Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wouldn’t hurt to have a little lie-down.

Surely, not when there is nothing that can hurt him anymore at all.

The world he wakes up to is agony. 

It is a stage, wide as it crests the horizon with its long, winding stage lights and brittle, broken boards. Dancers stand with him, each a kaleidoscope of faces and names that seem to shift with the beat.

It thrums in his ears, a hollow, joyous sort of tune that is not for him. Lights flash wildly about, and Tim twitches irritation and gentle fear as gloved hands grip his shoulders. 

It’s The Unknowing , isn’t it?

A mask of many faces, each pulsing with bloodless flow and adorned with a million shards of memory scattered to the wind. Martin stands beside him, shoulders sagging as condensation fogs his glasses. To his left, Sasha leans towards him; blonde hair a mess of colors that hurt to watch.

Of course, it's The Unknowing . What else could it be? The name stings him, pain exploding behind his eyes like a thousand needles. It needs to stop. It needs to End .

They’ve come there to blow it up.

Come here to stop it from unfolding, bombs hooked to lines hooked to remotes; yet even as Tim grips the fuse, he cannot shake the terror that washes over him as a man steps on stage.

It might have been a man, once. If a man were a sack of meat, face twitching in a smile as it dances on threads of sinew and tendon. If a person could let their smile grow wider, laughing in a daze.

Danny’s eyes search the crowd, dragging slowly over acrobats and freaks until they find him. He Knows , internally, that Danny could have found him sooner. Could have found him even if he’d hid, and the dancer blinks a slow, knowing grimace. 

Tim, It cries, and the dancers turn to him as if he is the main event. Tim! The thing screams. Beside him, Sasha(?) lets out a chortled laugh. Danny? He wants to ask, and it rolls its eyes in sync with its neck.

It seems pleased that he recalls, and the dancer flashes a smile that seems unbecoming of it. Colours make a kaleidoscope in his peripheral. Of course , it’s The Unknowing . Skin breaks from bone and blood explodes in a spray of uncertainty, and when his brother collapses with strings cut, the world shifts.

He blinks.

There is something beside what calls itself Danny.

It catches his eye when they blink, and almost immediately his eyes narrow.

The thing stands, breath a ragged inhale that seems to rattle its bones like wind chimes. Scars tangle its pockmarked skin like ribbons, hair snarled and matted with webs and rot. Its skin has begun to slough, pretty brown slipping from its fingers to reveal the pure white of bone and ceramic. A mannequin , he thinks unhappily, and the thing seems to straighten at the thought.

As if anticipatory, it shifts its gaze to him; two brightly green eyes coming to settle comfortably on his face. It says nothing as it watches, and he feels it scrutinising him. It is not a bad feeling, familiar as it is. It is expectant, wanting; it hopes he can share this too.

These eyes are familiar, if only in the way they stare. It feels like home, stare like the Moon, like the gentlest press of something testing the waters. Is this who you are? A piece of him asks, and something stirs. Not at all. Only since you. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he stumbles as fear presses a finger to his lips.

The figure sways slightly, sweat pooling on its brow where a single evil eye hangs limply, and it turns its horrible gaze from him and back to the stage with a frown. He finds himself turning as well, until the lights are too bright and his brother’s corpse is all he can bear to See .

Tim. What could be his brother smiles, and his lips don’t move at all. He’s not sure they can. Ceramic twists to clove and sawdust, churning like seawater, and he watches . He watches as Danny takes a step forward, flesh sloughing from his skeleton. Blood stains the stage, and the crowd screams in utter elation.

He blinks. Too much.

Again.

Tim! The dancers beside him are no longer what they had been, and his mind swirls with fear that could not be and is the sweet taste of iron. Danny’s body is centre-stage, and it grins with teeth too long and skin so, so tight.

He hates this.

He hates this.

The thing beside it shifts, eyes half-lidded and heavy as it drinks this in. A pause, and it blinks, the sharp green of its iris winking out in a moment. Tim wonders if it’s over, then, if it ever will be, and Knows it isn’t.

Again .

Anger breaks forth from his fear, realisation breaking his focus. The corpse slumps over, and the dream instead focuses on whatever is before him. Jon?  A thousand starving, beady eyes break open, and the thing cries with utter agony they all roll to focus directly on him.

Please, Tim.-

“Tim.” 

Martin hovers over him, a hand on his shoulder and a few ancient files tucked beneath his arm. The room smells like asbestos and wallpaper, and Tim is immediately certain he has fallen asleep in the crook of the archive’s neck.

The room is dark, illuminated only by the softest glow from Martin’s phone, and all at once there is a headache forming just beneath his eyes. 

“Are you.. Quite alright?” Martin asks, and Tim answers with a groan as he leans forward from the pile of papers he had apparently fallen asleep on. Martin looks as tired as he feels,  a weary sort of thing covered in sweat and cold dread. Tim doesn’t recall falling asleep. He doesn’t remember curling up amidst the oldest of statements, each ancient and so utterly real.

These had ruined lives, he knew. And still, he’d slept.

Slept is a strong word. 

“Tim.” Martin’s voice is a little firmer this time, and he grimaces as he stands. His knees buckle under him as he stands, and Tim catches himself on the edge of Martin’s sweater, a hand wrapped around yet another tape. “Just peachy.” He replies, voice strained as his gaze flicks to the recorder, and he takes a moment to chuck it as far as he can into the back of the Archives.

The thing makes a sickening thunk somewhere deep in the shelving, and Martin looks at him strangely. He lets him stand there, holding onto him like he was the only thing in the world. He can feel the cold rolling off of him in thick waves, heavy with a horrid chill that makes his teeth ache. “What time is it?” He’s starving.

A pause, and Martin’s eyes turn to the screen of his phone. It flickers vaguely, before deciding to turn on just this once. “It’s almost two-thirty in the morning, Tim. What exactly were you doing?” In the dark, Martin looks imposing, and Tim shivers slightly as he wipes the cobwebs from his shoulders. Jon is screaming.

He rolls his eyes. He’s so hungry.

“Researching. I’m looking for another file to burn.”

Martin smiles, sarcasm blossoming as he claps his hands together. “Wonderful. As you’re not busy,” He begins, and Tim can feel the headache blooming. “I need your help.”

A groan. “And to what do I owe the pleasure to, our new, blessed Arc–?” The air is suddenly knocked out of him as Martin lets him go, and a floor-full of statements comes to meet him. He yelps, and a pile of folders topples down over him. Coughing, he shoves them away messily.

As soon as he can make out the figure of his coworker, he is aware of just how cold he is.

“Don’t.” Martin hisses, and the room seems darker. “Don’t you dare.”  Tim stares, genuinely surprised at who he was looking at, before pulling himself upward once more on unsteady feet. He doesn’t say anything, and to his distaste, Martin doesn’t either.

They are both quiet for a moment, blue eyes glaring daggers into the side of Tim’s head.
Gently, pressing , ever so soft. “..What’s up?” 

A pause, and Martin sighs.

“You’ve got a statement.”

“Please jot down your name, mobile, address, and the date of the occurrence of your statement. Here, here, and here.”

The man stared at him incredulously, as if what had come out of his mouth had been French instead of English.

He wore loose-fitting clothes, disgustingly stained, as if he had just trudged a mile through the sewers and been spit out at their front door. His hair was long and frayed, and he had the eyes of a dead man.

“Are you certain you can’t simply take a recording?” The migraine at the edge of Tim’s eyes blistered, and he considered simply pushing the stranger back out to Rosie. Why the hell was he the one doing this sort of dirty work?

Because, A part of him ached, You must. -and the thought occurred to him that his coworkers were dead .

“A hundred percent.” He grit with a smile, and the man seemed to frown before shakily taking the paper from his hand. “Oh, dear..” The stranger whispered, shuffling over to a now-empty desk. Tim’s nose wrinkled as the man passed him, and he watched as he plunked down into the seat and began to write.

“It asked for a verbal tape, you know.”

The hair on the back of his arms stood up, and all at once Tim was at his side, gripping him by the collar of his coat. “What did you say?” He asked, and the man yelped. “What did it look like?” Mania conjured an image of some foul, deathly beast- ceramic skin and taxidermy eyes hoping for a playdate.

Somewhere, a tape crackled to life. The stranger hesitated a moment, glancing away nervously with a depressing sniffle. “I- I don’t know. It was a dream , you see.” Tim has never felt so cold.

“It was looming, with eyes as bright as the moon and hair that fell in darkened waves from its back. It never.. Spoke. Not in the way that you or I can.- I’m not sure it was able to. It was watching me, from the back seat of my car. I- I’m a taxi-driver, you see, and if it hadn’t been for how bright its irises were, I’m not certain I would have seen it.”

“You said it was a dream.” Tim hissed, and the man shook his head violently. “It was - I think! I turned, but when we locked eyes in the rearview mirror, it was all I could see. Nothing could have that many on its body.”

“We stared at each other for a long moment, until my eyes began to water and it twitched . A pause, and it leaned forward; achingly slow. So slow I thought I’d die, until a singular, decaying hand gripped my shoulder and it told me.”

“Told you what?” Tim asked, but he wasn’t sure the stranger knew he was there. “It was so hungry, and it wept for it; great, horrible sobs that shook my bones. That was all it had ever been, I suppose.” A laugh, gentle, quiet and without mirth.

“Hungry. So, so hungry ,- and it needed me. Wanted me to, er,” He gagged, muscles tensing. “It needed– to” Again, the man retched, and this time vomit spilled forth; black and viscous like the ink from an ancient pen. He paused, shaking as his maw gaped like that of a fish, and yet still the senseless babble that poured from him continued.

“Tell you. Let you- Make sure you Knew .”

“Knew what?” He demanded in vain, and this time the man heard him.

“That he was sorry.”

His chest was tight. He gaped, gasping for breath. He couldn’t breathe. His fist relaxed involuntarily, and he felt tears forming at the edge of his view. “Get out.”

“I’m sorry?”

Tim turned, suddenly furious. “Get. Out .” He repeated, and the stranger stood immediately on brittle, shaking legs.

The moment the door to the archives is shut, he collapses into his seat, burying his head into his hands. His bones shake with each sob that wracks up and down his spine, and when he inhales another shaky breath, he finds he feels much less exhausted than before.

Oh, but now he’s tired.

He’s so tired .

Hunger gnaws at him as he scribbles down something that could have been legible onto a form, the cup of tea beside him cold and stale. Martin hasn’t been down for ages, and each time he tries to sleep, he finds himself stuck.

Stuck in that horrible circus, hands gripping his face as he watches. It’s all he can do as his brother’s body is masqueraded across the stage, and what looks onward with far too many eyes beside him.

Sleep is what he craves, and he yearns to let his head tip back and watch it take him instead. And yet, he cannot, and the eyes of his brother haunt him.

Ten PM marks him slumped over Jon’s desk, head in his hands as he stares at the wall. A few polaroids of them hang, framed in tape and dust that seems to have settled over him entirely. He feels exhausted, and with each second his body aches to fall away into slumber.

His eyes close, and he dips forward gently. It is quiet for a moment, and the faintest image of a eye greets him before he finds himself snapping backward with a yelp.

“I cannot.” He tells himself, but his body doesn’t seem to understand it. “I can not .” Again, he leans, and his eyelids slink down. “Please,” Tim begs thin air, and the air conditioning responds with a churn.


Would it be so bad? A part of him asks, and in return, he stifles a yawn. A moment later, another chokes his throat, and he shakes his head in vain. Again, he yawns, a great thing that shakes his bones. He is so tired.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt. 

He can feel himself slipping. He laughs, and with an inhale, he leans forward and his head meets the desk beneath him.

Sleep greets him in a graveyard.

Tim has been to three funerals in his life, two for his parents and one for his brother. To say he recognises the cemetery he is standing in is a lie, let alone whose tombstone was now crumbling before him.

Fog dances gently around him, snaking between his feet like pitiful cats. He sucks in a breath, glancing around if only for his eyes to land on the shaking form of a stranger.

The woman in the grave is familiar, if only to the point that she might have held the door open for him at the deli once. Fog engulfs her arms as she digs her nails into the soil around her. It crumbles into her hands, wet earth staining her with grit. She needed to get out. Get out, get out now , less the world Forget .

She was going to fall. He Knew it.

Tim takes a step forward, hand reaching forward as if to grasp hers and tug her up and over and into the wet grass, and yet he finds he cannot move. He tries again, and his feet stay rooted in place, eyes locked on hers.

Naomi looks at him, then. She blinks, a surprised expression on her face as if she hadn’t expected him to be there. Please , She whispers, voice a hoarse mockery of speech as she reaches a single, marred hand towards him.

He does not say anything as Naomi Herne pauses, fear widening her eyes as her gaze catches on something further behind him, and suddenly there is the weight of dread on his shoulder. Tim stills, willing himself to turn, to run , to pull himself together and flee whatever has caught him; and yet whatever has come to rest beside him does not feel malicious.

Again.

The dirt under Herne’s fingers cracks, crumbling wetly and with a silent scream she tumbles back. Falling, falling, until her body hits the Earth and it comes up to bury her. She tries to yell, then. To cry out, beg, plead, scream for anything, anyone, anything but this ; and the grit chokes her maw.

It is a gargle then, a clash of the tongue and soil and all the while he watches . Watches as her fingernails break and the Earth grips her tight, tight, tighter, all the while the world Forgets . Dread coils firmly in his gut, and the thing beside him seems to weep. But it doesn’t, and the dream does not end, even as Naomi Herne begins again .

Again . Again, Tim wakes in a daze to an empty Archive, his desk a mess of post-its and news articles. The sound of the heater kicking on pulls him upward, and it is with a start that he realises Basira is sitting in the corner.

A book sits comfortably in her palm, the title marred from its leather and she does not look up as she turns the page. “Nightmare?” She asks simply, and Tim stares in irritation. She looks as horrible as he feels, dark circles resting just beneath her eyes and skin far paler than he was used to.

“Why are you here?” He challenges, and she raises a brow. “I work here too, you understand. Is it a crime to clock in?” Tim ignores the jab and instead stands. His vision shifts, and he grabs the edge of his desk before he can fall. 

He’s so hungry.

“You’re not the only one.” She states calmly, as if this is the easiest thing in the world. He blinks, stupidly even, and his eyes hurt the second they close. “What does that mean?” Tim demands, and Basira’s nose scrunches in irritation. “If you’d had the sense to pay attention,” She begins, stretching absently. “You would have noticed Martin’s seen him too.”

“What-”

“In his dreams . In our dreams, Tim.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and she stares at him as if daring Tim to say something. When he doesn’t, she closes her book. “Look, Stoker.” The name grinds against him like sandpaper. “I may not.. Love this, but I think we both know what’s happening.”


“What are you going to do about it?” He asks, and there is a desperation in his voice. He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. He can’t live.

“Ignore it.” She states, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. After a moment’s hesitation, she leaves her book on the desk beside the door, deciding better. “And if you’re smart, you will too.”

The last thing Tim hears from her as she climbs the stairs is something that leaves him empty.

“It’s all we can do.”

He cannot do this.

This needs to End .

Three AM finds him hovering over Jon’s grave.

It’s five months fresh, vines swallowing his tombstone like spiderwebs. Tim huffs a laugh, and it catches in his throat before he can begin to sob. Tim stands, breath coming out in ragged, weeping breaths.

The first time the shovel breaks earth, the sound thick and lifeless as the ground pulls away easily. Again, he presses downward, and the spade splits the soil neatly like a knife through flesh. Skin, sloughing, dragged downward as dancers spin.

The next spade full is heavier, rocks bouncing off the edge and halting his process. Again. His shovel hits gravel, slipping upward and with an irritated growl he slings it to his right. Aloud, to no one in particular, he laughs dryly. “You’ve ruined me, Jon.”  Nothing but the hum in his ears answers, and he lets out an arid sob.

The grass shines dully beneath him, wet with dew. 

He could stop, Tim thinks solemnly. He could cleanse himself of this, rebury the few inches he’d dug and forget this whole thing. What would Sasha think, if she could see this? If she could watch him, bathed in sweat and moonlight, an hour into unearthing a corpse. His eyes hurt at the very thought, and he catches himself as his feet slide on the wet of the grass.

She would hate him, Tim knows. Hate how ragged his breath is, sleep-deprived as he is. How dependent he feels. The earth beneath him stirs, writhing and he inhales sharply.

Please.

His hands ache, splinters digging into the soft of his palm like the talons of a long-dead creature. Above him, the moon dances in time with the thrum of his heart. It laughs, and Tim laughs too; exhaustion taking him as his fingers slip and the ground comes up to meet him.

It’s you again.

The words come unbidden to his mind like a sickness. Before him, the Archives greet him; bathed in the warm light of Sasha’s ancient desk lamp. Her chair rotates, slowly, and the face that meets him is not hers. It is pale, smiling an inch too wide. Something wrong, Tim? It asks in a voice that isn’t hers, isn’t hers nor it’s. 

She’s dead. He tries to tell it, tries to tell the thing holding up her skin, but it doesn’t seem to get the picture. We’ve missed you. - Sasha ? Tim inhales sharply, and the world tilts on its axis. 

The tunnels come up to meet him, the crashing of a thousand crawling things just behind him. Tim is running, moving, his right hand caught on Martin’s sweater. His left is in Jon’s, and forward they push until fingers slip from Tim’s grasp and he falls behind. Tim, Something soundless calls, and when he looks back there is nothing but air.

Tim. He’s falling, suddenly. He’s falling, the sky in his ears as if it's the only thing that could ever matter, and he can not scream.

Wake up.

Five am meets him on the ground, the grass beneath him cold. Tim lays, spread out as he is. Above him, the Moon tilts its head, staring with eyes wide and teeth so strange.

Get up.

He needs to get up.

The crawl upward is harsh, and when Tim stands, he finds that the grave is open. Jon’s coffin stares back up at him, a simple sort of thing, wood beginning to crack with rot. His shovel is cold in his hand, and a pulse of anger surges through him as he brings the blade down. 

Jon’s coffin splinters, the sickening crack that follows as Tim pulls his spade out making him shiver. “You!--” He shouts, and the shovel plunges down again. The wood breaks away in fragments, harsh and unforgiving. “Were--” His shovel comes away with a tug, showering the grave in woodchips and dirt. Again, he brings it down, and this time the coffin’s face buckles. “Supposed--” Again. “To–” Again. “Stay dead!”

Something wet sprays upward, and his anger drains with the smell of iron and copper.

His face twists, brow furrowing as sweat slips down his cheek and Tim pulls his spade upward. Its head comes away stained, and he watches as the liquid drips oh-so-slow. It’s black, viscous with a sheen that shimmers brightly in the light of the moon. 

With a grunt, he tosses it to the side, tears blurring his vision. Gently, far more than he meant to be, he lowers himself into the grave, pulling at the casket and stripping it until his blood mixes with the coffin’s, and he cannot tell where he starts and it ends.

The face that meets him is broken. It is rot, it has just recently been buried . It is clean, unmarred, and filled with pockmarks Tim carries on his own skin . It is unthinkable, impossible, and still, Tim stills.

It’s Jon. It’s The Archivist. His Archivist.

The words come unbidden to his mind, and Tim reels back in fear and anger as the corpse of what once had been moves. “Jon.” He whispers, hoarse. It has been so long since he’d spoken. It winces, almost, as if the words hurt to hear, so shaky as it turns its gaze to him.

Bright green eyes meet his, the same as they have always been. “Jon.” Tim repeats, awe eating him raw and it flinches like it could stab him. After a moment of deliberation, he shuffles backward and motions him closer.

The corpse seems to get the idea, pushing itself upward on weak limbs. It doesn’t get very far before its arms give way, and it comes crashing back down into itself. With a yelp, Tim shoots forward, grasping its wrist and pulling it into him. They both stare at each other incredulously, until the thing that must be Jon inhales a shaky breath.


“I supposed you’d come for me.” It laughs weakly, and when it smiles, it is a soft thing. It is far more gentle than he would have thought a monster could be. Unconsciously, he finds that he has run a hand through its hair, and he lets his fingers rest at the base of its neck.

“Of course.” He whispers, and it comes out like a sob. He looks the same as he always has, always will be. Hard, green eyes and an expression that looks almost mournful. Tim laughs, tears slipping down his cheeks and he presses his head to his. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

Chapter Text

The moment Jon comes home, the Archives seem warmer.

It is not as if Jon has suddenly turned the heating up, or that he has the power to force the building to feel comfortable, but rather that he has made it home .

He is home, in the winding shelves of the Archives that twist and curl about his office like vines. They grasp at him, statements coiling around him like they have missed him. He doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, content to simply read and Watch.

Jon is different, he knows, with the way he walks. Prentiss’s worms had eaten away the muscle of his leg the year before, and even now it is a brittle thing that he cannot bear to stand upon. Still, he does, and when Tim meets him again it is in the breakroom.

Jon stands in the doorway, leaning heavily against the beam beside him as if it is his last hope. He has worn a skirt today, with flowers winding all the way down like leaf litter and speckles of silver lining its hem. He clutches something tight in his hand, but it matters less than the fact he might as well topple over any moment.

Tim grimaces as he looks up, and he considers his chances of simply ignoring his boss. Dimly, frustration rears its head, and he wrinkles his nose in dull distaste. Now is not the time.

Deciding better, he puts his coffee cup down and turns fully to watch him. “Something the matter?” He asks, and he finds that his tone is a mock posh that mirrors Elias’. Jon frowns and holds up the broken remnants of a tape.

“A recorder.” He raises a brow.

“ A broken recorder. It seems you’ve thrown it.”

Embarrassment rises upward, flushing his neck in a soft pink he can almost picture. Jon is still staring at him, and whatever little prickle of Beholding has sunk its teeth into his skin chides him gently. He glances away, the image of hurling it as far as it could go perhaps not as pleasant as it had been at the time.

“I.. Didn’t mean to?”

Jon scoffs, and he feels the intent of a thousand rolling eyes glancing away, even if there are only two. “Of course, Tim. My apologies.” He straightens out, tossing the recorder into the waste basket beside him. Smoothing the wrinkles of his skirt, hands of ceramic and wax fall limply to his side. Tim is surprised the two don’t clash with the blisters of Corruption.

“I didn’t think so.”