving his statement?”

“Yes?” 

“Since I was working here when Mr. Herbert came to give his statement, I can assure you that he left the Institute after giving his complete statement, very much alive.” 

“I see,” Sasha said, even though she didn’t see. The information threw her off. It wasn’t that she thought he was lying, per say, but more like… She genuinely hadn’t expected such a mistake. And this felt big. “I haven’t yet been able to find the second half of his statement. Rest assured, as soon as I find it, the information will be corrected.” 

Elias smiled, “I’m sure it will. You’re a capable person, Sasha, I know you are. I hope to see more diligence in your work going forward. When you increase the speed of your investigations, you have to make sure that you are not sacrificing quality for it. Some of these statements have very lacklustre follow ups.” 

We aren’t the goddamn Research Department, Sasha thought hotly. This wasn’t their job. Their job was to file and preserve and record. It was the archives. Statements that had been wrung dry went there. They weren’t supposed to be researched anew at all. They were already going far and well beyond with the little bit of investigation that they did do, asking them for more, while also expecting a speedy recording process, was just ridiculous. 

She didn’t say any of that though. She had some self restraint. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Elias hummed, his eyes boring in her– was that a smirk on his lips? It felt like it was a smirk. Sasha’s hand twitched. 

“You have three assistants,” Elias said finally, “I know Jon might be… out of commission for a bit, but I’m sure Tim and Martin are more than capable enough on conducting more thorough research. Especially Tim, considering his background in research. You should be making full use of the resources given to you. That’s what makes a good head of department, don’t you think?” 

Sasha plastered a smile onto her face, “Yes, of course.” 

Yes, finding a job in academia as a Black woman was hard. But was it really worse than sitting through meetings like these with Elias? To have her work insulted like this? To be treated passive aggressively constantly?

Except who knew what the new job would bring? She’d heard enough horror stories about other women in academia to know that Elias wasn’t an outlier. At least, not in this sense. She knew she wouldn’t quit. She couldn’t quit, not now, not now when she was in so deep. Not now that Michael had threatened Jon, not now when she’d dug in and had found everything to be far, far deeper than she could have thought. 

She didn’t know when to stop. She never had. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: The One Without Worms

Jon really wished people had better handwriting. 

He was trying to sort through statements, to arrange them in some semblance of chronology, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out if this one had been given on the 3rd of November, 2017 or the 3rd of November, 2014. He squinted at the paper, at the little squiggly lines that someone had the audacity to call writing, and then gave up, setting it aside for later. He’ll figure it out. He still had the rest of the box to go through. 

This was tame work, but less mind numbing than stapling sheets together. Sasha had seemed to realise that he needed something that would occupy some of his mind. 

He could be transcribing statements, of course. His laptop was fine. He’d checked it, he’d had Sasha check it, he’d even had Tim check it once, and then Martin as well, for good measure. It was working fine, there was no malware or whatever other things that the IT department sent out memos about, no suspicious files. There weren’t even any files deleted, from what he could glean. Nothing suspicious in the recycle bin either. 

It was almost suspiciously normal. 

He’d not opened his laptop again after confirming that it didn’t seem to have been tampered with. 

He’d felt the slightest twinges of… of something, heart clenching a bit when Tim and Martin had headed out for a follow up. They’d be fine, of course, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was the reason for the follow up. 

That statement was done, as had been several others. But for some reason Elias had given them a list of about a dozen statements that he thought could do with some more follow up. A few of them had even recorded digitally, which meant they were almost definitely fake. Now Tim and Martin were out there on a goose chase while Sasha called people after people, her face buried into her laptop and routinely getting shouted down by people who really, really didn’t want to be contacted by a research institute dedicated to the– to quote one such person– the loony and the spooky. 

And Jon was doing… sorting. He was sorting. He wasn’t contributing anything. He could have been sending out emails. He could sound polite in emails– which was one of the reasons Sasha hadn’t wanted him on calls. His prickly personality wasn’t exactly a secret, after all. But he could send emails. He could be transcribing statements. He could be doing actual follow up work. 

They could have paired off and gone out to do fieldwork in groups of two but instead Jon was in the Archives and Sasha wouldn’t have left him alone nor gone to investigate by herself. She had to set a good example for the whole buddy system thing, after all. 

The worst part was that Jon couldn’t even protest. He might have said a word or two, but he’d sounded so half hearted even to himself that Sasha hadn’t even paused in her task delegation. All he’d felt was relief and gratitude. The idea of actually going out to the places with supernatural associations filled him with unutterable dread, made his hands shake, and his limbs tingle with encroaching numbness. 

He could only be grateful, and stew that gratitude with a generous helping of guilt. 

Sasha had looked so hassled when she’d returned from Elias’ meeting the day before. He was making things worse. He couldn’t even tell whether someone’s shitty handwriting said four or seven. 

He sighed, and told himself that this was important. That follow up wasn’t actually archival work— archiving was archival work. And archiving needed records, and the records needed to be in some sort of coherent order. And the work he was doing had value. 

And technically he was supposed to be on paid leave anyway. 

So, it was fine. He couldn’t quite bring himself to do anything to change it anyway. Tim and Martin would be perfectly safe, and really, Elias shouldn’t be expecting this much from them all anyway. A little bit of unproductivity will not get him fired. It wouldn’t. 

When the door to the Archives burst open, Jon nearly tore the statement he was holding in half, cursing loudly as the sheet got a neat little rip through it. He looked up, ready to shout at whoever had thought it a good idea to barge in like this—

“What happened?” Jon was on his feet, damaged statement discarded and rushing over to Martin and Tim, who looked so pale that Jon quickly pulled them both towards chairs so they’d collapse on them instead of on the floor. 

“What hap— Tim? Martin? Oh shit, are you both alright?” Sasha said, peeking out of her office before she got a glimpse at them. Her eyes widened and she hurried over as well. 

“Not great, Sash,” Tim said, his eyes wild, “Met someone.” 

“Michael?” Jon asked anxiously, eyes roving over the two of them. They didn’t look injured– certainly nowhere as bad as he had when he’d gotten out, but that didn’t say much. They looked a bit dusty, though. And their breaths really didn’t sound good. “I think you both should have some water,” Jon added, taking a few steps to his desk to grab a water bottle. 

“Not Michael, no,” Martin said, “And thank you.” He took a few sips of the water before passing it onto Tim, while Jon wrung his hands.

“Is someone after you?” Sasha asked, her eyes going over to the door to the archives, “You had pepper spray with you, didn’t you?” 

Pepper spray sounded like a laughable defence against supernatural entities who might be intent on hurting them. Especially if it actually worked, considering it wasn’t lethal and might end up pissing them off. But Jon couldn’t deny that having that smooth, plastic container in his pocket at all times didn’t make the ground feel steadier under his feet. 

“We did,” Tim said, letting out a thin laugh, “It didn’t really work? I mean, I don’t know how good pepper spray can be against worms. And we didn’t get close enough to Jane Prentiss to be able to spray at her face. We kinda just, you know, ran.” 

“Wait, hold on, what? Prentiss? You met Prentiss? ” Sasha said, “I thought the statement had been about spiders!” 

“Remember that infestation Vittery had talked about? Silvery maggot like worms?” Martin said, “Turns out they belonged to Prentiss.” His hands were shaking. Jon wanted to drape a blanket over the two of them as he tried very hard not to think about anything at all. 

“Is she after you?” Sasha asked, and her eyes were starting to take on the same wild gleam that reflected itself in Martin and Tim’s eyes. Jon could feel it creeping on him too, an awful hysteria threatening to consume him because really? Jane Prentiss? Right after Michael?

“I’m fairly certain we lost her. Martin and I had to take the tube here, and she wasn’t in the same train as us. I think that might have caused a bit of a fuss,” Tim said, dragging a hand across his face. 

“You have no idea how surreal it was to wait on the platform for a train while actively worried that a woman filled with worms might be at our heels.” 

“Fuck,” Sasha said, “Fuck, god. I wish you were both pulling my leg. But when have we ever been so lucky?” 

“ I wish we were pulling your leg,” Tim muttered into his hand, “That was fucking terrifying. Why are her worms like that? They fucking flew at us. Like– like you know? When you see a cockroach scuttling about, and it’s awful enough, but then it starts to fucking fly? And your brain goes into panic mode and then it’s just a lot of sirens and flashing lights?”

Jon felt distinctly queasy. “You didn’t get any of them on you, did you?” 

He remembered the hospital reports from Prentiss’ attack. And he remembered Timothy Hodge’s story, and the idea of worms crawling underneath Tim and Martin’s skin, of infesting them, of multiplying inside them– it filled him with such abject disgust that he could almost taste the bile in the back of his throat. 

“No, no, I’m fairly certain we got off squeaky clean. I think… I would sure hope I would be able to feel it if there was a worm squirming about inside me,” Tim said, and Martin made a pained, cut off noise. Tim winced, “Sorry, sorry. But, um, yes. We’re clean. We checked over once as well, around the ankles and arms.”

“Right,” Sasha said, folding her arms across her chest. Jon wanted to do the same. “So you’re sure you… lost her?” 

“I don’t want to think otherwise,” Martin said, swirling the water around in the water bottle as he held it. “I mean, a woman like that shambling about in broad daylight is definitely going to attract a lot of attention, isn’t it? And she didn’t look like she would be all that fast.” 

“Not with all the holes,” Tim said, and Sasha’s face pinched.  

“Would you…” Sasha began, “Would you want to give a statement about it? It’s good to have a record of things like these.” 

Tim and Martin looked at each other, and some kind of silent conversation seemed to pass through them, before Tim shrugged, “Why not?” 

After listening to the sufficiently horrifying encounter the two of them had had with Prentiss, Sasha decided that they could afford to take an early leave. Sasha also announced that they were, once again, all going to her house. 

Jon had stayed with Sasha the last night as well, still too wary of going back to his building. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep it together if he saw the entrance to the building. He would have felt bad about infringing into Sasha’s space like that, except he thought that maybe him being there made Sasha feel a little better too. 

It was only confirmed with the way Sasha didn’t let even a cursory protest rise from Tim and Martin when she put forth the idea of another movie and take out night. 

“If we keep having these cosy nights every time one of us has some kind of supernatural encounter, I might actually start looking forward to ghosts and monsters,” Tim joked as Sasha unlocked her door, and they all shuffled in. 

“Don’t even joke about it, Stoker,” Sasha said, a tired smile on her face. 

She really looked far too tired, Jon thought, and he’d have pointed it out if he himself didn’t look way worse. Tim and Martin looked slightly better rested, but Jon had a feeling that might change tonight. He shuddered, running a hand up his arms like he’d be able to feel a worm in there. 

The hospital had filed Jane Prentiss' case as one of an extremely aggressive parasite. Some speculative articles had compared it to rabies. Jon would have loved to believe that, but given the description Tim gave of Prentiss, she was more worm than woman. She shouldn’t have been alive at all, let alone do anything like walk. 

If she’d ever been human once, then she wasn’t anymore. Jon wasn’t even sure if she could even be called Jane Prentiss, actually. How much of that woman was left and how much was now just worms. How much of Michael Shelley was left and how much was that… that doorway monster. 

They got take out, and they watched a movie. Jon couldn’t, for the life of him, remember the title of the movie, but it wasn’t a Disney one, he was sure. He did make an active effort to remain grounded and keep track of what was going on, what he was eating, and what the others were saying, but he couldn’t shake off the cold feeling in his chest, something squirming and awful. 

And then the lights were being turned off, the air mattress had been set, blankets had been passed around, and Jon was laid out on the pull out couch, his bed since he came back from the hallways. 

Sasha had squeezed his shoulder before going to bed, and Martin was right there in the living room with him, on his air mattress. Jon could hear him shifting about, trying to get comfortable, and he let out a long, silent exhale. 

Maybe something was going to go wrong, or maybe something wasn’t, but all of that could wait till the morning. For now, both Tim and Martin were fine– they’d checked themselves over again, very thoroughly, at Sasha’s insistence after she’d finished recording their statements. 

Only thing Jon had to worry about now was the nightmares, and of course, the ever present fear that when he woke up, he’d be back in the hallways, in an unfamiliar corridor, with a watch that doesn’t work and a vision that deceives. 

When Jon woke up, it was pitch dark. The dim yellow hallway light had been turned off, for some reason. And he couldn’t quite tell what had woken him up. 

By some miracle– if he believed in such nonsense– he hadn’t had a nightmare. Or if he had, it had faded away before he’d even fully gained consciousness. All he could remember right now was the uneasiness with which he’d gone to sleep. 

The uneasiness returned tenfold now. 

Logically– logically– he could feel the couch under him. Could feel the soft blanket that covered him. Could hear the clock on the wall ticking. Could even hear the soft, breathy snores that escaped Martin. He knew where he was. He was at Sasha’s house. Like he’d been the night before. And the night before that. 

The hallways, while never all that bright, had always been illuminated enough for him to be able to see something. A complete darkness wasn’t enough to torment you, because if you couldn’t see, you couldn’t doubt your vision. So, they’d always been dimly lit, just enough to make his hair stand on end and his heart pound, but never this pitch darkness. 

But this darkness did remind him of the end of those hallways, where he could see nothing but black. He never actually reached that darkness, no matter how long he walked straight for, but whenever he’d look behind or forward, whatever place he’d just walked from, or was walking towards, it would always be completely shrouded in shadow. 

Sometimes the darkness at his back would feel like it was coming closer. 

And right now Jon felt like it had caught up with him. 

He could feel his heartbeat picking up, and his breaths shortening. He didn’t know why he’d woken up, or why someone had turned off the hallway light, but he knew that something was wrong. 

Something was wrong. 

And that’s when the knocking started. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: The One With Worms

The night was a quiet one. 

Sasha lived on the top floor of her building, which often meant no upstairs neighbours to upset her. She was sure the flat below hers was empty as well, meaning she usually got to make as much noise as she wanted. It also meant that she herself could live in relative peace and quiet most of the time. 

So, when the knock on the door came, she was understandably startled. It was a loud knock, echoing through her room, and she’d always been a light sleeper. 

She nearly kicked Tim in the crotch as she flailed, waking him up as well when the knock came again. 

The fact that the entire room was plunged into pitch darkness didn’t help her with orientation either. She scrambled about a bit for her glasses, finding them on the bedside table and shoving them onto her face as the knocking continued— who the fuck knocks like that? What time is it?

“Wha–” Tim said groggily, and she could hear the rustling of the bed sheets as he shifted about the bed as well. When another knock came, there was a dull thump, and Tim swore. “Can’t you turn on the light?”

“I’m trying!” Sasha said, her fingers feeling along the wall to try and find the light switch and– there! She flicked it on, squinting her eyes against the expected flood of light.

There was no flood of light. She frowned, flicking the switch off and on again. Nothing. 

Fuck. 

Another knock, and there was a noise from the living room. 

“Sasha?” Tim said, and he sounded more alert now. 

“Can’t turn on the light. There’s another one, but it’s on the other wall. C’mon, we need to see who’s at the door.” 

She waved about her hands, looking for Tim’s hand and grabbed it tightly, pulling him off the bed. She needed an anchor in this dark. “Let me just open the curtains, might bring in some light,” she said, pulling said curtains back. 

It helped, a little bit, but it wasn’t a full moon, and considering she lived on the top floor, the street lights weren’t giving much in the way of illumination either. But she didn’t feel completely blind anymore. 

Sasha grabbed her phone off the night stand and turned on the flash light, going over to the light switches on the opposite wall and flicking them on. 

She was almost expecting it when nothing happened. Of course it didn’t. 

Then they heard a strangled shout come from the living room, and in the eerie light of her phone’s flash, Tim and Sasha looked at each other for a single panicked moment before rushing there. 

It took a bit of adjusting and waving her flashlight about, but Jon was backed up against one end of the sofa, looking around wildly, and Martin was standing over him, murmuring softly. He looked up when the light hit their faces, his face a rictus of relief and concern. 

Another knock, and Jon flinched so violently he almost toppled off the sofa. 

“Goddamnit,” Sasha said, moving towards the door, Tim’s hand still wrapped around one of hers. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Her heart was pounding. There was something wrong. The electricity being cut out, and the knocking– there was no possible way this could be good. She tried to look through the peephole, but before she could get even remotely close enough to see through it, Tim let out an alarmed cry and yanked her back hard enough that she fell into him, and he to the floor. 

He didn’t pause, though, pulling Sasha backwards until they both slammed into the coffee table. 

“There’s a worm, there’s a worm, shit, fuck, fucking goddamn hell, she’s here, fuck fuck—” 

“Tim!” Sasha said, having managed to scramble to a kneeling position. Her phone was on the floor a couple feet away from her, shining most of its light onto the ceiling. She grabbed Tim’s face, “Tim,” she repeated. 

But Martin was already moving. He’d grabbed a blanket and a shoe, from what she could make out, and was stuffing said blanket under the door, slamming the shoe around frantically, grunting with every strike. 

The grunts weren’t enough to drown out the sounds of an awful, wet squish that accompanied every slam. 

And then Martin threw the shoe across the room with a disgusted noise and scrambled backwards from the door, scuttling away like a crab. “That’s–” he said, pointing at the door, “That’s fucking Prentiss. Prentiss is at the door. She followed us.” 

As if on cue, Prentiss knocked again. 

All of them flinched this time, but their gaze snapped towards Jon almost in unison when he made a cut off noise, painful and strangled. 

Martin climbed to his feet, and Sasha did the same. As Martin made his way towards Jon, Sasha reached down a hand towards Tim to help him stand. She could feel him shaking in her grip. She bent down to pick up her phone as well, not letting go of Tim’s hand. 

Martin was already sitting on the couch, holding Jon’s hands in both of his own as Jon breathed hard. “Hey,” he said soothingly, “It’s okay, just breathe. We’ve got light now, see? Sasha’s got her flash on.” 

Sasha quickly brought the phone closer, keeping it in Jon’s lap to give him the most illumination, and she herself sat beside Jon, perched on the edge as Tim slid down to the floor again, listing into the couch. 

Jon’s eyes flickered over to the door, “It… the door…” 

“Uh, it’s… well, I’ve sealed off the bottom for now, so the worms shouldn’t be a problem,” Martin said, glancing towards the door and then at Sasha, “Sorry about the blanket.” 

Sasha shook her head, “No, it’s fine. I… god,” she rubbed at her eyes vigorously, knockin g her glasses askew, “Fuck.” 

“We need to check if Martin missed any worms,” Tim said quietly, “He didn’t have the phone when he went on his stomping spree. We need to check, make sure.” 

Sasha looked at Jon, who met her eyes. He looked frazzled, frayed at the edges. He glanced down at the phone in his lap, shuddered, and then nodded, “Go, check. We can’t let any, uh,” he tensed up as another knock came, a full body shiver running through him, before continuing in a thinner voice, “Can’t let any worms in.”  

“Right,” Tim said, getting to his feet and taking the phone. Sasha watched, heart in her throat, as he took the other half of whoever’s shoe Martin had been using and crouched down, flashing the light about slowly, into every corner of the room, under the table, behind the television, under the sofa, moving about some of the clothes and books strewn about. 

There were two more worms that he had to kill, and the sound was just as awful as it had been while Martin had been crushing them. It nearly sent Tim into a frenzy as he flashed the light into increasingly secluded and tight spaces, checking the same ones over and over again, until Sasha called out to him,

“I think you got them all, Tim,” she said, getting up and tugging him back towards the couch. 

Jon had been watching Tim with rapt attention, and there hadn’t been a knock in the last ten minutes. His breathing was normal now, and his eyes looked less wild. But still scared. Sasha felt scared too. 

“Prentiss followed us here,” Martin said quietly, “She followed us, Tim and I.” 

“I thought we’d lost her,” Tim said, “I was so sure… I’d been half expecting to see her outside the Institute when we left today, but not here. I didn’t expect her to be here. How did she even follow us? How—” 

“It’s alright,” Sasha said quickly before either Tim or Martin could spiral, “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out. I’m glad we’re all here together. Imagine if I’d let you go home alone tonight, huh? I’m a genius.” 

Tim let out a half hearted chuckle, “I never doubted that.” 

“Good,” she said, “Good.” She grabbed his hand back in a tight grip, “Don’t doubt us now. We’ll figure it out. It’s four of us, and one of Jane Prentiss. The odds are good.” 

One of Jane Prentiss, and probably a couple hundred of her worms. She didn’t say that out loud, though. She was already having trouble not freaking out; voicing it out would make her lose what little composure she did have. But by the looks of their faces, they were all thinking it. 

“Maybe she’ll stop on her own,” Sasha continued, not sounding even half as hopeful as she’d have liked to, “It doesn’t seem like she’s going to break down the door, does it?” 

“If she breaks down the door, I’m jumping out the fucking window, Sasha, I swear to god—”

“Hey!” Martin said, his face whipping about to face Tim’s so furiously that Sasha was taken aback. “No jumping out of windows. Sasha’s right, we’ll figure it out. We escaped once, we can escape again. We just need a plan.” 

There was a ding from her phone, and the flash flickered out. Jon sucked in an audible breath, and the room was plunged right back into an awful, heavy darkness. Sasha looked at her phone, and the screen was lit up dimly: 

Low Battery. 15% Remaining. Turn on Power Saving Mode. 

“Fuck,” Sasha said, resisting the urge to throw her phone at the wall, “Fuck. Tim, please tell me you have your phone. Please.” 

She couldn’t see Tim’s expression in the dark, but she heard his shaky breath and knew the answer. He confirmed it in a second, “No. Uh, it might be in your room but… But the battery’s dead.” 

She squeezed her eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. Then she opened her eyes, and turned on the power saving mode on her phone. “We don’t have much time, then,” she said, and was surprised at how even her voice sounded. “We could probably make one call. There’s enough for that.” 

“Do you think… 999?” Martin asked, his voice small. She wished she could see better. She didn’t even know where she kept her flashlights. She was sure she had at least one, but trying to find it in the dark would be a nightmare. 

This entire situation was a nightmare. 

“I don’t know. Will they be able to fight it off? We know what happened at the hospital where Prentiss was admitted,” Tim said. 

“Who else, though?” Martin said, “I just… it’s not like there’s anyone who is equipped to deal with a goddamn flesh hive.” 

“Sonja, maybe? She deals with supernatural stuff all the time. She’s practically a pro,” Sasha suggested, but her heart wasn’t in it. They weren’t even that close; how could she ask her to put her life in danger like that? Just what? Call her up at three in the morning like, hey, what’s up, we got a problem here, we were wondering if you could please maybe deal with a woman full of flesh eating worms for us, we’d be very grateful, thank you. 

“That’s artefacts, though. That’s different from, like, actual living monsters,” Tim pointed out, and she could hear him shifting about. She could hear them all breathing heavily, above the sound of her heart beating in her ears. 

Jon cleared his throat. 

“Well,” he began tentatively, “I have a… friend. She’s, um. She’s pretty level headed and resourceful, from what I’ve seen. She might be able to help. Probably.” 

“I don’t like the sounds of those mights and probablys, Jon,” Tim said.

“No. No, I don’t either,” Jon agreed, “But she’s also a researcher. I have a feeling she’d be able to figure it out. And there is quite a bit of information up on the internet regarding Prentiss’ attack at the hospital.” 

“So,” Sasha said after a few minutes of silence while they contemplated the options. She had to say it out loud. Her phone was already at 14%. They couldn’t afford to wait too long. “999, Sonja, or Jon’s friend.” 

“God, Jon, we’re getting you a new phone, or getting back your charger from your flat first thing in the morning as soon as we get out of this place, for the love of god,” Tim said, his grip on Sasha’s hand tightening to the point of pain. She squeezed back harder. “You too, Martin.” 

“Yeah, believe it or not, I’m not happy about this either,” Martin said, and Tim let out a helpless laugh. 

“I’m gonna– we should all start carrying power banks around, fully charged at all times. Add that to the buddy system rules we have, Sash. We should make a spreadsheet.” 

This time, when the knock came, Sasha let out a strangled gasp, head snapping towards the door as tension skyrocketed through her body. Her nerves felt pulled taut, like they were going to snap like a cheap rubber band at any second. 

Her eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness in the room, and she could make out vague shapes. But the dim, hazy sight was almost worse than no sight at all. It played tricks on her mind, she kept seeing movement out of the corner of her eyes, kept feeling like there were worms everywhere, just squirming into hiding as soon as she turned her gaze upon them. 

At least when she was completely blind, she could pretend they were safe inside. Now it felt like every corner of the house was out to get her. 

“All very good ideas, Tim,” Jon said, his voice tight, pulling her away from where she had been staring intently at a pile of clothing on a chair next to the book shelf,“But we need to make a decision now. I don’t think we can keep waiting.” 

“I don’t know!” Tim said, “I don’t know. I don’t want to make the wrong choice and end up wasting our one phone call and then— then what! Be the reason we all end up dead or infested?”

“Tim,” Sasha murmured, “It isn’t just your decision. It’s a group decision. We have nothing else but this one choice.” 

“I know,” Tim said, “I know, it’s better than nothing.” He took in a deep breath, and Sasha could feel her hand going a little numb with how tightly he was holding onto her. “Jon, you really think your friend would be able to handle Prentiss?” 

“I personally don’t see a better alternative. I doubt the ECDC will make it here on time, if they even take us seriously in the first place. Georgie will understand the emergency, especially if the call cuts off in the middle of the conversation.” 

Jon sounded remarkably even as he spoke, and Sasha couldn’t help but be impressed. The last she’d seen his face, he’d looked two seconds away from falling apart. Still was, probably, but holding it together for the time being. She wasn’t sure if she would sound as composed when she spoke, though. 

She spoke anyway, turning towards Martin, “What do you think?” 

“Jon’s friend sounds good,” he said, “I don’t… god, I wish this were just some regular axe wielding serial killer.” 

“Nothing like murderous, worm infestations to make you appreciate a good slasher,” Tim said, and Sasha giggled. To her horror, the sound came out wet and weak, and she swallowed quickly, trying to cover up the fact that she was, quite possibly, one more knock away from dissolving into tears. 

“Alright, Jon,” Sasha said, and was grateful when no one commented on the way her voice shook, “I’m assuming you know your friend’s number?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, holding out a hand for the phone. She unlocked it before handing it over, eyes glancing at the battery sign once before the phone left her hand. 13%. 

Her phone’s power saving mode was fucking shit. 

Jon’s hands shook a little as he typed the phone number. The phone’s brightness had been turned down to the minimum, and while the room’s darkness helped, he still wasn’t wearing his glasses. He had to backspace and retype the number twice because he kept getting a couple keys wrong. 

The battery slipped down to 12% and Jon wanted to cry. 

At least he knew Georgie’s number. Without a doubt, without any confusion. He knew it, every single digit without any hesitation. If, on top of everything else, he hadn’t even been sure about this, then he might have just… just simply passed away, or something. 

He dialled, clicked on the call button, and heard it ring. 

After a few seconds of unanswered ringing, Jon’s heart began to sink a little. Would she even pick it up? What if she slept with her phone on silent? What if she put it on Do Not Disturb mode and then just went to sleep? What if she didn’t pick up unknown numbers? What if he’d doomed them all by suggesting Georgie as their one and only phone call?

The ringing stopped, the automated voice speaking in a cool, even tone, “ The person you have dialled is currently not answering, please—”

Jon cut the call, heart in his throat, and then hit the call button again. He didn’t look up to try and see whatever expressions the others might be wearing; not like he could have seen them anyway, dark as it was. 

He’d tried not to look at the battery, but it had felt glaring, like it was the biggest part of the screen and not a tiny icon at the top right corner. 

10%

Sasha spoke up, very softly, as the phone rang, and rang, and rang, “Jon?” 

Jon held up a hand to her, and it shook horribly. He thought he might be crying. 

Please, please, Georgie, don’t bail on me now, please pick up—

“ Goddamnit, ” a voice answered, “ Who the fuck calls at fucking three— ”

“Georgie!” Jon said, so relieved that he didn’t even try to keep the tears from his voice, “Oh god, Georgie, listen, this is urgent, do you know who Jane Prentiss is?” 

“Jon? Jon, what the hell, you call at three in the morning from an unknown number after a week of radio silence—” Georgie said, and she immediately sounded a lot more alert than before. “You know what? Nevermind, tell me what’s wrong. Isn’t she that weird parasitic lady the ECDC had put out a notice for a while ago?” 

“Yes! Her, exactly. She’s, uh, she’s stalking us. She’s outside the door right now. She has cut off the electricity and um, this phone doesn’t have much battery left either,” Jon said. Martin had scooted over to sit pressed up against Jon, and there was someone gripping his other hand in a tight grip. Jon didn’t have enough wherewithal left to try and see who it was, but he was grateful for the support. 

“Give her my address! Give her my address first, before anything else,” Sasha hissed, and Jon nodded, quickly rattling off the address to Georgie. 

“Did you get that? Residence of one Sasha James,” Jon said. 

“ I.. uh, mostly. Can you repeat it?” 

Jon did, and Georgie let out an audible exhale on the other side. “What the fuck, Jon, what the fuck.” Before Jon could get in a word, Georgie continued, “Okay, so Jane Prentiss is outside the door? Can you tell me anything about her? Anything specific I’m supposed to be doing? Is she trying to break in currently? How long do you think you have?” 

There were the sounds of rustling on the other side, muffled thumps and other noises. Georgie’s voice sounded a bit distant as well, like she’d put the phone down somewhere and had turned on the speaker. 

“I don’t know, Georgie. The… uh, one statement about her had dealt with the infestation by setting his entire house on fire. We can’t really do that here, considering we’re, uh, trapped inside as well. And she isn’t trying to break in yet, just knocking really aggressively every few minutes.”

There was a small beep from the phone. It was a sound Jon recognised. 5% battery left notification. From Tim’s very quiet, “Oh god,” he recognised it too. 

“ Very polite of her, ” Georgie muttered, unaware of the way Jon felt like all his nerves were being put through a wood chipper, “ Alright, okay, that’s good. The address you’ve given isn’t very far, I should be there in twenty minutes if I take a cab, but I need to do some prep first. ”   

“Call the ECDC maybe,” Jon said desperately, “And Georgie, please be careful. She’s dangerous. Get back up, or something, I don’t know!” 

“ Take deep breaths, Jon,” Georgie said, and Jon’s breaths shortened in response, “ You’re not alone, are you? Is Sasha there?” 

“I… yes, yes she is, and two others as well. Tim and Martin.” There was the sound of something crashing on Georgie's end, loud enough to make Jon flinch, and he heard her swear under her breath. Jon glanced at the door nervously, “Listen, Prentiss isn't human anymore, alright? You have to be careful. You… she doesn't seem like she’s in a hurry, please don't rush in unprepared.” 

“ I won't, Jon, I promise. Can't help you if I end up dead now, can I?” 

“Don't even joke about it,” Jon choked out. 

“I'm not. Go get a knife or something. Do you have your lighter with you? Make one of those hair spray flamethrower things if you—” 

The call cut off with another tiny beep, and the phone’s screen went black. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Where Arson Makes a Comeback

When you’re in the ghost hunting business, you learn to adapt to a nocturnal schedule pretty quick. 

Melanie’s schedule wasn’t quite nocturnal though. Especially when she was between cases. Sure, she’d often stay up late editing stuff, and go down the research rabbit hole, emerging at seven in the morning with her eyes burning something awful. 

But none of this meant she was all that ready to wake up at whatever o’clock in the morning to Georgie talking about flesh eating worms, of all things. 

“Wait, Georgie, slow the hell down. What the fuck did you just say?” Melanie asked, one hand waving about to try and click on her table lamp. Light flooded the room and she squeezed her eyes shut. 

“You heard about the Jane Prentiss case?” Georgie said, voice slightly impatient. 

“The worm lady? Those flesh eating worms?” Melanie asked, feeling more and more awake by the second. 

“Yes, her. So, you know the friend I was talking about? Jon?”

Melanie hummed an agreement. The guy who worked at the freaking Magnus Institute. Georgie didn’t talk about him much, but from what she knew, he sounded like an interesting fellow. 

“Apparently he and his coworkers are currently trapped in their flat by Prentiss.” 

Melanie stayed silent. 

“Melanie?” 

“I’m sorry, Georgie,” she said slowly, “but I must repeat myself. What the fuck did you just say?” 

“I said, Jon and his coworkers are currently trapped in their flat by a murderous lady made of worms.” 

“Right,” Melanie said, but she was already sitting up in bed. “Right, and you called me because?” She climbed off the bed, cracking her back a little as she went. God, the floor was cold. She wasn’t one of those freaks who slept with their socks on, but she could sometimes see the appeal, especially at times like this. 

Her eyes had mostly adjusted to the light now, and she threw open her cupboard. 

“ I’m gonna go help them out, but I didn’t want to be reckless, so I decided to take some help with me. And you came to mind first thing,” Georgie said, and Melanie couldn’t suppress the smile that came over her face.

Yes yes, worm infestations, horrible and all, but Georgie was stunning and Melanie was gay.

“I’m flattered, Barker,” Melanie said, yanking out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that wasn’t more holes than fabric from her mess of a wardrobe. “You got any more info? How urgent is this?”

“According to Jon, currently Prentiss is just knocking. Didn’t seem like she was in a hurry. But no idea how long that’s gonna last. Electricity’s been cut off. They don’t have a phone anymore. Our call got cut off in the middle, and the number was switched off when I tried calling again. Tried a few times, both his phone and the one he’d called with.” 

“That doesn’t sound too good,” Melanie said. She didn’t really know Jon. Or his coworkers. But Georgie clearly cared for Jon, and Melanie wasn’t about to just let them be eaten by evil worms if she could help it. “I don’t really know much about her. Apparently Prentiss killed a few hospital workers? There was a warning put out for her, no?” 

“Yeah, there was. Not much info though, I’d thought I could maybe do an episode on her, but there was painfully little available. So I’d dropped the idea.” Georgie laughed, “God, maybe I could do it now. I’m sure this will give me more stuff to use.”  

“What can we say,” Melanie said, swiping her camera off the table she kept it on, “It’s a capitalist world, Georgie, gotta find profit where we can.” 

“Very true,” Georgie said, “But Jon did say one of the statements mentioned fire.” 

“Fire?”

“Yup.”

“Oh,” Melanie could feel an even wider smile crawling up her face, “I believe I’ve got something for that. Something really fun. Been a while since I did anything like it, actually. Reckon this’ll be a good refresher.” 

“Do you, now?” 

“Mhm,” Melanie said, hanging the camera on her neck. It was one of the lighter ones. Not quite as heavy duty as the ones she used for her episodes, but it’d do in a pinch. They could do documentary-esque video on Jane Prentiss, if she managed to get even five minutes of usable footage. “You betcha I’m gonna be recording this, Georgie,” she said, “Get ready to be youtube famous.” 

“Oh hon,” Georgie said, “Who do you take me for? I’m already youtube famous.” 

Melanie laughed. She could feel her heart beating a bit faster, the anticipation filling her lungs and veins and everything in between. This is why she did this. This is why she got into ghost hunting. This is why she made Ghost Hunt UK. She liked it. 

She was going into this decidedly more unprepared than she usually was for other stuff, but Georgie was asking, and Melanie had some idea of what they could do. “Wear good boots, Georgie, try to cover up. As I said, I don’t know much about Prentiss, but I know those worms are dangerous.” 

“Already ahead of you. Wish I had a motorcycle, really. Firstly, it’d have been so freaking cool, and secondly, I doubt those worms could chew through metal.” 

“They’re supernatural worms, I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high.” Melanie yanked her boots up her ankle, quickly buckling them shut. “Are you sure it wasn’t just a prank call?” she asked, just to be sure.

Georgie didn’t speak for a few seconds, and then— “I think he was crying, Mel.”  

Melanie paused, then continued buckling up her boots. “Ah.” 

“Yep.” There was a sigh from the other end, and then Georgie said, “ Listen, Melanie, I want you to know that you can say no. Alright? We aren’t even that close. I just know you through a few chats up on forums, and a couple cafe dates, that’s all. You aren’t obligated to run into a dangerous situation with me. I would never hold it against—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Barker,” Melanie interrupted, “I’m already mostly ready. I have my camera ready. I’m feeling alive. Do you know how hard it is to feel alive in this economy? Pretty damn hard, Georgie. This is something I want to do, I promise. I’m not doing this out of some obligation. You’re a great person to be around, and yeah, I love spending time with you, and that means I’d never let you deal with stuff like this alone. No one deserves to deal with something like Prentiss if I can do anything about it.” 

“ Thanks, Mel.” 

“And can you imagine the views we’ll get if I manage to get good footage?” Melanie said cheerfully, because Georgie had sounded shockingly sincere that time. And the way she’d said her name, and oh shit, she couldn’t combust on the spot right now, she couldn’t. She had a grumpy old man to rescue from an infestation. The infestation should be combusting, not her. 

Georgie gave a small laugh, “Oh, this is certainly a unique date, isn’t it? I could make a unique date ideas blog post, maybe. Put it up on my Patreon or something.” 

“Sure you should,” Melanie said instead of combusting, despite her body’s best efforts. “So, where do we meet up? I’ve got to take care of a couple things first, for Prentiss. Could do with a bit more cursory research as well.” 

“Yeah I’m on it,” Georgie said, and there was a smirk in her voice, “Already there.” 

Melanie’s doorbell rang. 

Martin was not having a good time. 

In fact, he was having an absolutely horrible time. 

Which was really funny because he was not only holding Jon’s hand, but also sitting pretty smushed up against him on the couch, body warm and firm and bony against Martin’s. This also meant Martin could feel every second of the way Jon was shaking. 

Although a bit of that was probably Martin’s own body shaking, of course. 

He really hadn’t thought further investigation into Vittery’s statement would lead to this. Even if his statement was genuine, and Martin was inclined to believe that it was, he’d have thought any infestation they’d have to deal with would have to do with spiders, not worms. And he liked spiders, was the thing. Spiders, he’s sure, he could have dealt with. At least better than this. Maybe his extensive knowledge of spiders could help. But there was nothing he could do about evil worms. 

He’d been so goddamn relieved when Tim and Martin had made it to the institute without incident. They hadn’t caught sight of a single worm on the way. Or at the Institute. Or even at Sasha’s house. 

His first thought when he’d heard that knock on the door had been Oh shit, Michael. 

And the way Jon had immediately started panicking had only reinforced that idea. His panic instincts had flared up, yes, but he’d also felt a steely determination flow through him. Michael had tormented Jon enough. He’d do his best to make sure Michael couldn’t get his hands on Jon again. Those weird, fucked up hands of his that had made Jon sound like that on the tape. 

Just for a moment there, Martin had felt like he could take on the world for Jon.

And then he’d spotted the worms, and all his resolve had crumpled much like his composure. 

Now they just sat there, shaking and blind and waiting. 

Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting. 

Waiting for the next knock, waiting for dawn, waiting for Jon’s friend to… what? Barge in guns blazing? Don’t be ridiculous, Martin. Guns probably wouldn’t even work against Prentiss; she was already full of holes. 

“I don’t even have hair spray,” Sasha said, and Martin could just about make out the way she waved her hands about wildly, “Why the hell don’t I have hair spray? That flamethrower idea is fucking brillaint and I don’t have a flamable material aerosol.”  

“It’s not like you knew we’d have Prentiss attacking your house in the middle of the night.” Tim said, trying to come across as light but falling flat. 

“My lighter might still be in my, uh, older clothes, actually,” Jon said, “I don’t know how much help it’d be, but—”

“Could be a source of light, at least,” Sasha said, “Yeah, except getting to the lighter is going to be a hassle. We can’t see shit anymore, and if there turns out to be a worm here– I just… I don’t want to take that chance, I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, it’s completely understandable. I wouldn’t want to move from here either, even though we’re literally in the view of the door–” Jon’s eyes darted towards the door, and Martin felt his heart rate spike, “There’s just. There’s just something about staying on the sofa that just feels safer.” 

“Yeah, exactly.” 

“This kind of stuff did not happen to us in Research, did it?” Tim asked, “I mean, we were literally going out there doing field work to the most batshit of places and we were still never tracked home like this by some weird worm entity. Or any entity at all. Martin, was the library like this?” 

“What?” Martin said, head turning towards Tim from where it’d been fixed on the blurry outline of the front door, “Oh, um. Not really? The library didn’t even keep any Lietners. Worst we had to deal with were university students on their forth sleepless night refusing to leave at closing time.” 

“I mean, Artifact Storage sure gives the Archives a run for its money, but at least that comes with the territory,” Sasha said, “It’s literally artifact storage, what excuse do the archives have? It’s archiving! We aren’t even supposed to be doing follow up work! That’s Research.” 

“The Archives are definitely cursed,” Tim said, “God, we should all just quit.” 

“Yeah,” Martin said half heartedly, because he really didn’t want to quit, especially given the job pay. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to find a new job quickly enough. Supposedly, his several years of experience in the institute should help, but he’d gotten used to the stability. 

Although that stability was rapidly disintegrating from under him. 

Maybe he should quit. Can’t pay his mother’s bills if he’s dead. 

“I just feel like we’re in too deep now,” Sasha said, with an air of confession about her. Her voice had gotten low, “I don’t know. Quitting feels like giving up.” 

“ Dying would be giving up—” Tim said, and then there was another knock, loud and insistent. 

Martin jumped, and felt Jon’s hand tighten around his own so hard that he winced. He shifted a bit, pressing himself harder against Jon’s side. He eyed the door again, and felt his heart race. What if the worms were already inside? He had stuffed the blanket in there, but if they can just chew through flesh and bone, why wouldn’t they be able to chew through a blanket? It didn’t sound unrealistic at all. 

God, how many of them were already in here?

“I don’t think dying is our worst concern here, actually,” Jon said tightly. 

“Jon, that really doesn’t help,” Martin said, his voice squeaky and pitched in a way that would have been embarrassing if he weren’t thinking about Hodge’s statement and the way he’d felt something squirm in Harriet’s shoulder. 

Sasha let out a moan and buried her face in Tim’s shoulder, and Martin really wanted to do the same, to tear his gaze away from the door, to stop looking at the door every two seconds and just shut his eyes tight and breathe in Jon’s hair which smelled exactly the way Sasha’s did. 

Oh, good, that’s good, think about your crushes and not about being infested. Usually he did his best to kick away any ‘inappropriate’ thoughts he might have had about his coworkers, but at the moment? Anything was better than thinking about the way those silvery worms might burrow inside his skin, wriggling and squirming their way in. 

“Sorry,” Jon murmured, “I’m just—” 

There was a sound from outside. A shout. It didn’t sound like Prentiss, but he couldn’t be sure. Martin’s blood turned to ice. Was she going to break down the door anyway? Oh god, he didn’t want to think about what was on the other side of the door. He really, really didn’t. What if there was just this… this wave of worms that barged in as soon as the door gave away—

And then there was this really loud, shattering noise, like glass breaking. A loud thump. And then shrieking. This absolutely horrid, loud shrieking that pierced Martin’s ears and left them ringing. 

Jon flinched, a full body jerk so hard he nearly took them both to the floor. 

“What the—” Martin started. 

“Did you hea—” 

“That really loud crashing sound followed by that awful shriek like someone was being tortured?” Sasha said, her voice pitched high as she got to her feet, “Yes, Tim, I think we all heard that.” 

There was the sound of a commotion outside, and more screaming, and then heavy stomping. Martin heard two voices, both women, from what he could tell, shouting and cursing. Not Prentiss. 

“ C’mon, what the hell, ew ew ew ew—” 

“Mel!” 

“Georgie,” Jon said, struggling to get the blanket off of him from where it had tangled up pretty badly in his legs. Martin helped, the entire ordeal turning into a half minute mess in their panic as another shout came from outside, followed by a very emphatic “ Fuck!” 

“That’s Georgie, and— is that?” 

“It can’t be, can it?” Sasha said, “Fuck, Jon, is your Georgie the Georgie Bark—” 

Sasha’s words cut off with a loud bang against the door. These weren’t knocks. It felt like someone was trying to break down the door. Martin felt his entire body seize up in panic, and felt Jon do the same. 

“ Open up!” the voice said, “ Jon? It’s Georgie. Open the door, James, your welcome mat’s on fire!” 

“My what’s on fire?” Sasha said, stumbling towards the door with Tim hot on her heels. Jon’s hand curled around Martin’s once more as he followed behind them, dragging Martin along. 

Sasha yanked the door open before any of them could stop her, and were greeted with the sight of the welcome mat, which was, indeed, on fire. 

Martin had to squint to see, the light from the hallway flooding into his eyes and making his head hurt, but he could still make out most of it, thanks to all the fire. His ears felt like they were still ringing with the sound of that scream. 

The one who’d been knocking, a tall, Black woman, stood there, panting a little, her eyes wild and weidling a bat that had some very suspicious looking wet stains on it. Not blood, and somehow that was worse. She’d been using the bat to ‘knock’ on the door, from the looks of it. The flaming mat had been pushed to the side, and had set the sad looking dried up potted plant ablaze as well. Along with a few newspapers that had been stacked up on the floor. 

“D’you have, like, a fire extinguisher or something?” she asked, and all of them just stared. 

There was a faint hiss from behind, and Martin’s gaze shifted to the other woman, a short woman with blue dyed hair was spraying— was that bug spray?

“A little help here!” she called out, “These pesky little worms aren’t gonna kill themselves!” She stomped her foot about a bit, her heavy boots making loud thumping noises on the floor as she did so. The worms she’d sprayed at still seemed alive, if a bit slower than the unsprayed ones. 

“A fire extinguisher would be nice before the entire building’s on fire!” 

“Where did Prentiss go?” Jon asked, and the tall woman’s voice climbed higher. 

“ Fire first!” 

“Right, yes, yes yes—” Sasha said, stumbling back inside the house and grabbing the small, hand held extinguisher that she kept in the kitchen. The light from the hallway stretched inside the house enough that she didn’t fall too many times as she made her way to the kitchen. 

Martin would have helped but he’d already grabbed an umbrella and was trying to smash at the worms that he could see– and there were so many of them. Not nearly as many as he’d feared, but far more than he’d like to see. Ever. 

Despite the sound of the crackling flames in the background, the sound of the worms squishing under the umbrella felt loud and clear. And someone should really do something about the fire because he could feel the heat licking at his back and—

There was another hiss, and the hallway filled with white smoke— carbon dioxide, from the looks of it. It took care of the fire, alright, but it also obscured his vision enough that he couldn’t see the worms anymore. 

For such a small extinguisher, it sure packed a punch, because Sasha kept spraying until it started sputtering out, and Martin was already starting to have trouble breathing. He could hear Jon coughing. 

He wished he’d put on some goddamn shoes before stepping out because what if the worms got in while he was standing there uselessly?

The air was starting to clear a bit, and he immediately raised the umbrella again, ready to smash at the slightest wriggle. 

Tim was wearing a pair of shoes on his hands and had raised them both as well, waiting in anticipation for the same. Martin could see the remnants of some white squished worms on the undersides of it. He shuddered, and startled when Jon cleared his throat. 

“Um, I think… I don’t think the worms are an issue anymore,” he said, pointing at the floor where a cluster of worms lay. 

Unmoving. Dead. 

Everyone stood at a standstill for a moment, and then Tim–

“What the actual fuck?” 

“Looks like they’re vulnerable to carbon dioxide?” Jon said, taking a step forward and then stumbling, nearly collapsing to the floor. The woman with the bat caught him. 

“Whoa there, you alright?” 

“I…” Jon’s gaze trailed down, and Martin’s followed, “Oh god.” 

“Oh fuck,” Tim said, voice mirroring the horror Martin felt, because there was a worm sticking out of Jon’s ankle. 

“Get it out,” Jon said thinly, faintly, “Get it out. Get it out.” 

“Yes, yes,” the woman said, and then reached down to his ankle with her bare hands. She grasped at the worm with two fingers, and just— she yanked it out. Jon made a short, cut out noise, grasping at the woman’s clothes with clenched hands. 

The worm she pulled out was already dead, but she threw it to the ground and crushed it beneath her boots anyway.

“Oh god,” Jon said, burying his face in her neck as he slid to the floor, “Oh god.” 

Martin would have probably felt jealous if they didn’t have more pressing concerns at the moment. 

(He did feel a little bit jealous, though.) 

But— “Where’s Prentiss?” 

The bug spray woman looked up, “I… she climbed out that window and just… jumped. She’d been on fire at the time, though, so I don’t think she’s alive anymore.” 

Sasha made her way to the window, and Martin followed. They looked down, the street light illuminating the concrete beneath. It was stained, a dirty red and brownish, and even from the distance, Martin could make out a few squashed worms. 

Prentiss was nowhere in sight. 

“Um, guys,” he said, “I don’t… she’s not there.” 

Everyone stilled. 

The bugspray woman rushed to the window, so did Tim, and Martin could see Jon struggling to his feet with the help of the other woman, but no. Prentiss was gone. They looked down the street both ways, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight. 

Which meant she was still alive.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: What Not to Do in a Horror Movie

“I’m not going back to my house,” Sasha said, breaking the silence that had descended over their group, voice echoing a bit through the archives. Did it always do that or was she just being exceptionally loud? She knew the Archives were a bit creepy, but the corners felt especially dark now. 

“Yeah, no, not happening for sure,” Tim said, running a hand across his face. “Sasha, look, I’m sorry–” 

“For what?” Sasha said, blinking, momentarily distracted from trying to check behind a shelf from her vantage point to see if perhaps Prentiss was waiting there to jump out at them. Baffled, she frowned at Tim, “What are you sorry for?” 

“ We were the ones who led Prentiss back to your house,” Martin said, looking miserable. Well, everyone looked miserable, so he wasn’t an exception. But if he was feeling guilty about this? 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon said, echoing exactly what Sasha was thinking. “Better all four of us than just one of you, alone.” 

“Well,” Georgie said, bending down to scratch the Duchess’ head from where she was curled up in Jon’s lap, “True enough, but also, what the fuck?” 

“Yeah,” Melanie said, “Same question.” 

Sasha stared at Melanie, standing there with her thumbs hooked into her belt loops, rocking back and forth on her feet. She honestly looked a bit unreal, like she wasn’t really here. Sasha had seen her a good number of times on YouTube, enough to maybe even call herself a fan but seeing her here, like this, just made her feel a bit hysterical. 

A horror podcaster, a horror youtuber, and a bunch of archival staff who work at a research institute dedicated to the horrors. This wasn’t even close to subtle, it was comical, it’s like they were asking for bad things to happen. 

Sasha sighed, “We were investigating a statement. Martin and Tim came across Prentiss, they ran, she didn’t seem to have followed them, but we all decided to stick together for the time being anyway. Then she turned up at my house and cut off our electricity.” 

“And you called me?” Georgie asked, her eyes on Jon, who wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was firmly fixed on the cat, running his hand over her fur in very rhythmic, even strokes.

“We had a bit of a debate, about calling 999 or someone else I know from the institute. Ended up calling you, yes. Turned out to be a good choice,” Sasha said, eying Melanie again. “Also, like, can I ask where the fire came from?” 

That had been bugging her a bit. Seeing the worms and the fire outside her door had been… quite a sight. She hadn’t even told her landlord yet. Wondered what he’d have to say to that. She was definitely not getting her security deposit back, but like, it wasn’t like the fire had spread to the inside of the house, right? The front door had been scorched, that was all. 

“Oh, uh,” Melanie winced, “That’d be me.” 

“It was fucking spectacular,” Georgie said bluntly, her eyes gleaming, “Like I’m not surprised you know how to make a molotov, but to see you actually do it? God, that was brilliant. And it got rid of the worm woman fast enough.” 

A low whistle escaped Tim as he raised his brow at Melanie, “Damn, bold move. I definitely approve.” 

Melanie smirked at him, shrugging. After that, there was silence for a moment, a little bit awkward, filled through with the sound of the Duchess purring. Sasha took a deep breath, her own voice cutting through the archives in a way that almost made her flinch. 

“Jon, I’m sorry, I know I offered you to stay at my house indefinitely, but I doubt you want to go back to my house anymore than I do—” 

“Wait, hold up, rewind a bit,” Georgie interrupted, “Why was Jon staying at your house?” 

Sasha paused. Looked at Jon. Jon looked back at her for a second before glancing at Georgie. After which he fixed his gaze on the Duchess. 

“Well,” Jon said, colouring a bit, “I was going to tell you.” 

“Tell me what.” Georgie’s eyes were narrowed, her arms crossed across her chest. 

“But I lost my phone, I have it back but it’s not charged yet, and it’s only been a couple days since I came back—” 

“Jon,” Sasha said, a little exasperated herself, a sentiment very clearly echoed on Georgie’s face as Melanie snorted.  

When Jon kept hesitating, even stopping his stroking of the Duchess, Tim spoke up, “He was kidnapped.” 

Georgie blinked. 

“Apparently it was only for two days,” Jon added, shrugging as he averted his eyes yet again and started working on the Duchess again. 

“It was not two days for you,” Martin said, his voice loud and stern in a way it rarely was, “Don’t try to downplay it.” 

“Jon,” Georgie said slowly, concern evident in her voice as she frowned, and crouched down beside him, making Jon wince but hold her gaze. “Look, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But do you at least have a place to go? Sasha said you were staying with her, obviously that’s out of the question now. You could come with me, perhaps?” 

Jon’s eyes widened, and he was shaking his head frantically even before Georgie had finished talking. “No. Absolutely not. I already put you in danger by calling you, but I can’t keep doing that by staying over at your house.” 

Georgie’s concerned frown turned into a scowl, “Why did you call me if you aren’t going to accept help? You know I can take care of myself, that’s the reason you called me, right? Let me help.” 

“Georige,” Jon said, a bit desperate as he looked around for some support, “You’re the most level headed person I know, you never panic, I thought in an emergency situation like that, you’d be able to help. But if I brought someone like Prentiss to your house, I have no idea how you’d be able to deal with that. The four of us together couldn’t.” 

Georgie’s scowl had smoothed out as Jon spoke, a strange expression crossing it for a second before she sighed, her shoulders slumping. 

“I get where you’re coming from, but where else are you going to go?” 

Tim cleared his throat, “My house is—” 

“I think,” Sasha cut him off, “It might be best if all four of us didn’t converge in one house altogether. Tim, your house is safe now, but we already know these things can– they can find you any time they desire. I’d rather… I know splitting is like, the worst mistake you can make in a horror movie, but staying together didn’t work out very well for us either.” 

“You’re right,” Tim said flatly, “Splitting up is the worst mistake you can make in a horror movie.” 

“Tim–” 

“First of all,” he said, “Where are you going to stay? You and Jon?” 

She’d thought about this. Jon had thought about this. The day when she’d invited Jon over to her house, they’d had this conversation. It had felt absurd then, and it still felt so, but more viable than before. 

“You know that cot in document storage that we make fun of sometimes?” 

Tim stared at her blankly. 

“You’re going to stay here? In the Archives? ” Martin said. 

“That room is sealed,” Jon said, “Even though the actual temperature and humidity controls are broken, the room itself is still sealed. No chance of worms getting in somehow. It’ll… it’ll actually be safer than most other places.” 

“Not from Elias, though,” Martin said, which sounded like a weak protest. 

Yes, there was something wrong with Elias, and yes there was definitely something going on here. But also, Elias wasn’t a shambling half corpse filled with worms stalking them. Although the jury was still out on the stalking part. Even still, it didn’t seem like he wanted to murder them, at least. 

God, Sasha hoped not. 

“If you want to split up, that’s fine,” Tim said, making it very clear that it wasn’t fine. “But, like, Martin and I have separate homes. We can split up that way. You don’t need to stay in the archives.” 

Sasha sighed, “I don’t know, Tim. A sealed, climate controlled room sounds very appealing right now. And Jon and I would be together, so it’d be fine. And we could look more into Prentiss as well. I know there was a statement by her here somewhere. We also need to stock up on fire extinguishers.” 

“You want to stay in the archives so you can work more?” Tim said, voice incredulous. 

“It’s not work if it can help us save our lives,” Jon said, voice not rising. 

“And you!” Tim said, whipping his head towards Jon whose eyes suddenly widened, “You’re injured! Why do you want to stay in the archives?”

“I’m fine.” 

“You say that far too often for anyone to believe anymore.” 

“It’s not that bad, no need to blow it out of proportion. It was just one worm and I’m on antibiotics for it. Painkillers as well.” 

“Tim,” Sasha said slowly, gently, “It’s okay. Both Jon and I think the archives are the best place for us to stay. Perhaps not the most comfortable, but it’s not like we’re going to be here forever. Only until we figure out what to do with Prentiss. Or the ECDC finds her.” 

“We don’t know how long that’s going to take,” Martin said. 

Sasha got it. She did. She didn’t want to split up either. But it’s not like she was saying they should all go solo. This kind of splitting up was practical, really. And she knew Jon would feel safer here. It had been made clear to him in the worst way possible that these things could follow him anywhere but the institute. Michael had yet to step foot in the archives, as did Prentiss. 

Jon wasn’t naive enough to really think that these creatures or entities or monsters or whatever they were wouldn’t be able to touch him here. But a sealed room did promise enough of a shield against something like Prentiss. 

And she hadn’t been lying about wanting to look for Prentiss’ statement. But if she reiterated or stressed that point to anyone other than Jon, they’d look at her like she was crazy. She wasn't. It was logical. Still, she could see why they'd be upset about it. 

They all just…  needed to know. The more information they had, the better equipped they would be to handle this. They were literally sitting in the middle of an entire archive of information. She couldn't afford to not make use of it. 

“You’ll both be here half the day anyway,” Sasha said, “It’s okay. If it’s not sustainable, we’ll look for alternate arrangements.” 

It’ll be sustainable. She didn't know why there was a cot in document storage, and even though they had made fun of it several times, its presence still disconcerted her. It felt like it had seen a lot of use. 

It would probably see a lot of use further still. 

Elias stood with his arms crossed, head tilted to the side and a small frown on his face. He didn’t look nearly as alarmed or concerned as Sasha would have liked. He actually looked a bit skeptical.

“Are you sure it was Jane Prentiss?” 

“Yes.” Sasha kept her voice carefully controlled. Do not seem hysteric. Do not seem hysteric or irrational or out of control, even though if any situation called for hysteria, it would be this one. 

“Did you see her?” 

Sasha opens her mouth, then– “Tim and Martin did.” 

“Who are conveniently not here.” 

Would slapping him across the face be counted as hysteric? Probably. But god would it be satisfying. 

“You don’t think they deserve a break after what happened?” 

Elias hummed, a considering sound which wasn’t very considering at all. “I still don’t understand why you want to stay at the archives.” 

Aren’t I the head archivist, goddamnit. She shouldn’t have to convince Elias of all this. He was the head of an institution dedicated to studying the fucking paranormal. He shouldn’t be such a giant skeptic. A bit of skepticism was healthy, of course, especially given the number of false statements that arrived on their doorstep every week, but this was just absurd. Jane Prentiss was a noted entity, one that the institute knew about, had her as a recorded esoteric object of interest. He shouldn’t be skeptical about her, at least. They knew she’d been out there, was it really such a stretch to think that maybe the employees that literally go looking for this kind of thing might actually find it? 

She didn’t say all of that though. Clearing her throat, Sasha said in an even voice, “Document Storage is safe. And we won’t be slacking off, we’ll still be working.” 

Elias stared at her with his piercing gaze, like he could make his version of the events true even if Sasha knew what happened, experienced it herself, felt that terror, heard the knocks, the scream, the fire. Did this count as gaslighting? No, of course not. The way someone stares cannot constitute gaslighting. 

“And you didn’t see Prentiss,” he said at last.  

“Jon literally had a worm inside his leg,” she said, nearly throwing her hands up in the air. “Do you want him to take his bandage off and show you the hole?” 

“Ah,” Elias said delicately, “no, that won’t be necessary. I believe that Jon was injured, yes. But from what you’ve told me, none of you actually saw Prentiss. Not at your house, at least.”

“Georgie and Melanie did.” 

Elias hummed. He clearly did not take them seriously. Which was ridiculous and completely in line with what she’d come to expect from him nowadays. “Of course.”

Sasha stood there, staring at him without saying something. He wasn’t stupid. If there was one thing Sasha knew about Elias without any doubt, it was that he was a very smart man. At least he didn’t seem to be quite so intent on kicking them out of the archives now, even if he looked unimpressed. 

Finally, she broke, tacking on an impatient question to mask just how infuriated she was. “And the fire suppression system?” 

“Hm?”

“I told you, having a carbon dioxide based suppression system would be safer because Prentiss’ worms die from it.” Sasha’s hands tingled with the need to slap him. 

“There was nothing about it in the ECDC or the hospital reports.”

If she developed hypertension from working in this place, she was going to sue. She’ll ask for financial recompensation for every single penny spent on the medical treatment, including the cost of going back and forth to the doctor. 

“Look, okay, even if not for worms, then at least for the archives themselves. A sprinkler system is going to absolutely destroy all the documents here if its activated. I’m frankly surprised it hasn’t happened already. A CO2 system would be better.” 

“Well,” Elias said slowly, glacially, “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Thank you,” Sasha said, perhaps a bit more snappish than was appropriate. “Jon and I would be staying in document storage and trying to find that statement on Prentiss. I know she left one.” 

“As I doubt there’s anything I can do to dissuade you from the notion, I suppose I’ll have to leave you be.” Elias sounded a little amused, which she didn’t really understand. There was nothing to be amused about. Prentiss wasn’t an amusement. She’d already hurt people. Killed people. And she’d stalked them to her home. One of her worms had burrowed into Jon’s leg. How could there possibly be something to be amused about? “If that’s all?”

“That’s all.” 

Don’t slap him. 

Elias nodded, and turned to leave. Opening the door, Sasha was surprised to see Jon standing there. More the fact that he was standing and less that he was eavesdropping. Maybe she should have included him in the conversation, but everyone was uncomfortable with the idea of Jon and Elias spending any time together in a room than was absolutely necessary. 

“Ah, Jon. How are you?” Elias asked, sounding, for a moment, almost genuinely concerned.

A scowl crossed Jon’s face for a moment before he, with clear effort, covered it with only a slightly strained expression. “I’m fine.” 

“Should you be standing? I’ve been made to believe you were injured.” 

Now the concern was gone, a bit of condescension slipping in instead. It’s almost like he couldn’t see the thick bandage wrapped around Jon’s ankle, or the way he was holding on the wall for support, or the way his face was pale with pain. 

“I’m fine,” Jon repeated. Placidly, Elias nodded, and then he left. If he were any less dignified, he might’ve started whistling as he exited the archives. . 

Sasha hurried over to Jon, and he shifted his grip from the wall to Sasha’s arm, white knuckled and teeth gritted. 

“You shouldn’t be on your feet,” Sasha chided, but Jon only rolled his eyes. 

“I’m constantly astonished at how I never noticed what kind of person Elias was,” he said instead. 

“Yeah,” Sasha said, “I don’t know. I’m usually hyper aware of condescending assholes like him. But he covered it surprisingly well. I don’t think he’s getting over you rejecting the archivist position any time soon.” She paused, and frowned at him, “Which is all the more reason you shouldn’t take it. He’s going to do his best to coerce you, and he’s going to be shitty to all of us during that time, but don’t take the position, alright?” 

“I’m in no hurry,” Jon said, letting out a small noise as he collapsed against a chair. “Don’t worry about that.” 

“Need another painkiller?” 

Jon shook his head, “Took one an hour ago. Will wait another hour before taking more.” 

“Good, good,” Sasha said, glancing at his phone, which was now charging. They’d just decided to buy him a new charger rather than risk going to his house just yet. They’d do it, but not just yet. Her own phone was now fully charged, and she had a power bank that was fully charged as well. And Tim and Martin had both called her, Melanie and Georgie had texted her. 

Everyone was as safe as it was conceivable for them at the moment. 

And yet something crawled over Sasha’s skin, almost like the static that precedes a big storm. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Seams and Symphonies 

She knew there would be nothing there if she looked back. Or above. Or below her desk. Or inside the potted plant. There was nothing ever there. No worms, no cameras, no one watching them. There was nothing there at all. 

Yet Sasha still looked back. 

Nothing but a wall with a corkboard and a list of tasks pinned on it. Horribly long, several post it notes, some so old the ink on them had faded to illegibility, and a world map, for some reason. She hadn’t yet cleared out Gertrude’s stuff from it. Couldn’t quite bring herself to, even though they’d scoured it for clues already. 

No eyes whatsoever. No worms either. 

Yet the feeling of being watched crescendoed to the point where she could feel the hair at the back of her neck rise. It always happened when she read a statement. One of those. Those that didn’t record digitally. 

Leanne Denikin’s statement had been just as disturbing as most of the other statements Sasha has had to commit on tape, it made her skin crawl, and if she concentrated, she could hear very faint calliope music playing in the background, but that slipped away the second she stopped paying such close attention to it. 

It could’ve been just her imagination. But probably not. 

She hadn’t even actually recorded it yet. Just reading through it when Jon handed it to her, saying it wasn’t committing on his laptop. A laptop that stayed suspiciously free of tampering. 

They still needed follow up on this before she could record it. And she was already dreading it. She knew the dreadful music would become stronger when she was recording, and she also knew if she played the tape back there would be no music. 

That’s how these things usually went. 

Jon and Sasha had been going through a slightly concerning amount of statements together since they started living here. And while Sasha was completely against unpaid overtime, this work wasn’t for Elias. They were doing it for themselves, to find something on Michael, or perhaps on Jane Prentiss, or literally anything else that would shed some light on what was happening. 

While this particular statement didn’t help with any of that, Tim would still be very interested in it. She was too, to a certain extent. Especially as she wanted to help Tim, because his story about his brother was too important to let rest without any answers, because he’d want to know about this statement even though he wouldn’t be happy with the amount of work Jon and Sasha had been putting through the last week. 

Still, she could hear his lecture about work life balance if it meant it’d get them closer to answers. She’ll give him the follow up for it, probably along with Jon. He’d been getting tetchy, staying in the archives. His leg might give him some issues, especially as it wasn’t healing as fast as it could be, but getting out of the institute might do him some good. And anyway, Tim would take care of him. She trusted him. 

Sighing, she glanced at the empty cup of tea on her desk, hoping that she’d saved some for after she’d finished reading the statement. Even though it’d have been too cold to comfortably drink by now. Maybe she should start keeping a thermos in her office, filled with Martin’s tea. 

She didn’t even like tea. But there was comfort in a warm drink made for her by someone who cared. 

She could feel her shoulders relaxing as she pushed open the door to her office with her hip, hands occupied with her empty cup and the statement. The stapled sheets of paper felt too innocuous to contain something as concerning as it did. 

“Tim,” she called out softly, and saw his face turn up towards her, a smile gracing his face just for a few seconds before he caught her expression and it dropped again. “Come to my office for a bit, please?” 

He’d probably prefer a bit of privacy with this. She doubted he’d told the others about his brother yet, and it wasn’t her place to push him on it. He glanced at Martin and Jon, who were looking at him, and Sasha, with curious looks. But didn’t interpret when Tim pushed off from his desk to follow Sasha into her office. 

“What’s up, Sash?” Tim asked, closing the door behind him most of the way, but leaving a sliver ajar, the way she preferred, so she could hear, if faintly, whatever was going on out in the bullpen area. It was comforting. She didn’t really spend more than a few hours in her office anyway, liked being around the others more. 

Being alone in this place really wasn’t a good idea. 

She realised she hadn't actually put away her empty cup when she went out, and gave it a small frown, like the cup was to blame. She gestured at Tim to take a seat, sitting down herself and pushing the statement towards him. 

“There’s a statement I think you’d be interested in.” 

The calliope organ in the artefact storage was distinctly non supernatural looking. 

But only that. It just didn’t look supernatural, or weird, or strange, or like it shouldn’t exist. Tim didn’t even know what such a thing was supposed to look like. But he sure knew what it was supposed to feel like because he could feel it right now. A strange sort of humming in the air, like a distant cousin of music. One that was almost music but not quite. 

The scratched message made Tim want to stand as still as it implored the reader to be. Be still, for there is strange music. 

If the charged humming in the air could be counted as music, staying still was the last thing Tim wanted to do. He’d rather run as far away from it as possible, actually. Or maybe not. If there was even the slightest possibility that this thing might contain the answers to Danny’s death– his murder, then Tim would fight all instincts he had and stay. Danny deserved that much from his older brother, not cowardice. The same cowardice that had had him rooted to the spot as that fucking clown—

“Tim?” Jon said tentatively, quietly, because Sasha didn’t want any of them venturing into artefact storage alone, even though Sonja was right there as well, seemingly busy with her phone, but Tim knew she was keeping an eye on them. 

Or the other things around them so that they didn’t get eaten. 

“Yeah?” Tim asked, taking his eyes away from the organ with some effort. 

“Can you hear it? The music?” 

Tim looked more carefully at Jon, and was surprised to see just how pale he looked. Almost frightened. He took a step closer to Jon, a bit further away from the organ, and could see Sonja relax from the corner of his eye. 

“I don’t know if its music, ” Tim said quietly, “More like a humming.” 

Jon pursed his lips, eyes darting between the calliope and Tim. “It’s music. Organ music. Very faint, like it’s coming from a few streets away. Not humming, it’s proper music.” 

“That…” Tim cleared his throat, looking back at the scratched words. Could he pick the lock? Open the keyboard? That somehow didn’t feel like the best idea.  “That doesn’t sound good,” he said, looking away again.  

“It’s quite pleasant, actually,” Jon said, a bit dry, lips quirking up in a wry smile. “But you’re right. I’m not comfortable with this. We should check out those books you mentioned in the library.” 

When Tim nodded, he could swear he heard Sonja sigh in relief. Which wasn’t surprising, all things considered. Tim had heard some truly concerning things from Sasha about what went down in artefact storage. Sonja would probably be held responsible if Jon and Tim were to, oh, be eaten by the closet of darkness or some such thing, and no one wanted to stay late filling out the paperwork for that. 

They signed the log in and log out register, which in itself was a lengthy procedure stating time and date and phone number and employee id and purpose— ah, Tim was suddenly reminded why it was Sasha who had more often visited Tim in Research than the other way round. 

Jon’s shoulders dropped visibly when they exited the department, but Tim could still feel that faint buzzing in the air, like he was laying his head on someone’s chest who was humming. A low, rumbling thing that was more felt than heard. But so, so subtle. 

“Did the music stop?” Tim asked quietly as they entered the lift. Then he saw Jon’s jaw clench. Ah. 

“Not exactly, but it’s gotten fainter. I’m hoping it’ll go away by the time we reach the library.” 

“Well,” Tim tried a smile, his heart not into it, “Here’s to a whole ton of hope. At least it's not footsteps, right?”

He worried whether that was an awful joke to make, something in really poor taste. But Jon didn’t seem to mind. “No, it’s an entirely different sort of horror altogether,” he commented dryly, almost but not quite rolling his eyes. Tim was sure he rolled his eyes in spirit.  

“God, yeah. It’s like there’s a bingo for these sorts of things. Is there a price for checking all of them?”

“If there is, it better be really damn good,” Jon grumbled, rubbing a hand down his face a little too vigorously, before snapping his arms back down to his sides as the door of the lift slid open. 

Finding the books they were looking for was a humblingly easy experience. The library had always been terrifyingly organised, perfectly arranged rows of several hundred books. Any of the librarians could find you the book you were looking for, if you knew the name or the book or the author, and if it was available. 

A very, very stark contrast to the archives, where you wouldn’t be able to find a statement if you’d read it the day before. They were working on it, but it wasn’t… going well. Even if you didn’t count the weird, supernatural bits. 

Tim stared down at the picture he’d seen, years ago, when he first joined the institute and gained unrestrained access to its library. The Circus of the Other. Gregor Orsinov and Nikolai Denikin. They rang a bell. They rang so many bells it sounded like a fucking crime scene being flooded with ambulances and police cars and fire brigades. 

He’d read this particular chapter so many times he had it practically memorised. And yet it held no answers to his brother's death except that this circus was almost definitely connected to it. 

Jon was furiously scribbling things down on a notebook, but Tim couldn’t really focus. 

It all felt like a horrible dead end. The statement giver was unreachable, so Tim couldn’t question her for any answers either. Her statement seemed to indicate that she didn’t have any answers anyway. 

Questions. Always questions and never any answers. Tim felt like he was on a rollercoaster, and not the fun kind. Like every question, every new avenue of research took them a little bit nearer to the top. A very, very steep incline. Which will lead to an equally steep fall. A worse fall. A fall Tim wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of. 

But fuck if he was going to leave Sasha and Jon and Martin alone. Fuck if he was going to let go of Danny after finally feeling like maybe, maybe, at the end of the rollercoaster, there would be something waiting for him. Something that would take this unbearable weight of guilt off of him. Something that would make it easier to think about Danny without descending into helpless rage. 

There was someone moving in the archives. 

Sasha held her breathe, staring up at the blurry ceiling, seeing nothing but the grey of the dull paint that covered all the walls of the archives. She didn’t even dare move her eyes, let alone look for her glasses or call out for Jon. 

She’d read up on sleep paralysis. She knew about sleep paralysis. A concerning number of the… false statements they received were chalked up to sleep paralysis. It was a horrible thing, yes, but ultimately, nothing to do with the supernatural. 

Except right now. 

Sasha couldn’t quite tell whether her stillness was because she didn’t want to move, or because she couldn’t move. The knock of Prentiss, and the way everything had gone to shit after she’d gotten out of bed only to realise that the power had gone out— she swallowed thickly, feeling a lump in her throat that hurt to breathe around. 

The shuffling sounds from the archives main area continued, and she realised abruptly that if she could hear it so clearly, it meant that the door to document storage was open. 

Curling her fingers a bit experimentally, she was relieved to see that she could move them. A slight pins and needles sensation tingled up her arms, but that was probably just her anxiety. She turned her head, to look up at the cot where Jon slept. “Jon?” she whispered. 

There was no response. 

Breathing slowly and evenly, she pulled herself up to a sitting position, and looked at the cot. The empty cot. Jon wasn’t here. 

Biting down on her lips, she breathed some more. Okay. Okay. Okay. 

She climbed to her feet, stepping off the air mattress. There was quite a bit of light coming into document storage from outside, which went a long way to making her feel better. She couldn’t hear knocking either, just more papers shuffling. 

Her heartbeat was starting to slow down a bit as she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and slowly trudged towards the noise, vision just the tiny bit blurred because she hadn’t bothered to look for her glasses. 

“Jon?” she called out again, a little louder than she had before, and the shuffling sounds stopped. “Is that you?” 

A few moments of absolute silence passed, where something cold started seeping into her veins, before a quiet voice called out, “Y-yes.” 

Sasha’s shoulders dropped in relief, and she made her way towards where the voice had come from. Jon was sitting on the floor, injured leg splayed out and the other one bent under him. The position didn’t look comfortable in the least, but Jon didn’t even seem to notice. The single lightbulb above him illuminated him and the several documents spread out around him, with a couple of boxes of folders stacked on top of each other. 

He was looking up at her with an embarrassed expression, two spots of colour on his cheeks, with some pretty heavy dark circles under his eyes. 

“Are you alright?” Sasha asked, a little bit miffed at the fright Jon had given her, but unwilling to show it. “You scared me.” 

Jon winced, “I’m sorry.” 

“Mhm,” Sasha hummed, getting closer and then sitting down as well, crossing her legs in a more comfortable position than Jon’s. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jon said after a couple moments of staring blankly at the document in his hands. “I thought I kept hearing things. So– so instead of freaking myself out, I thought maybe… maybe I could look for Prentiss’ statement?” 

“What kind of things?” 

“What?” 

“What kind of things were you hearing?” Because damn if she was gonna let something like this go. The whole mess with Michael had started with Jon hearing things as well. Something like this was serious. 

Jon fidgeted. 

“Jon?” 

“It’s… it’s stupid. I feel like I keep hearing… squirming. Like worms. Like they’re everywhere, all the time. They aren’t, I checked, I couldn't find any worms in the archives. But I couldn't stop hearing them. And–” Jon cut himself off abruptly, making Sasha frown. 

“And?” 

“Nothing.” 

Sasha wanted to pry and prod and ask until he spilled. These things could be a matter of life and death. If Jon was hiding something… She shook her head. Jon wasn’t stupid. He’d know to tell them if it was something concerning. Hopefully. 

“Right,” she murmured. She picked up one of the bundle of statements, removing the twine– twine? Holding them together. “Truth be told,” she said, separating out the statements and checking over their dates, throwing a dirty look at twine because what the hell– “It’s the same for me. Every little sound is… is terrifying. I keep thinking that she’s back. Even now, when I woke up, for a moment i thought that– well. You know.” 

“Yes,” Jon said, “I know. I’m sorry for scaring you. I just keep thinking, that maybe, if we found Prentiss’ statement, we’d be able to do something. Maybe protect ourselves better.” 

“Maybe.” 

They worked silently for a few minutes, the sleepiness gradually leaving her as she organised another few bundles. The horrifying state of the archives never failed to astonish her. She’d have loved to sleep more, but she wouldn’t have been able to fall asleep alone, nor could she just leave Jon here, by himself. 

“Sasha?” Jon said, breaking the comfortable silence that had drifted over them in the last several minutes. 

“Yeah?”

“I can… I can also hear calliope music, sometimes.” 

Sasha paused, pushing down the urge to correct his pronunciation of calliope, before the full force of his statement hit her. “ What?” 

“Not as often as the person in the statement, um, Josh? Not as often as he seemed to. Just… sometimes. It’s very faint. Fainter than the worm squirming sound which I already know doesn’t exist. And it’s only sometimes, like at the edges of my hearing. I wasn’t even able to figure out that it was organ music I was hearing until a few hours ago. I thought it had stopped, last week, after Tim and I left artefact storage.” 

Sasha stared at Jon. “Shit,” she said, finally. “That’s… that’s not good.” 

Jon laughed, a dry, almost bitter sound, “No, no it isn’t.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: The Ostrich Strategy

Darkness edged his vision, and Jon barely kept himself from rubbing at his eyes again. His glasses were askew, focusing the world in a slightly off way that normally would've given him a migraine if he didn't already have one. He couldn't even be bothered to right them. 

Jon hadn't been sleeping well. Neither had Sasha, for that matter. The calliope music had become such a constant over the last few days that he barely even registered it. A low, background humming, strange music afoot. Almost, almost soothing, if it didn't bring up memories of torn off jaws and blood and screams. 

Sighing, he poured out another cup of black tea from the thermos Martin had provided. An hour ago. It was supposed to last him till lunch, but perhaps Jon had underestimated just how hard it was to parse through faded documents and chicken scratch handwritings when your eyes refused to focus. 

Which is why it took him until someone cleared their throat above him to finally notice the visitor. He startled hard, nearly tipping his mug and the open thermos down to the floor in his wild scrambling to stand up. If that had happened, he might have actually burst into tears, however undignified and unprofessional that was. 

“Melanie!” Jon said, and winced when his voice came out a bit higher than expected. He cleared his throat, cheeks burning, “Hello. We weren't expecting you here today. Uh, have you been standing here long?” 

Melanie raised a brow, looking a bit judgmental, which Jon thought was fair. He probably looked a wreck; but it still made him bristle. “About a few minutes, yeah. You look lost. How's the leg?”

Jon glanced down at his still bandaged leg, mouth thinning. Beneath the stark white, he'd checked, the wound had more or less healed. As well as could be expected, at least. No infection. Not even any pain, no. Not much. 

Not much pain, except for a vague, squirming sensation that would wake him up in a cold sweat, shuddering and desperate to claw his entire foot off. 

“It’s… fine.” 

Melanie grimaced, “Yeah, of course.” 

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Jon couldn't tell whether the silence was awkward or not. He'd never been good at this kind of thing. This was probably awkward, though, right?

“Um,” he began, and Melanie startled a bit, eyes wide, “Why are you here?” 

Belatedly, he realized that might have been a bit of a rude question to ask. Wasn't Melanie a sort of friend now? Was rescuing someone from a worm infested woman enough to make you friends? 

“I… uh, I'd actually been thinking about doing this for a while now,” Melanie said, shifting on her feet. She didn't seem offended at his rudeness, at least. “I have my reservations about, you know, this place. It's like… well,” she frowned at him, “Im sure you know the kind of reputation the Magnus Institute has.” 

Jon did know. And he did not like where this was going. “Why are you here?” He asked, this time not bothering to worry about whether he sounded rude or not. 

Melanie raised her arms, a little condescendingly, “No need to get defensive. Most of the people who come to give a statement here do it for a laugh, or a dare, or some shit. The other half need professional help. Like, psychiatric professional help. You know this already.” 

“You still haven't answered me.” 

“Geez,” Melanie laughed, and it sounded tense. “Alright. Okay. I'm here to give a statement.” 

Jon blinked. 

“Yes, I know what that sounds like,” she added when she saw whatever face Jon was making. “I just dissed your institute and now I am talking about giving a statement myself.” 

“At least you're self aware,” Jon muttered. 

Melanie rolled her eyes, stepping forward again, “But no one else would believe me. And i thought, well. After the whole thing with Prentiss, you might… you guys might hear me out. Take me seriously.” 

There is no proof that Jane Prentiss is actually supernatural, Jon thought, it could still be a particularly aggressive parasite.

He swallowed, feeling something squirm within the mostly healed wound on his ankle. Choking back the words he wanted to say, all too bitterly false to bother voicing out, he blew out a breath, letting some tension seep out of his shoulders as well. “You can give your statement to me. Usually Sasha takes them, but she's unavailable right now.” 

By unavailable he meant that she was sleeping. She'd spent the entire last night rummaging through the archives, sure that they'd find something useful. The back of the archives were a wreck. More so than usual. Jon had tried to sort and tidy up as much as possible when he woke up and saw Sasha's trail of destruction, but he could only do so much. He certainly wasn't going to wake her up now. He could take a statement. 

Melanie stared at him for a moment before nodding. He couldn't read her expression, didn't know if she was disappointed at him being the one to take her statement or not. He ignored it. Grabbing a tape recorder and an empty tape, he tried to drag a chair towards his desk, but Melanie beat him to it. He'd have thrown her a Look for it, except his leg still felt like something was trying to crawl up, and inside, and up up up—

He shook his head, then sat down. It was fine. The worm had been dead when they pulled out. They had done a scan at the hospital, there was nothing unwanted inside Jon's leg, no matter how false that felt when his leg kept fucking tingling—

The click of the recorder had become almost comforting in its familiarity. 

After Melanie had been done speaking, Jon had done his best to tamp down on any scathing disbelief. She’d sounded exactly like most of the pranking, unbelievable teenagers who came here to give their spooky stories a home. But he hadn't said it. Hadn't said exactly how convenient it was that the only footage of the event she had was corrupted. He'd run out of fingers trying to count the number of similarly corrupted footage, or pictures, or audios they had received as proof of statements just in the last month. 

He hadn't said it because he remembered the scream Jane Prentiss had made when the molotov had shattered on her. He still couldn't quite parse through whatever emotions had rushed through him at the sound, but he was definitely grateful. 

He'd nodded. Reassured Melanie, said they'd look into it. He'd drawn up the cloak of professionalism tight around himself, not letting much slip through. 

Jon wanted to sleep. 

Something tugged at the edges of his consciousness, infuriating, nagging, just barely out of reach. He wanted to scream and kick and yell to grasp at it. Sarah Baldwin was such a familiar name, and he couldn't for the life of him figure it out. 

They'd gotten something out of the corrupted recording, at least. Which seemed to corroborate what Melanie was saying. Well, not exactly, but it was concerning enough to lend credence to it.

Jon hated it. Hated that hovering, dark figure. Hated the fact that they didn't have anything more. Hated that Georgie couldn't reach out to Sarah anymore and neither could any of them. 

Martin was frowning down at the tape recorder as well, a furrow between his brows that Jon had the absurd urge to smoothen out. He clenched his hands in his lap, willing his spine to loosen a bit before it started aching and did his best to not look at Martin's eyebrows. 

“Have we seen Sarah Baldwin in another statement?” he asked, and Jon barely managed to not jump up with an aha! at the confirmation that he wasn't just imagining the recognition the name sparked. 

“This is what archiving is supposed to be for,” Tim groaned. “It's supposed to make finding things like this easier. But no,” he said, dragging the one syllable out an obnoxious amount, “Nothing relevant will ever fucking upload digitally. So we can't make an easily accessible and searchable database and—” Tim let out an inarticulate noise of frustration that Jon felt intimately down to his soul.

Sasha got up and dumped the Duchess into Tim's lap, who effectively cut off the groaning. It was practically illegal to not pet the kitty if she was in your lap, so of course he pet her. She looked very comfortable, about to just dose off. Curled up, all small and fluffy in Tim's lap, enjoying the attention lavished upon her. Jon tried not to let his envy shine through too obviously.

“If you think it's important enough, we could do a manual search. We haven't made that much progress yet, so it shouldn't take more than a couple days if we all work on it. And maybe from now on we could make a list of all the names and places mentioned in a statement and attach it to the recording?” Sasha mused, voice low and tired as she went back and slumped into her chair. Jon heard a distinctive crack from either her knees or her back that made him wince. 

“Yeah,” Martin said, the frown finally smoothing out enough that the itch in Jon's hand died down. “Yeah, that's a good idea. Tedious, but good. It could be important.” 

Jon dragged his eyes away from Martin's face. “I think,” he began slowly, looking around, “that she was mentioned in the end notes of one of the statements, rather than a statement itself.”

“Mhmm,” Sasha hummed, “Otherwise we would have remembered better.” 

“Yes,” Jon said, “And also…” He trailed off, his skin crawling, this time in a different way from his leg and worms and squirming—

“Jon?” 

“Cigarettes,” Jon blurted out, before grimacing. “I mean. That figure, the one we saw in that blurred frame. It's… familiar. We… uh, the anglerfish? That thing had been hovering above ground as well.”

Jon didn't look at the others as his hand slid into his pocket, grasping at the lighter there. No cigarettes. He hadn't bought any in a while. But he still carried the lighter. 

Can I have a cigarette? 

God, if anything could have finally scared him off smoking, it would have been that statement. But it didn't, so. Back to ruining his lungs it was. At least, as soon as he got the courage to actually buy some. The buddy system was still in full swing and he wasn't going to drag any of the others with him to buy some cigarettes just to fuel his stupid nicotine addiction. 

Sasha jerked upright, her drooping eyes suddenly wide open as she pointed at Jon, “The fucking anglerfish! That's the goddamn statement, fuck,” she said, and Jon stared at her in surprise. “Sarah Baldwin was one of the people who went missing! Same spot as the other people. That's where she is mentioned.” 

“Oh,” Jon said, “That's…” 

“Hang on,” Tim said, “The timeline. This happened pretty long after the whole anglerfish thing, though, didn't it? Where had she been the entire time?” 

“Nowhere good, I assume,” Jon said, “Is she even still Sarah Baldwin anymore? The description of the… Uh, the skin. It didn't sound human.” 

Something darkened on Tim's face, grim and dangerous, with an almost manic edge to it. “No. No, it doesn't.” 

“Tim?” Sasha asked, looking two seconds away from getting up and going over to Tim, who had actually stopped petting the Duchess for a moment there. 

“I'm fine,” Tim said shortly. 

A few moments of silence, and Jon didn't know what to say. They'd made progress, at least, but he didn't know what to do about it. 

“So, what do we do now?” Martin asked, breaking through the tense silence. “Should we… I don't know, check out Fish Market Close again? Or maybe look into the other people who went missing? See if they turn up in other statements as well? Or just check further into them? Do you think that will help?” 

Sasha sighed, weary enough that Jon could feel it down to his bones. “Normally, we wouldn't put this much effort into any statement research, no matter what Elias says. But this is about Melanie. She deserves this much from us, right? Especially after she came to our rescue without knowing anything about us. What you said seems like a good course of action.” 

“And hey,” Tim said, “We would probably organize more of the archives during this. Elias certainly couldn't complain, right?”

Of course not. Elias was always happy about them working. Jon thought the man might even be secretly pleased about the way Jon and Sasha had taken over the archives as their own, sleeping there like some kinds of squatting homeless people. Which was exactly what they were. 

The entire thing made his skin go prickly with unease. He wanted to get out. But the outside wasn't any safer either. After all, Michael had targeted Jon very specifically outside the institute. 

Sooner or later, all of this was going to blow up in their faces. But for now, Jon tried his best to not think about it. Some weird, badly done version of the ostrich strategy. He would focus on work and pretend the air wasn't filled with static and strange music.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Sackful of Sawdust

The music here was louder than usual. Which was a pretty good indicator of them being at the right place, at least. But louder was also a pretty bad sign. 

Loud enough that Jon contemplated just grabbing Tim’s hand and hightailing it out of there before they could actually meet Daniel Rawlings. Another missing person from Fish Market Close, someone strange, turning up years later. Maybe not human, maybe a skin sack filled with something inhuman, something monstrous. Bones, maybe, if they were lucky. But probably not bones at all. 

Jon had a flamethrower on him, at least. Or, well. He had hair spray and a lighter. They’d tested it out, back in the archives before coming here. There was now a black scorch mark in the bathroom. But at least it was in the bathroom, and they hadn’t even burned down the archives in the process. It had been exhilarating, spraying and lighting it up, and the way the fire had roared. The sizzling sound, the smell of something chemical, sharp and putrid, burning. 

There had been a frazzled looking Elias waiting for them outside the archives by the time Jon and Tim were ready to leave for the taxidermy shop, though, almost a little out of breath, like he’d run to where they were. His tone was sharp as he’d asked where they were going. Something satisfied had curled in Jon’s ribcage, to see Elias look dishevelled. Even a tiny bit helped. The man was too damn smug and polished. Maybe he had a sixth sense about people trying to damage his precious archives. 

Jon wouldn’t put it past him. 

That had been strange. But no stranger than usual, by their standards. At least Elias didn’t go check out the bathroom. That’d have been just weird. Not good. Why would he check out the bathroom? That wasn’t normal. But Elias hadn’t been remotely normal ever since Jon turned down the archivist position. So who knew? 

Well, he didn’t seem to know about the flamethrower in the archives thing, at least. He didn’t seem angry enough to know that they were trying out destructive fire hazards within a room filled with documents over a century old. Surely if he knew, he’d be angrier?

Either way, either way, they were out of the archives now, and in the taxidermy shop. Talk about out of the frying pan, into the fire. 

Jon wished he were anywhere but here. Not anywhere anywhere. He’d rather be here than within Michael’s corridors, but still. In the list of places Jon absolutely did not want to be at, this shop ranked pretty high. 

“Can you hear the music?” Jon blurted out to Tim as they waited in the shop, trying to look anywhere but the animals mounted on the wall. The glassy eyes looking at them. Jon could swear the eyes moved when they weren’t looking at them. The beady, glassy, dead eyes, watching them, assessing them, waiting. Waiting waiting waiting for the best opportunity—

God, they were just heads mounted on a wall. Even if they were to somehow come alive, what could they even do? Glare him to death? Shuffle around on the floor trying to bite him? 

Don’t tempt fate, Jon, a voice in his head spoke, sounding suspiciously like Sasha. 

“What music?” Tim asked sharply, looking at Jon with concern. Jon cringed a bit, looking away instead, unable to meet Tim’s eyes. Ever since they went to investigate the calliope organ in artefact storage, Tim had been keeping a close eye on Jon. So had Sasha and Martin, for that matter. “Is it the same music? The calliope music?” Tim pressed, and Jon had to purse his lips together to keep from answering with something acerbic because his head ached. 

“It’s fine,” Jon said, trying to be firm but probably falling short with how unsettled he was feeling in this place. “We should look around. Since Mr. Rawlings doesn’t seem to be here yet.” 

Tim nodded, slowly, like he didn’t quite believe Jon. Jon would’ve bristled if he didn’t believe himself either. The music crescendoed in his head, making him wince. He managed to turn his head away from Tim, enough so that he didn’t really ask about what was making him grimace. 

Small mercies. 

He’d told Sasha about the music, and she’d freaked out. There was no way she hadn’t told the others about it, and it made his skin feel a lot tighter than it usually did. He knew something was wrong. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew something was wrong. But with the others hovering over him, he couldn’t help but feel a bit… claustrophobic. Trapped. Like the walls were closing in around him. Like someone was keeping an eye on him, waiting for him to go off his rockers. 

“Do you wanna check out the basement?” Tim asked quietly, sounding as reluctant as Tim felt. 

Jon swallowed, throat tight. “Maybe we could start with the office instead?” He said, “The.. uh, the gorilla skin sounded interesting.” 

And it did, it really, really did. Skin wasn’t meant to be preserved for that long. No organic material could last that long, it just wasn’t possible. Especially not with the kind of procedures they had available for preservation a millennia ago. 

It was, in most likelihood, a fake. But it was still interesting. 

And the basement was too… strange to consider right now. He knew they needed to go in there to actually put in a complete report of their investigation, but Jon didn’t want to start off there. That sounded like a bad idea. That sounded like a surefire way of getting emptied out of their organs and filled with sawdust or whatever they filled their taxidermy with. 

He was sure the stag head on the wall blinked at him. He was sure of it. Except for the fact that he wasn’t sure whether it had eyelids at all. They probably didn’t, right? Which meant the thing couldn’t blink. So what had Jon just seen? 

Focus. Focus, not on the heads but other things. 

“Yeah, okay,” Tim said, sliding a hand under his jacket for a moment, where Jon knew was a hammer. Not a huge one, that wouldn’t have been very feasible to carry. But a hammer nonetheless. “Let’s go. The faster we get done with this place, the better.” 

Jon nodded and they made their way to one of the doors. Staff only, it said. Jon was very good at ignoring signs like that. As the door swung open, Jon had a brief second of panic where he wondered whether the door would even lead where they wanted it to– or expected it to, or if it’d just open to an endless corridor–

“It’s okay, Jon. Come on, together.” Tim tugged on Jon’s elbow, where he’d looped their arms together. 

Stepping into the office was actually a little underwhelming. It made no sound as it opened, and a door stopper ensured it wouldn’t shut on them. Although Jon stayed close anyway. It was a moderately lit place, not as bright as an office should be, but not stereotypically, horror style dim either. There was a desk. A normal looking desk. With a lot of papers and scissors and staplers on it. A mending kit of some kind with threads and needles. Superglue. A… scalpel. Suspicious looking red stains. 

Was this the work bench then? Or the office desk? He’d assumed they did the taxidermy work in the basement, not here. 

After glancing around for a second, Jon made his way over to the desk, opening the drawer. Papers, lots of papers. Some photographs, a few polaroids. Jon did not recognise any of the people in them, but they still sent a shiver of unease down his spine. He squinted a bit. Maybe they were familiar? Like a stranger he might have made eye contact with on the train ride some time. He pocketed the pictures, just in case. Maybe Sasha could run checks on them. 

Tim, meanwhile, had been rifling through the taxidermy equipment with the end of his hammer, carefully not touching any of it with a mildly unsettled look in his eyes. 

Nothing else of note. 

The skins here, the taxidermies, they all looked old, but not millennium old. They were all creepy, with eyes that felt like they were swivelling around to stare at them every time they turned their gaze away. He could swear he could see their furs and feathers rustling, as if in a breeze, even though the room was still as death except for Jon and Tim. 

“Do you think we should…” Tim said, gesturing towards the other closed door. The one to the basement. The one Mr. Scaplehorn had gone through. 

Grimacing, Jon nods. He readied his makeshift flamethrower, the weight of it equal parts comforting and thrilling. Fire had hurt Jane Prentiss, enough to get her to run away. It will work this time as well, just in case they need it. 

And knowing Jon's luck, they will need it. 

Pushing the door open, the first sight to greet them was as expected as it was underwhelming. Darkness. A deep, penetrating darkness that felt less an absence of light and more a presence in itself. Inscrutable. Like it was a creature made of dark fabric. 

Tim flicked on his flashlight– one of the four they had. And while the light definitely worked, and shined inside, it still only seemed to illuminate a few feet in front of them. Jon was tempted to use his flamethrower just to get a deeper look into the basement, if only for a couple seconds.

Tim must have seen him twitch, because he shook his head and took a step down the stairs. Jon quickly stopped this door as well, dragging a chair in front of it before he followed Tim down. 

The descent was short, maybe half a dozen steps, and the stairs, now a little more visible as their eyes adjusted, were covered in dark stains. So was the floor. 

At this point, Jon might have been surprised if it wasn't covered in suspicious looking stains. 

There was a workbench. Stools, and a large table. Several smaller tables surrounding it. Equipment. A lot of equipment. Things that looked like they came out of a torture basement. There was a drain in the corner of the room. A pipe and a hose. Several bottles filled with different liquids. And a strange, chemically smell in the air. 

Jon stepped closer, putting the lighter into the same hand with the spray so he could switch on his own flashlight. 

The flashlight turned on with a quiet click that seemed to resonate in the room anyway, illuminating the face of the woman standing within the shadows in front of him. 

“It’s rude to snoop,” she said, a hand twirling a very large pair of scissors in her hand. 

Jon screamed. 

Tim screamed. 

The woman screamed. 

But hers was a more mocking, disdaining scream, curving her lips into a disgusted snarl. “Idiots,” she said, “Coming here.” She took a step towards them, making both Jon and Tim take a step back. Jon fumbled a bit, trying to get his lighter into the correct position in order to light her on fire. 

But she was advancing quickly. Too quickly. 

“It’s rude,” she repeated. But she had finally stopped moving when she saw what was in Jon's hands. 

Her description matched that of Sarah Baldwin, as given by Melanie. It did not match the description of the Sarah Baldwin that had disappeared from Fish Market Close. Her eyes were glass. They reflected the light from his torch in strange ways. There was the smell of smoke in the air. 

“Sarah Baldwin?” Jon asked, shakily. His eyes drifted to the scissors in her hand. They looked more like garden shears than scissors. 

“Sarah who?” she said, sneering still, “You come into my shop and don't even know my name?” 

“Who are you, then?” Tim asked. He had taken out his hammer.

She laughed at him, “Ashley Dobson, if you must know.” She twirled the scissors again. “What are you doing here?” Snick. Snick. Snick. The shears closed and opened, closed and opened. 

It reminded Jon of the three fates. The one who spins the thread. The one who measures it. 

And the one who cuts it. 

“Do you like standing there in the dark like some creepy ass mannequin?” Tim quipped, a scowl audible in his voice, “Or is it just something special you were doing for us?” 

“You Institute people could never be special, ” she spat, “Always hounding us, always coming at us. How many times have researchers been sent to check this place out? One would think you’d have learnt by now.” 

More institute people? Jon had assumed no one had actually checked that statement out, which was the entire reason they were looking into it. Or maybe there were more statements with this place in them. God, just thinking about all the statements they’d have to parse through to get the other ones made him want to groan. 

Except his mind was preoccupied by the person in front of them. 

Somehow, she’d come closer. Jon hadn't seen her move, but she was definitely closer than she had been a few minutes ago. Fingers tightening on his spray and lighter, he prepared to set her on fire. He was fairly certain she wasn’t human, after all. Those glass eyes– they couldn’t be human. And there was something about her face, something, he couldn’t quite pin point it, but it set off every alarm bell ringing in his head. 

He would have to drop the flashlight, and he was afraid he’d fumble, and it’d give her ample time to lunge at them. Too much time, too many mistakes. Jon looked around, just a quick glance, anything, something to distract her, so that—

Apparently, he was the distracted one here, because she lunged in the split second he took his eyes off her. And he dropped the fucking flashlight, with the lighter and spray.

Jon screamed, and it took him a moment to realise that she hadn’t lunged at him, but rather at Tim specifically, who swung his hammer with far more accuracy and strength than Jon could have expected. 

Except when the hammer made contact with Ashley’s head, it sunk in. Not in the way a skull caves in, no. There was no blood. No crack of bone. The hammer just sunk in like— like it would into a badly stuffed pillow. She didn’t even flinch. 

Jon screamed again. And Tim was yelling, and swinging his hammer again, but she was on him, and her scissors were sticking out of Tim’s shoulder. Jon scrambled, picked up one of the bottles of embalming fluid, because he couldn’t fucking see the lighter, or the spray, and even if he could, he couldn’t use them while she was on Tim. 

At least the bottle didn’t just bounce off or sink into the woman– thing– sack of whatever she was filled with. Not because it wouldn’t have, but because Tim swung his hammer at the exact same time, shattering the bottle on her. The glass shards did what Tim’s hammer didn’t, cutting into her skin, leaving red, ugly gashes on her arms and face as she yelled in rage. 

She didn’t bleed, though. There was no gushing of blood. The only fluid on her was the embalming fluid. 

Tim dropped the hammer, cursing very loudly and colourfully, as she yanked the handles of the scissors apart, opening it while it was still inside Tim. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck—

Jon stabbed the jagged end of the bottle into the back of her head, leaving it in there, and she finally stumbled back, clutching at her head. But at least she let go of Tim, who picked up the hammer with his good arm, trying to take a swing at her again, not that it was doing much good.

Jon was on the floor, she was on top of him, and her hands were around Jon’s neck. She smelled awful, so fucking awful. His gagging was only partially from the strangulation. There was a wet thunk as Tim hit her against over the head, pushing the jagged bottled edge deeper into her head, and out of her goddamn nose and cheek. She looked like something straight out of a horror movie.  

His throat had gone ragged from his screams, and he was fumbling about for something when his fingers closed around something small and plastic. The lighter. 

This was a bad idea. 

But he was going to die anyway if he didn’t do anything. Tim was bleeding profusely even without having taken out the scissors stuck in him. And his hits didn’t have much strength to them anymore. 

This was a bad fucking idea. 

Jon did it anyway. 

Thanking whatever fucking god was watching, the flame clicked on at the first try, and he raised it to her face. 

She went up in flames so fast that Jon didn’t even have enough breath in him to scream. Tim did, though, yelping and taking several big steps back. 

But that didn’t do anything about the problem of an on fire person sitting atop Jon. He could feel the warmth, licking at his hands and face as Ashley started screaming, letting go of his throat to grasp at her on fire face, only succeeding on setting her hands on fire, and then her sleeves, and then the rest of her body. 

There were spots of fire on Jon’s clothes as well, but he could barely feel them as he rolled out from under the screaming figure, and then Tim was there, yanking Jon up and dragging him up the stairs. Jon’s shirt was still burning and Tim was cursing as he yanked at Jon, pulling him up and up and up—

Jon managed to pat out the fire with his hands, and he could smell burning. Burning hair. Burning flesh. Smoke. Something rancid and sharp. So much burning in the air. 

Tim was leaving behind trails of blood as they moved. 

They made it up the stairs, to the office, and slammed the door shut, throwing the chair he’d been using to stopper it down the stairs. Turning around, Jon shrieked again. And good lord, his throat was starting to hurt from all the screaming he’d been doing today. 

There was a taxidermied stag head sitting on the table where it hadn’t been before, staring at them with wild, alive eyes, its tongue rolling out, and— did stags have such sharp teeth? Weren’t they herbivores? Why did they have canines? 

Tim had paused as well, seeing the thing on the table, but he didn’t waste any time in leaving, a little more present than Jon felt. Jon felt like his limbs were all attached to his body via a single, faulty thread as he tried to run. He could barely think as they made it out of the shop and into the sunlight. It was just the afternoon, the sun was still high in the sky. A rare sunny day, a sharp contrast to whatever the fuck had gone down in the basement. 

Tim was still bleeding and cursing, Jon was starting to really feel the burns on his hands, and chest, and face and neck. 

“That— fuck, ” Tim panted, still walking but not running anymore, a hand wrapped around Jon’s wrist, “That didn’t go well. At all.” 

Jon could still smell burning in the air. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Rubbing Wine Stains into Rugs

“I think the archives are cursed,” Sasha said casually as she dabbed more of the burn ointment onto Jon’s face, her fingers gentle as Jon grimaced in pain. 

“You think?” Jon muttered, doing his best to not pull away and letting Sasha do her work. He’d always loathed burns the most. He hated these, this, the pain that just does not go away, for hours, from even simple, first degree burns. It stings, and hurts, and distracts for what seems like forever. He didn’t need the distraction of that right now. Or ever. 

Sasha paused, then resumed, “You know what? Yeah, you’re right. They’re definitely cursed. We often went around checking out statements, didn’t we? Nothing like this ever happened.” 

“Sometimes it did.” 

“Sometimes,” Sasha said, taking a step back and capping the tube. “Not every single fucking time someone went out. Sometimes, as in once a year, maybe, if we got lucky.” 

“I wouldn’t call this lucky.” 

“No, I wouldn’t either.” Sighing, she checked her phone again, for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. Pursing her lips, she put it away, face drooping in disappointment. 

“I assume there’s no update?” Jon said, only a little sarcastic. He was worried too, but Tim should be fine. He’d been walking and talking when Martin took him to the hospital. They’d call back once they had news. No calls were a good thing, it meant nothing had gone wrong. 

Sasha ignored him, picking up some bandages, “I think we should wrap those fingers in your left hand. They’re a bit worse than your other burns. And then we can order some soup, might make your throat feel better.” 

“Yeah,” Jon said, shoulders slumping in exhaustion, giving his hand to Sasha. Her fingers ghosted over the burns, already covered in the gooey cream that made Jon uncomfortable to look at, so instead he focused on Sasha’s face as she worked. There was a little frown of concentration furrowing her brows, and her glasses had slipped down her nose quite a ways, making him resist the urge to push his own glasses up. Or hers. 

That would be weird. 

Sasha’s hands were very gentle as she worked, and Jon barely even registered the fierce burn anymore as he watched her. The lights in the archives were dim– they were always dim, for some reason. 

Well, probably aesthetic reasons. It was an institute to document the horrors, after all. Jon couldn’t contain his snort at the thought, and Sasha’s head snapped up to meet his eyes, “What? What’s funny.” 

“Uh, nothing,” Jon said, “Just thinking about how absurd all this is.” 

Sasha hummed, “True enough. We don’t really have normal lives, do we? I wonder where we went wrong to end up like this.” 

I think I know, Jon thought, but didn’t say. He didn’t know what had compelled Sasha to join the institute though, but before he could ask about it, she sighed again, expertly tying off the end of the bandage and stepping back. 

“I don’t feel good,” she said, letting herself crumple down onto a chair, which scooted back a bit from the force. She rubbed at her forehead, and finally pushed her glasses up her face. Jon carefully did not breathe a sigh of relief. “It’s… I feel guilty.” 

Jon frowned, “About what?” 

“You all keep going out for the stupid research field work, keep getting injured, or stalked, or attacked, usually all three of them at once, while I sit here in the archives, with not a scratch on me.” 

Blinking stupidly at her for a bit, Jon stood up. “Sasha, what?” 

She looked up from her lap, a miserable lilt to her voice, “I feel useless.” 

“You’re the furthest thing from useless!” He threw his arms out, like that would get the point across faster. Taking a few steps forward, he hesitated a little before resting his hands very lightly on her shoulders. “Sasha, you have been there for us every step of the way. Hell, it was your house that Prentiss terrorised. You’re the one who is being forced to live in the archives right now. How can you say you just sit here in the archives? And you do so much of the digital work here! We might all be good at research, but you’re the one who can really get every single drop of information available through a digital system. Do not sell yourself short. I’ve said this to Elias time and again, you deserve this position, and you have done everything the Institute could possibly ask you to in order to earn that position as well. You are not useless and you have nothing to feel guilty for.” 

By the end of his speech, Jon was breathing a bit hard. He’d leaned down, and his face was far too close to Sasha’s, and he could see that her eyes were very wide, and very bright with tears. She looked stunned. Jon felt stunned. And suddenly he realised that he may have gotten a little too… intense. He winced, taking his hands off her, straightening up, starting to back away, an apology already bubbling in his throat. 

“Jon,” Sasha said, her voice small and wet, and then she threw her arms around his torso and buried her face in his sweater. 

“Uh,” Jon said eloquently. He gingerly brought his hands around her. Was he meant to say something? He’d run out of steam completely, he didn’t know what to say other than a very cliche and absolutely unnecessary ‘there, there’. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, just a little below his collar, even though she was sitting down and he was standing up. He’d never get over just how tall Sasha was. 

“You’re okay,” he murmured, “We’re all okay. You’re not doing anything wrong.” 

Wow, maybe he did have some emotional intelligence. Take that, Georgie.  

“Yes, you’re right.” Sasha said, letting go of him and leaning back against the chair, taking her glasses off to hastily wipe at her eyes, smearing her eyeliner just the tiniest bit. He should get her some good liner, waterproof, and smearproof. He might even have some left, actually. But that was probably expired. “It’s a good thing that the archives are safe, even if our houses aren’t. We’ll figure something out to keep all of you safer.” 

“We already have,” Jon reminded her, “The reason we made it out of there reasonably okay is because we prepared. Without the hammer and the flamethrower, I’m not sure what would have gone down. But it sure would not have been good .” 

“Yeah,” Sasha said, sounding remarkably more composed. “Yeah, of course. I don’t know why this has me all out of sorts, really. I worked in Artefact Storage for so long, horrible things and other horrible injuries, maybe even casualties resulting from said horrible things aren’t exactly new to me.” 

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Jon said, “No one expected an archival job to have such high stakes. It was supposed to be better than research, better than storage. If it had been handled by a singular lady who was quite getting on in the years, I’d thought, for sure–” 

“I don’t know, Jon,” Sasha interrupted him, “I thought there had always been something off about the archives. Did you ever meet Gertrude?” 

Jon blinked at her, “I mean, I passed her by? Once or twice? She just seemed like an elderly lady to me, kind of forgetful. The kind you’ll meet in parks, on walks.” 

“Huh.” There was something concerning in Sasha’s eyes, and the way she said that. 

“What?” 

“I don’t know. I always thought the doddering old lady thing of hers was an act. She acted that way with me at the start, too, but slowly it was like a mask had been slipping away from her. She was wickedly sharp.” 

“I supposed I can believe that,” Jon said slowly, glancing around the archives, into the shadowy corners.  “And she did go missing under mysterious circumstances. And of course, there’s the eye thing she’d done with her books.” 

“Mhm, yeah, that was… concerning,” Sasha said, twirling her glasses in her hand in a way that made Jon very anxious. 

But before he could blurt out something about being careful with her glasses, a loud purring interrupted them. That was the only warning Sasha got before a tiny ball of black fur was leaping from across the top of a cabinet and straight at her face. The glasses, very predictably, went flying out of her hand as the cat made a perfectly executed landing, Sasha’s hands reaching up to grasp at the little hellion. 

Jon winced, picking up Sasha’s glasses as she wrestled the Duchess off her face and into her lap, scritching and petting her head with an aggression usually reserved for very adorable creatures. Of which the Duchess was one, of course. 

The glasses didn’t seem to have bent out of shape or gotten scratched, at least. He handed them to her, and Sasha gave him a rueful smile. “Looks like all the talk about doom and gloom is over, the Duchess’ orders.” 

“The Duchess’ orders,” Jon agreed. 

Something about Elias’s office had now started activating Jon’s fight or flight response. 

His heart would start beating faster, his limbs would get weak and shaky, his mouth getting dry, his palms and feet getting sweaty, and something in his chest would go icy, yelling at him to crawl under the table and hide from any prying eyes. 

Jon would like it to be noted that he did not have stage fright. He had the opposite of stage fright, really. When doing theatre was the most confident he’d ever felt in himself, under those glaring spotlights, hundreds of people watching his every move, every word out of his mouth—

He might have given up theatre since his university days, but he definitely remembered never having any sort of stage fright. However– however. The feeling he got in Elias’ office strangely felt similar to what other performers would often describe as stage fright to him, the weight of a thousand eyes staring right at you, picking you apart, a glaring spotlight shining down and highlighting every weakness and flaw. 

“I know it must come across as… strange, or unusual, maybe even suspicious, that I keep trying to push you into the Archivist position,” Elias was saying, while Jon desperately tried to meet his eyes and not let his gaze flicker about, giving away just how off put he felt, “But really, you must trust me when I say that I have my reasons.” 

Your reasons are the concerning part, Jon thought, his lips thinning in displeasure as he discreetly wiped his unburnt hand on his trousers. 

“I’m sure you have,” Jon said. 

“I mean,” Elias gestured at Jon’s burnt hand and the other burns, “You see how difficult of a job this is. And you’ve consistently shown you’re capable of handling it. Don’t you see how you’re the best person for the position?” 

Jon had the distinct feeling Elias was laughing at him. He tilted his head to the side, annoyed at the whole thing despite his pulse racing, he was so tired of this whole song and dance. “Look, Elias, yes, this job is dangerous. But it seems like it's the assistants who are in constant danger, not the Head Archivist. So does it not make more sense to keep me as an assistant who goes out for fieldwork rather than in the archives all day?” 

Elias sighed and steepled his fingers in front of himself, looking at Jon from over his glasses. “Well,” he said, tilting his head to match Jon’s posture, which made him so self conscious he straightened up, shoulders pulling back even as it tugged badly at the burns. “You’re not wrong, actually.” 

There was a thoughtful lilt to his voice that sent a pang of unease through Jon. shouldn’t this be a good thing? Shouldn’t the idea of Elias actually listening to him, and maybe, just maybe cutting down on the hounding a bit a good thing? 

Why did it not feel like a good thing? 

“So?” Jon prompted. 

“I don’t know, Jon,” Elias sighed, “I would really rather you have the position anyway. You’ve done enough research and fieldwork, haven’t you? As a researcher? Don’t you deserve a better position for that?” 

A red hot flash of anger went through Jon, “Sasha has been at the institute far longer than I have, and she literally worked under Gertrude, the previous head of the department. I am hard pressed to think of a better person for the position.” 

“Yes, thank you for telling me something about my employees in my institute,” Elias said, mildly enough, but with a sharp undertone to it that reminded Jon that his livelihood depended on this man. 

“I'm not presuming anything, Elias, I meant no disrespect,” Jon backpedaled, even though the anger he felt still simmered under the surface. “I just do not understand what it is about me that makes me so uniquely suited for the position.” 

“Jon,” Elias took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I have told you this over and over. Every time we meet I give you the reasons, every time we meet I tell you exactly why I think you are the best person for the job. You have seen how dangerous it is. How many times have you almost died by now? What will it take to get you to finally take a position best suited to your capabilities? With how opaque you are being about this, I am very tempted to just let the matter go entirely.” 

It was a very nice speech, given in a very nice way, said extremely tiredly, with the perfect amount of exasperation, exhaustion, and rebuke in it. 

But all Jon could think was that opaque was an extremely silly and obnoxious way to call someone dense. 

And no, actually. Elias hadn’t told Jon any good reasons except his– to put it delicately– non existent survival instincts. An argument that rang very hollow when one thought about the things Martin and Tim had gone through during their time in the Archives as well. Then again, if Jon's perceived obtuseness about the situation could get Elias off his back, then Jon wasn't going to object. 

He wouldn't have objected anyway, but that was beside the point. 

Elias had put his glasses back on and was looking at Jon expectantly. 

Jon cleared his throat, “I'll think about it, Elias. But I do want it noted that I still think Sasha is the person best suited for the position.” 

“Yes, you have made that abundantly clear,” Elias said dryly. Then shook his head, “I really do wish all of you would stop being so stubborn about this. I have been at this Institute for far longer than any of you, and I am the Head, not because of some luck or chance or bureaucracy error, but because I am the best suited for the job. You should remember, all I do, I do for the best of the Institute. If I thought Sasha would be what is best for the archives, I would not be pushing you so much on it.” 

“Well then,” Jon said, a little uncomfortable now. This speech had more of an effect on him than the previous one, certainly. But he was far too stubborn to really change his stance now. “I'll keep that in mind.” 

“Of course,” Elias said, leaning back in his chair now, “I suppose that is the best I can ask for at the moment.” 

“Of course,” Jon parroted back, standing up at the clear dismissal. Elias watched him go, something calculating in his eyes. But that didn't concern him, Elias always looked like that. 

He brushed at his pants again in a gesture that probably did not look as natural as Jon was trying to make it be, and turned to leave, feeling the eyes of not just Elias, but Jonah Magnus boring into his back. 

Jon, quite suddenly, could not shake off the feeling that he had made a big mistake somewhere during that meeting. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: The Fire Extinguisher Murderer

This was his forth cigarette in a row. Jon's throat was starting to burn with every inhale now, and yet he couldn't bring himself to stop. He told himself, after every single one, that he would stop. That it would be the last. No more after that. He's been clean for years, he could go clean again. He knew he could. And yet. 

Taking another drag of his cigarette, he had to suppress a slightly hysterical chuckle. It was a Marlboro Red. How ironic. Maybe that long fingered, floating figure will come out from behind him, now. 

Jon blinked, carefully keeping his eyes averted from the mirror in front of him. Maybe he shouldn't tempt fate.

Sighing, he put out his cigarette against the sink, like a heathen, as Georgie would say. 

Jon used to hate the bathroom, before. At the beginning. There were two shower stalls in here, taking up so much space that there was space for just one sink, and a cracked, clouded over mirror rotting away on the wall. More than one person standing there, and they wouldn't be leaving room for Jesus. 

He had grown much, much more appreciative over the existence of those shower stalls when he actually started living in the archives, and yet a prickle of unease had replaced the annoyance. Why were there shower stalls in an Archives washroom? He could understand their existence in Artefact Storage, given the accidents and unusual messes that kept befalling the people working there. But the Archives were supposed to be a paper pushing job. Nothing else. 

Well, this hadn't been a paper pushing job in a long, long while now. 

He stared at his box of Reds, wondering if he should light another. Sasha was in a meeting with Elias, and she’d never actually commented on his smoking or the smell of cigarettes that very surely filled not just the bathroom but also half the archives. And she had to live here. 

The guilt crept in every now and then. He was sharing a living space with her, the least he could do was keep his smoking to the outdoors where he wouldn’t stink up the entire place. 

But, god, self control was so hard to come by when he was constantly fearing for his life and the life of his colleagues. Friends. Whatever they were. 

Ever since that meeting he himself had with Elias, he hadn’t been able to shake off that prickle of unease. Oh, he’d been uneasy and unsettled most of the time since he found A Guest for Mr. Spider in the archives, but it had never been this kind of a persistent itch. It sort of reminded him of being in Michael’s corridors, but more subtle, more insidious. Like he’d done something he shouldn’t have. Like whatever went horribly next would be entirely his fault. 

Right now Sasha was in the same room as Elias, talking about god knows what even though Jon could take a fairly well educated guess. Tim was back at the hospital for another check up, getting his stitches removed. Martin had gone with him because fuck if they were going to abandon their buddy system rules now of all times. 

Jon felt agitated. His skin prickled and his blood itched and his stomach flipped and nothing helped. Cigarettes distracted him, and he’d take his distractions from wherever they came. Blowing out a tired breath, he flipped open the box, taking out another Red. He didn’t have a lot left, and would have to get some more soon. 

But buddy system rules, while effective, also meant he couldn’t go out alone to get them. And he really didn’t want to bother any of the others with his stupid little problem.

The feel of a cigarette between his fingers as he brought it up to his mouth, inhaling deeply, soothed something in him and made him feel ashamed in equal measure. But really, he was pretty sure if he was going to die it’d be due to one of these stupid monsters stalking them, not lung cancer. 

Also, he’d already taken a painkiller for the burns an hour ago. He couldn’t take another and they were itching annoyingly and if a cigarette helped him not scratch his skin off, he was sure Sasha would only approve.  

He really should do a cursory wash of the sink before he left, though. The ash marks did not look pretty, and the regular cleaners didn’t come down here nearly regularly enough to be of any use. 

Jon was barely halfway through the cigarette when there was a loud, resounding thud from the archives. His fingers jerked as he flinched, flipping the cigarette enough that the burning end directly touched the knuckle of one of his fingers, making him yelp and drop the thing. 

“Goddamnit,” he muttered, his heart pounding as he quickly turned on the tap for a few seconds, eyes darting towards the door. He didn’t have a weapon in the fucking bathroom. His lighter wouldn’t do much without the hair spray. He looked around, eyes landing on the now empty fire extinguisher propped up forlornly against a wall. 

Okay, okay. Not bad. It’d have to do. 

Another thud from the archives made him flinch. 

Well, one thing was certain; those were definitely not Sasha’s footsteps coming down. 

Heaving up the fire extinguisher, he slowly crept out of the bathroom, trying to keep his breathing even so he wouldn’t hyperventilate and pass out before whatever the fuck that was could even get to him. 

There were two men standing at the foot of the stairs to the archives. Jon scanned the rest of the place, but nothing looked out of place. He walked closer, but kept himself hidden. There was something between the two men, something big, furniture, maybe; and one of them seemed to be holding what looked like a clipboard in his hand. 

“Excuse me,” Jon said, deciding to take a plunge, “Can I help you?” 

It was only belatedly that he realised holding a heavy fire extinguisher aloft like a bludgeoning weapon was possibly not a great first impression. Or very welcoming. It couldn’t be good for the Institute’s reputation, certainly, not that it could go much lower anyway. He brought the extinguisher down a little, but did not relinquish it. 

His burns were still too fresh, and Tim’s bandages, the sling his arm had been in– all of it, too real, too close to the surface. 

He’d rather scare away any potential clients or investors or statement givers than take any risk. 

Although the people in front of him didn’t seem to fit any of the above three categories. 

“Are you the archivist?” one of them asked, voice rough. 

Jon was fairly certain he’d never seen either of the two men before, but something about them still felt familiar. 

“Uh, archival assistant.” 

The two men looked at each other, and Jon took the time to examine the huge thing between them. A table, that is. A dark, wooden table with some kind of design on top of it, with a hollow in the midd—

Wait. 

Wait. Jon knew that table. It had been in a statement. The Graham Folger statement. He immediately took a couple steps back, his eyes jumping up to the two men who’d brought it in. He lifted the fire extinguisher back up. 

“What do you want?” he asked, and he could tell his voice was a little too unsteady, the fear detectable if one paid even a smidge of attention, but he couldn’t help it. 

“Your signature.” 

“My– what?”

The one holding the clipboard thrust it out towards Jon, “Your signature, here, on this dotted line, confirming that you have accepted the delivery. What do you not understand?” he spoke slowly, enunciating every word like he maybe thought Jon was slow. 

“A delivery?” 

“That’s what he said, did he not? Aren’t you Institute people supposed to be smart?” the other guy said, and then pulled out… was that a lighter? “There’s two deliveries, for the archivist. Sign here so we can leave. ” 

Oh, that last word was definitely a threat. Jon could tell, the growling word spoken with such malicious intensity that Jon almost swung the extinguisher at them for it. 

That was an improvement, he thought blithely. First instinct to fight rather than drop the damn thing and run. 

There were some things you just couldn’t run from. 

The two men didn’t move, only stared at him intensely. The longer Jon stared back at their faces, the worse it seemed to get. Similar to how a word starts sounding nonsensical the longer you think about it, or if you repeat it too many times, so did their faces seem to distort. 

Jon swallowed, heartbeat ticking up, and averted his gaze to look down at the clipboard. It certainly looked legit. Date, time, address. 

He looked back up at the men. 

The one with the clipboard said, “If you do not want it, we will leave anyway.” 

“No,” Jon stuttered out, “I’ll sign.” 

“Good.” 

Hefting the extinguisher into his left hand, which almost made him stumble at the sudden change in his center of gravity, he grabbed the pen attached to the board and signed his name, wondering if he’d just made a mistake but wanting these two men out of the archives even more. 

“Good,” the man repeated, thrusting the lighter into Jon’s hands. 

It was a beautiful thing, golden in colour with a spider web design that Jon immediately hated. But he put it in his pocket nevertheless. It was for Sasha, not him. He didn’t have to worry about the spider symbolism. 

‘Just like you shouldn’t worry about the spider book on Sasha’s desk, right?’ whispered a voice in his head, and it sounded so much like Elias that Jon almost gagged. 

They’ll discuss it. Together. That’s it. 

Later. For now he had to make sure that these two people— and Jon did not name them for fear of… he didn’t know what, exactly, but he didn’t name them, not even to himself— either way, he had to make sure they actually left the archives, and also possibly the institute. Really, leaving London entirely would be the most preferable, but you can’t have everything now, can you? 

So, he followed them up. They seemed unbothered, and they moved in this uncanny sort of sync that felt robotic. But as long as they were synced up and walking robotically out of the archives, then Jon didn’t care how they did it. 

Thankfully, they didn’t linger. Though Rosie did stare at him, and it took Jon an uncomfortably long moment to realise it was because he was still holding onto the fire extinguisher. 

“Uh–” Jon began, “Archives? Fire hazards? You know?” 

Rosie smiled blandly at him. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Jon parroted, and then scurried away to the archives because he was sure he did not look even remotely presentable right now, considering he lived there and his entire work life balance was in shambles and he hadn’t combed his hair and he smelled awfully like cigarettes. 

At least he had put on some pants and a shirt today, instead of being in pajamas or something. 

Despite knowing exactly what had been delivered today, seeing the table at the entrance to the Archives still sent a cold shock through him. The patterns on it were fascinating, far more so than Amy Patel’s statement had made them out to be. 

He walked closer, and closer, even as dread built up in his gut, something screaming at him to run away and hide. 

He should move the table away, though. Somewhere a little less in the way. But god the designs on it were fascinating. Maybe he could just take a longer look. 

Just for a moment. 

It would be nice to see you take on a more… active interest in the archival work. 

That's what Elias had said. That is what Elias had had the nerve to say to her. With a completely straight face. Like he was not a lying liar who lied. Like he had not been actively making things harder, the work worse, the pressure extreme, for so long that Sasha completely forgot that she had ever respected the guy even one smidge. 

A more active interest, Sasha's fucking ass. Was living in the goddamn archives not enough? What more did he want her to do? Sell her soul, too? 

Oh god, she should go over her employment contract again. What if there is a clause about selling their souls to the Institute in it? She hadn't seen anything fishy the first time she had gone through it, but she had also been a raging skeptic at the time, considering she had not yet encountered any of the wonders of Artefact Storage then. 

The archives were a whole different breed of suspicious from Artefact Storage, though. The kind that made something deep within her itch for answers. 

But before she could go read through her contract again, she needed to do this. 

“Your boss is kind of a sexist bastard, isn't he?” Naomi asked, giving Sasha a sympathetic smile. 

Naomi Herne. The active interest Elias apparently wanted her to take. 

God, Sasha hoped he was just a sexist bastard, and not a probable murderer. Or something. She didn't know what. But she knew better. He was definitely more than just a sexist. “You have no idea,” she forced herself to say with a small laugh. 

“I know the type,” Naomi said, although Sasha doubted it. “No matter how much work you do, these men always think another incompetent man could do it better.” 

Humming was good. Humming was a good answer, right? 

“I did not know that a Lukas sponsored the Institute, though.” Naomi bit her lip nervously, “Do you think it might cause problems? My statement isn't, uh, very favorable towards them.” 

“No,” Sasha said, dragging the word out consideringly as she rubbed her arms a bit. It had been getting chillier lately, and she missed the thermostat in her own house. Maybe Jon would go on a shopping spree with her, get some blankets. She knew for a fact that he was running out of cigarettes, so he probably wouldn’t say no. And he must be cold too, scrawny as he was. 

“No?” 

“I got the feeling that he might have some beef with Lukas. He gets that look in his eyes when he talks about one of my coworkers as well,” Sasha explained. The look he got when Jon infuriated him too much. The look that said he had some sort of nefarious plans for Jon. She hated that look, much like she hated Elias himself. “Which means he wants us to investigate your statement and bother Lukas as much as possible.” 

Oh, maybe she was being too frank right now. Naomi’s face had gone a little blank, almost cold. Although Sasha hoped it wasn’t directed at her. 

“So… what happened to me is just a petty mind game for him? For you?” she said, quiet, so quiet that the words almost got lost in the wind, which was pretty damn impressive given how damn quiet the way to the archives was, every single step of theirs echoing in the narrow corridor. They finally reached the stairs to the archives as Sasha hastily tried to salvage the situation. 

“Not to me,” she said, “Never to me. It’s clear whatever happened to you left quite the mark. I would never treat it as a game.” 

“Right,” Naomi said, “Right— what the—” 

Naomi screamed, and Sasha only just barely kept herself from screaming as well. 

“Oh, sorry!” Jon said, his voice almost as screechy and high as Naomi’s had been. “Sorry, sorry, I just… I thought you were, uhh—” Jon stumbled, as Sasha stared at him with wide eyes, heart pounding in her chest like it was doing its best to crawl out of her. “I thought you were someone else,” he finished lamley, lowering the extinguisher he had raised at them, like he’d been preparing to bash their skulls in or something. 

He looked ruffled. Spooked. Eyes wide, fingers very tight where they gripped the extinguisher. His gaze kept darting between Sasha, Naomi, and towards something behind them. Sasha glanced back, heart already in her throat and making very good progress towards actually succeeding in escaping her, but the corridor was empty. 

“Jon?” Sasha said quietly, reaching towards him. 

“Sorry. There were some, uh, strange guys here, before, and I wasn’t sure if they’d come back or—” 

“Should I just come some other day?” Naomi said, a snappish edge to her voice. She’d clearly been startled too. Who wouldn’t be? Jon had jumped at them like some ax murderer from a slasher. 

Well, more like a fire extinguisher murderer. But that didn’t have quite the same ring to it now, did it? 

“No,” Sasha said quickly, “It’s fine. We’ve just had a hard couple of days. Please come in, I’ll take your statement, okay?” 

Naomi just glared at Jon suspiciously, but didn’t actually turn tail and haul ass, so Sasha assumed she’d convinced her. Jon quickly moved out of the way, but didn’t actually go to his desk. He just stood there, off to the side, in front of–

A table. One that hadn’t been in the archives when she’d been here last. Which was, like, less than an hour ago. She frowned, and took a step towards it. 

“Where—” 

“It was just delivered,” Jon said quietly, looking back down at the table for about half a second before he quickly averted his eyes. 

Sasha didn’t. She recognised it. Recognised the table. Recognised it so well one would’ve thought she’d seen it before, but she hadn’t. It had been in a statement. The one given by that stalker lady and the guy who ate notebooks. 

She tore her eyes away, looking back at Jon. Oh fucking great, another thing to deal with, goddamnit— 

“That’s a fascinating table,” Naomi piped up, all earlier irritation gone from her voice as she too stepped closer to the table, her eyes fixed upon the intricate, swirling pattern on it, all leading to the little cavity in the middle. 

Every time Sasha looked at it, it got harder and harder to look away from it. 

It was horribly unprofessional, but she quickly grabbed Naomi by the arm and nearly yanked her back. 

When Naomi’s eye contact with the table broke, a little jerk went through her, almost like she’d just been electrocuted. She placed her incredulous gaze back at Sasha, “Hey—” 

“Look,” Jon began, “Miss— whoever you are, if you’re here to give a statement, I assume you know exactly what this place is, and what kind of things might be here. Best not to linger.” 

Sasha recognised a Jon babble when she heard it, but she also knew he could sound like a snobbish asshole when he was nervous. 

Which was… probably exactly the kind of thing needed right now to get Naomi away from the table. The table that was most likely connected to whatever had eaten Graham Folger. 

Elias would never let her hear the end of it if she got a statement giver eaten by a table. And she might even deserve it. What did her entire experience with Artefact Storage matter at all if she couldn’t recognise something cursed straight away? 

She pulled Naomi a little further, “Miss Herne, Naomi, Jon’s right. Come on, you need to fill out some paperwork before we can get to the statement, okay?” 

Naomi was frowning at her, and kept trying to catch another glimpse of the table. But Jon was doing a very good job of blocking her view and fixing a withering glare at her. 

Sasha had to put in effort into not sighing when Naomi finally tore her gaze away and started walking with Sasha towards the table, where she quickly pulled out and handed a blank statement form to her. 

“You don’t need to write your statement, we’ll transcribe it ourselves. Just fill in the personal info and all there, alright? I’ll be right back.” 

She didn’t even glance back to check as her feet took her towards Jon, who was still standing guard over the table like some kind of weird sentry. She grabbed his hand and pulled him a few steps away from it. Because if she was unwilling to let Naomi be eaten by the table, she was downright repulsed by the idea of Jon being eaten by it. Not after everything he’d survived. Not at all , really. 

“Is that—?” 

“I think so,” Jon said, biting his lips. 

“How did it get here?” 

“I think…” Jon’s eyes darted up towards the stairs, and then back down at the fire extinguisher he was holding, “It was two delivery men.” 

“Two delivery men?” 

“Yes.” 

“Jon—” 

“Do you remember the coffin statement?” Jon asked abruptly, and Sasha had to blink at the non sequitur before realising that maybe it was not that much of a non sequitur, or one at all. 

“Wait—” Sasha’s eyes widened, “You mean Breekon and Hope?” 

“I think so,” Jon said, his shoulders slumping as he finally set down the extinguisher. She wondered how long he’d been holding it for. It’s not like the thing was light, empty as it were. She could see him flexing his fingers. 

“I… we’ll discuss it later,” she said, looking at Naomi. She should be almost done filling the form. And they’d annoyed her enough. She should get back to her. “Just cover the table, maybe? With one of the clothes or whatever. We don’t want anyone coming into the archives just… uh, staring at it. Or something.” 

“Right, right,” Jon almost seemed to glance back at it for a moment, before realising what he’d been about to do and hastily looking at Sasha again. “Right.” 

“Right,” Sasha repeated, stepping back. Another two steps, she turned around, about to head to Naomi before she abruptly turned back around to face Jon.

He hadn’t moved. He was still standing just as ramrod straight, his hands still flexing, unclenching and clenching into fists. 

“And Jon,” she called out, “Please don’t touch the table.” 

Jon looked startled to be addressed, before he frowned and nodded. 

And that was that. Sasha had a statement to take. Hopefully the table wouldn’t decide to eat anyone in whatever time it took for her to record the thing and show Naomi out. 

Who knew, maybe the table wasn’t even actually connected to the Folger case, maybe it was just a weird coincidence. Just like Breekon and Hope being the ones to deliver it. Maybe the table didn’t eat people at all. 

Oh yeah, and maybe the sky would rain puppies and kittens next time they went out. 

Sasha could only sigh and wonder if it’d be too weird to take a blanket with her to her office for recording the statement.