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Being a ghost? Not as much fun as it sounded.
Pros:
Jokes. There was no parallel to how much slapstick humor improved when you could go through walls or let things sail through you. Writing messages on mirrors stopped being funny before long, but it was only a matter of time until everyone forgot to expect it and Tim could spring it on them again. Ghost puns? Nonstop.
No need to go back to the gym to keep in shape, because he’d be in shape for all time. Sure, maybe the routine was nice. Maybe he liked having somewhere he could bring his aggression in those later years, take it out on a treadmill or punching bag before he snapped and cold clocked Elias in the nose. Whatever that part of his life used to mean to him, death meant no membership fees.
Didn’t have to worry about worms, which was always a plus.
That was… about it.
Cons:
Same outfit, also for all time. Lightweight shirt. Trousers. Trainers. All picked for sturdiness and practicality. At least he’d bothered to shave the morning he died.
All the horrible death and everything, that was a big one. Mark him down as not a fan.
No eating. No drinking. No late night walks home from a bar with one or two others, whose names he may or may not know. Life’s simple pleasures were for life.
No contact. No touching anyone. Ever. Clothes or blankets between him and another person worked on a technical level, but he could only feel the fabric, and even that was dulled.
Also, he couldn’t die. Bit of a mixed bag, that.
Damn, he missed Mexican food.
He tried to keep the resolution he’d made the day he returned in mind: no more self-pity. There was no point in dwelling on what he couldn’t change.
That didn’t make it easier to tear his eyes away when Melanie got Basira’s attention with a touch to the shoulder and didn’t lift her hand again until their quick exchange was finished. By now he knew better to go in a room he could hear the Archers from — it always meant seeing Daisy side-by-side with Jon as she casually knocked his knee with the back of her hand to tease him or insist he pay attention, and Tim could only take envy clogging his throat so hot and thick he choked so many times.
Martin’s office wasn’t the respite he hoped it would be. He had as much human contact as Tim these days, which meant there was nothing for Tim to be envious of and plenty he wanted to fix. The small, windowless room couldn’t be more different from endless, impossible corridors, but Tim was certain that being able to take Martin’s hand would help here just as much.
They rarely broke contact for the days or weeks or however long they spent wandering. Sleep was done in shifts for as long as they could manage it, one resting against the other. Their fingers locked whenever they ran from the things in there with them, breath ragged and palms sweat-slicked but still together. Touch meant they were real. They were real, they had each other. Shoulders, hands, mouths. They were real.
Tim would’ve liked to claim that he kept the level head, stayed strong for Martin, all that. Real action hero. There was no way to tell time in that place, but however long it was, they each managed to squeeze in a decade’s worth of panic attacks.
Probably for the best that he didn’t play hero. Last time he did, he told Sasha to run. He’d keep the worms focused on him, and she could escape.
He got all the worms’ focus he wanted and more. She ran into artifact storage and never came out. That was that.
Neither he nor Martin talked about it after they escaped, but Tim had kissed plenty of his friends. It was just a way for them to stay grounded. It didn’t mean anything. Still, being able to take his hand again would be nice. He figured they both probably needed the reminder that they were real these days.
Between the Lonely and the End, they were shit out of luck there.
The End really was the gift that kept on giving, too. He thought he knew just how much it could change his appearance — he looked normal more often than not, maybe a little transparent. Then there was the spooky nightmare face, which didn’t seem to have any purpose beyond scaring people. Not surprising considering this was all tied to hell demons made of fear, but still. Very edgy.
Then, the injuries.
His own didn’t pop up anymore. Considering the blood they left actually stuck around, it was for the best. The only saving grace was that he lacked a heartbeat to push it out any faster — everyone tended to look around the stubborn patch of rust red still by where the stairs down to the Buried once sat, and Tim didn’t even want to think about the sort of hoops they’d all jump through to avoid anything bigger.
“I mean, seriously, Jon,” he complained from where he sat on top of the file cabinet. “You can just buy a rug. Hell, use my bank account. Not like I’m still spending anything there.”
Jon didn’t look up from where he was busily tapping away at his laptop. “Well, if you can wish an attached card into existence that I can actually touch or interact with in any way, just give a shout.”
“Come on, I bet if you tried you could Know the account number.”
“Not how it works.”
“Have you tried?”
Jon narrowed his eyes at the mug full of pens near the corner of his desk like he was envisioning throwing them at Tim but wasn’t sure it was worth the retaliation. The last time he’d done so, Tim let them all sail right through him, then spent the next hour trying to throw each one just right to land back in the mug. None made it, but damn if Tim didn’t give it his all.
“No, Tim, I haven’t tried to magically Know your bank account information.”
“So you might be able to!” Tim wished he was surprised — Jon was tied to the mysterious entity of knowing things, knew he worked for some literal demons, and never once tried to bump his paycheck. Jesus. “I’d love to collect on the life insurance if nothing else.”
There, there was that slight pinch at the corners of his mouth — the telltale sign that he was trying not to smile. Just needed another push. Tim would get a laugh out if it killed him. Again.
“Look. All I’m saying is: you and me. Casinos. The End has some tie to gambling and games, right? And luck always sways in the avatar’s favor? That, plus you knowing just what everyone has in their hands, not to mention that you could probably count cards in your sleep — we could hustle everybody in there.”
“Ah, yes, a ghost and an Archivist, known hardened criminals.” Jon leaned over to rustle through a desk drawer. “Con artist extraordinaires.”
Tim slid from his perch to land soundlessly on the ground, then leaned in over Jon’s desk and grinned. “We got conned into these jobs, might as well follow the ol’ fear bosses’ leads. Maybe it’s not the most straightforward way to get hazard pay, but it’s not like they have shining benefits packages.”
At last, Jon laughed as he pushed back upright. “No, I’d say they have the opposite of conventional insurance, plus—”
He stopped cold, eyes locked on Tim’s neck. Any good mood that filled the place evaporated like mist in sunrise.
Tim pulled back. “What?” He looked down at himself, as if he’d done something so mundane as leave a stain on his shirt.
An absent hand to his own throat, Jon tore his focus away to look Tim in the face. “There’s just… a mark. From—”
“Oh. That.” Tim knew where it came from. He had no idea why it was on him, but he knew what caused it on the once-living neck that wore the original.
Jon's fingers shifted as he visibly sorted through what he should say. “Are you alright? I thought wounds didn’t show up unless you were distressed, or— or angry, or—”
“And I thought wounds only appeared on the person who got them in the first place, but here we are.” The words came with more bite than Jon deserved, but Tim was a little too busy shoving off unpleasant memories of Eli Connor, age 29 that person to care.
Christ, here was the scholar look. Jon sat forward in his chair, eyes narrowed in focus. “I wonder… If the less drastic causes of death may show up with some degree of regularity, that might be a way the End manifests through you in a more physical sense. The Eye doesn’t leave physical marks, no, but beings like the Distortion and the Piper look markedly different from—”
“Jon.” Any bite to Tim’s voice now was well deserved. “Shut up.”
Another breath, and Jon glanced away. Tim ran his hand over his neck as if to wipe away the ropeburn he could almost feel. It wasn’t quite pain, more like the idea of it. Like pain from a dream, where he knew it existed but felt none of the white fire of nerves.
“Do you want to— to talk about it?”
Tim’s head snapped back to Jon with an incredulous stare. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. Just another exciting aspect of my existence these days! I get to show off bruises and burns and blood like they’re this year’s hottest fashions, what could there possibly be to talk about?!”
“I didn’t—” Whatever point Jon was going to make, he seemed to think better of it. That, or he didn’t even know what it might be. He certainly looked lost enough for the latter. “At least you’re… here, still.”
Tim snorted. “Yeah, like that’s a relief.”
“What do you mean?” There it was again, that voice. The one that said Jon knew exactly what the answer to his question was, but he needed to hear it. He wanted to be wrong.
“I wanted to die, Jon, and that didn’t just magically go away now that I’m back.” Tim’s feverish pacing didn’t make him feel any better, but he couldn’t stop. “The only thing that changed is that now it’s stop existing, because apparently I can blow myself up and still not get a g-ddamn break.”
Jon looked stricken, but he did his best to keep composure. “Have you— I-I know Melanie goes to therapy, I—”
“Really?” Tim barked out a laugh. “You think I’m going to just ring up my old therapist and say, Hi Jeff, I’m suicidal and also dead! Any handy tips? Got some grounding exercises for a guy who can’t touch anything without getting hungry?"
His voice was already loud, but now he was shouting. It was hard to care. “And that's not all! Instead of being able to rest and find my brother again after offing myself, I get to spend my shiny new eternity watching people die, over and over and over! The more drawn out and painful the death, the more it keeps the cogs fucking turning on my own personal hell! Got any breathing exercises for that, doc?!”
The silence that followed felt too big for the room it filled. Tim thought he should be breathing hard after such an outburst, but no. No breath. No life. No release.
All his energy drained out in an instant, and he fell back on his heels to lean against the wall behind him. He couldn’t look at Jon. Maybe it was plain exhaustion, or maybe an all-consuming humiliation at laying himself so bare. Either way, he didn’t look up from the floor even as he slid down to sit and wonder how the hell he could turn back time and make it so he never spoke at all.
After what felt like a thousand years but might have been less than a breath, Jon’s cane made a gentle clack as he set it against the wall and sat down next to Tim.
Neither of them spoke. Tim thought he got pretty well used to having public breakdowns once everything started going to hell around here, but they both knew this was something else.
“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured into the heavy air. “For bringing up therapy. It was stupid.”
Tim shook his head. “I’ll go to therapy as soon as you do, Mr. ‘Worst case scenario, the universe loses another monster.’”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah? Enlighten me.”
Jon said nothing, and that said everything.
Another moment, and Tim let out a short, grim laugh. “We’re both proper fucked, aren’t we?”
“Yes, I…” There was a distant wonder to Jon’s voice, like he was examining something that couldn’t possibly belong to him. “I suppose we are.”
Again they sat unmoving in the quiet before Jon broke it. “You had a therapist?”
“Mm. In uni. He was a good guy, helped me plenty and all, but I think this is a little out of his pay grade. Even before I died, going back to him was never really an option.” Tim sighed at the thought. “What would I even say? Hey doc, I just got eaten alive by a hundred worms and no one cares! By the way, the worms came from the shambling husk of a woman we’ve dubbed the Flesh Hive during her attempt to call forth the eldritch nightmare tied to humanity’s fear of corruption through insects and disease! Also, a guy I’ve been friends with for years thinks I want to murder him. Any advice?”
Guilt rolled off Jon in waves. “I… I don’t think I ever had a chance to apologize. For all of it. You didn’t deserve the way I treated you.”
“Yeah, well… Of all the people you accused, two of four were actual murderers, so.” Nor was it the first time Tim had been accused of something like that. At least Jon couldn't throw him in an interrogation room for hours under the hope that it would bring him to confess to the disappearance of one of the people he cared about most. “Besides, It wasn’t like I was too open to reparations after you cut back on the conspiracy man thing. Just another way the Stranger screwed me over. Danny. Sasha. You. Not to mention the calliope.”
“Calliope?”
“I still hear it, sometimes. Just when I already feel like shit, of course.” He shook his head. “I swear I can hear people with it, too. Didn’t used to, but I’ve noticed lately.”
“I suppose auditory hallucinations are fairly mild when thinking about how the abrupt switch from the Unknowing to months of sensory deprivation might affect a person.” Jon shifted where he sat, thoughtful. “That may be why your hunger manifests as it does. For me, it shows as fatigue, slowed processing, that sort of thing. For you, dissociation and derealization — both very much tied to the Stranger.”
“Fantastic. Don’t suppose knowing that gets us any closer to finding me an alternative to watching people die.”
When Jon spoke again, it was with clear hesitation. “If we did find one, would you take it?”
The first reply to catch in his throat was, Of course I would. I don’t like people’s terror. I don’t want to know the heartbreak of whoever is with them. If I never have to see someone torn apart or covered in blood again, it’ll be too soon.
Yet, there were those nameless ones. The befores. The ones with scars down to the bone and light inside still burning. Those who should have died, and who didn’t.
“…No. Guess I wouldn’t.”
Tim crossed his arms tight over his chest as he continued. “Honestly, I don’t think it’d be so bad if I could just touch someone. Anyone.” He was so skin hungry he ached, and it would only ever get worse.
Worse still: the thought of that hunger fading as he cut himself off from the world in full. As he slowly forgot what touch could mean. As he lost even the memory of how it felt.
Jon had nothing to say to that.
Or, he didn’t until something struck his thoughts and sent him bolt upright.
“I think… I can’t fix all of your problems—”
“Shocker.”
“—but as far as touch goes… I might know something that can help. Someone.”
Jon levered himself to his feet and grabbed his cane, then turned back to Tim.
“Do you trust me?”
Million-dollar question right there.
Tim replied only by standing to follow him out of the room, and that was words enough.
Cheery yellow wallpaper lined the hall they stood in, so incongruous with Tim’s mood it made him itch. The flat door they stared at was plain, light wood, with a small blue bit of ceramic affixed at an angle next to it, inscribed with what looked like Hebrew.
Jon knocked. Tim watched. They waited.
After a handful of seconds, the door opened to reveal a woman, whose pleasant expression turned apprehensive as soon as she saw Jon. She was a little on the short side, with dark skin and a stocky build.
“Georgie.” Jon’s voice was equal parts apologetic and hopeful. “Can we… talk?”
Georgie Barker, then. Tim could see why he’d chosen her to stay with when hiding out — from the breadth of her shoulders to her squared posture, she looked like someone safe.
“Jon, what is it this—” As soon as she noticed Tim, she went silent. There was no fear in her eyes, only distrust so thick he could taste it.
She turned back to Jon. “Mind telling me why you brought more of your job to my flat?” Her voice was clipped. “Because I wasn’t keen on the death man in your hospital room, and I’m not too keen on a new one in my home.”
Wonderful. Tim had eternity to kill, but this was still a waste of that time. “Right.” He turned to leave, but stupid, stubbon Jon did not.
“Georgie, this is Tim. Tim Stoker.”
“…Oh.” None of her walls lowered, but she studied Tim again as he pitched a glare at Jon. “I thought you died.”
Tim didn’t try to lighten his tone. “So did I.”
“Can we come in? Please.”
Georgie gave Jon one more hard, uncertain look, then stepped aside to let them through.
Discomfort hung in the air like smoke as they settled in her living room. Tim sat at the left side of the couch and half-leaned half-slumped against the arm with Jon stiff at his side. In the armchair at his left, Georgie watched his every move. Still no fear — only anticipation, as if she expected him to snap and lunge after the living souls in the room like a zombie and was already planning her next move.
Probably a fair concern. It wasn’t like Tim knew what the End would shove on him next. Today, fatal wounds at all hours; tomorrow, a hunger for brains. Just another day in the eldritch office.
“So,” Georgie said when it grew clear the others weren’t going to speak first. “Why did you come here?”
Jon glanced at Tim as if inviting him to answer, but it wasn’t like he knew why any better than Georgie. He could only stare back, helpless.
“Things have been… difficult, for everyone since— since the first time the Institute was attacked, frankly.”
That was a charitable way to put it. Tim absently ran a hand over the pockmarked scars along his forearms. No movement. No itch. No burrowing. After this long, he’d finally shaken the intense need to check every inch of skin so he could be sure he was parasite-free that used to strike whenever something reminded him of it all.
Who was the king of coping? Tim was.
“And just before Tim died, things were especially tense.”
“Then I blew myself up,” Tim added with a sharp smile. Maybe if he made her uncomfortable enough, they could scrap this whole disaster and leave. Pretend it never happened.
Georgie regarded him with that same cool look in her eye. There was some added tension in her jaw, but otherwise she seemed unfazed. Dammit.
“Could show you all the gory details if you’re curious, that’s another one of my fun tricks. It’d be a shame about the carpet though — blood’s a real pain to get out.”
“Tim.”
“What.”
Equal parts warning and sorrow colored Jon's face, like he knew just what Tim was trying to pull. Tim’s lip curled as he looked away.
Jon soldiered on. “About two weeks after I woke up again, he found his way back to the Institute. Oliver — the man from the End you met — had offered him his own choice.”
Georgie nodded, though she remained puzzled. “Where do I come in, here?”
“I’m getting to that. Tim seems to follow a lot of the logic of classic ghosts.” Jon tugged on the sleeves of his cardigan as he thought. “I’m not sure ghost is the most accurate term for him in particular, but it serves well enough. One aspect is that he can’t touch any living thing.” From the way Georgie’s eyes moved, Tim guessed Jon demonstrated by sweeping his hand through Tim’s shoulder, but he didn’t watch.
Her dark brows drew together. “O-oh, wow. Okay. Wow.” She looked back at Jon. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m, y’know… alive.”
“Yes, but you came a literal hair’s breadth from becoming a victim of the End, and you survived almost untouched.” Jon sat forward. “Because of that exposure, I think— I think you might be different. And I think it might help him.”
Tim wouldn’t get his hopes up. He couldn’t. If he did and Jon was wrong, he would survive. He would survive, and that would be worse.
When he managed to face Georgie again, there was a different sort of apprehension on her face. She could feel just how heavy the air was.
Flat, empty, Tim held his arm in her direction.
This wouldn’t work. Tim was dead. He could touch no one. He couldn’t rest a palm on Basira’s shoulder. He couldn’t lean against Jon on a couch. He couldn’t take Martin’s hand at his desk. He was empty space in the shape of what used to be Tim Stoker.
Then Georgie’s warm, strong hand linked with his own, and everything fell apart.
He couldn’t look away from the lattice of their fingers, near-black twined with brown. She was so warm, to the point it burned like the pins and needles that came with stepping from frozen wind to hold a fresh mug of tea. If either she or Jon spoke, he didn’t hear past the rushing in his ears.
He could feel her. He could touch her. She was alive, her heartbeat steady and sure, and she could touch him.
His exhaled, “What?” was all but inaudible, but his face must have conveyed that intent well enough. Slowly, slowly, her other hand came up to join the first wrapped around his.
Pulling away would wreck him, he was certain, but it was so much. Every bit of him felt raw and his eyes burned.
“I-I’m—” His jaw worked as he stuttered with all the grace of Jon on three hours of sleep. “Sorry, it’s just—” One would think he’d be used to getting the rug ripped out from under him over and over, but it had never happened so gently before.
He needed to step back. Part of him was certain that as soon as he stopped touching her, he’d never be able to again, but after so long of nothing but faint pressure and watching what he couldn’t feel, it was too much.
The ache of envy in his chest he’d tried and failed to ignore these days hit in full, nonsensical force. He had the option of contact here, now, right? What was there to be envious of?
Maybe it was towards a wishful future version of him — one who would have the nerve to ask for a hug, and who knew that he would be able to handle it without a full damn breakdown.
G-d, Tim wanted that. He wanted that so much he ached.
He could feel Jon’s worried gaze and Georgie studying him to see if she’d done something wrong. “Sorry, I… It’s been a while, you know?”
This must have been how Jon felt when Tim first made a point to try for some minor, mild contact not long after they met. He could still remember when he rested a hand on Jon’s shoulder to get his attention, and Jon stared at it for a solid five seconds before responding to whatever Tim had said.
Tim knew the words for it — touch starved, skin hungry, all that. Terminology didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
Before he could try and rationalize away the tightness in his throat or make some joke to get the other to stop staring at him like that, a small chirruping noise interrupted. From what he assumed was Georgie’s bedroom came a cat, a big orange tabby with a green collar.
“Oh! Hello, Admiral,” Jon said as he leaned forward to stretch out a hand. The cat sniffed his fingers and rubbed its face against them with another small noise, then trotted over to Tim. Out of habit Tim reached out despite knowing the cat would pass on through.
The cat — Admiral? — sniffed at Tim’s fingers like it had Jon, and he wondered if it could actually smell anything with Tim’s lack of physicality. Its nose came near enough that Tim swore he could almost feel tiny brushes on his skin, but he knew that was just because part of him still half-expected to feel something — it would’ve been nearly imperceptible even if it made contact, so it was easy for phantom touch to fulfill that expectation. Minds were remarkably skilled at filling in the spaces where reality didn’t quite fit what they thought should be the case.
When the Admiral made another small chirp and rubbed its face firmly against his hand, convincing himself it wasn’t real got a bit trickier.
“Wh—” Before Tim could begin what would have been a long string of startled cursing, the Admiral neatly leapt right into Tim’s lap. Tim glanced with wide eyes at Jon for explanation, but Jon was equally baffled. Georgie, the same.
So. Tim had a cat on him. That was a thing.
Apparently displeased with the lack of attention, the Admiral stretched up to bump its head against Tim’s face, then ran its cheek against his jaw with an insistent meow.
He obliged, of course. The warm weight of each paw in his lap settled together as the Admiral curled right up, purring all the while. Part of him wanted to face Jon and demand some explanation, but he couldn’t make himself look away again — what if he stopped paying attention, and as soon as he did it ceased to be real?
Pet the cat. He could do that.
He barely noticed when Jon asked Georgie, “When did you get the Admiral, again?”
“…Right after I met the woman on campus. My mum got him for me to try and help, even though she didn’t know what was wrong. He mostly just slept in bed with me.”
“Meaning, he had months in very close quarters with you right after meeting the End, and you’ve had him for years since. Exposure.”
Some distant part of Tim thought to ask what they were talking about, but the rest of him couldn’t have cared less. The Admiral’s paws kneaded on his leg as it purred away.
After he woke up, the only physical sensation not blunted or deadened entirely was pain, every measure of it he could dream of and more, but now he had softness and warmth and weight.
He wasn’t sure when the first tears welled up. It didn’t matter.
At the corner of his awareness, he heard Georgie say something about tea.
“Come on, Jon. You’re helping.”
“What? I don’t think you need—”
“Jonathan Sims, come to the kitchen with me right now.”
With that, Tim was alone. Just him, here to cry on a cat. Wonderful.
He couldn’t stop thinking about how much it felt, and how negligible it would have been when he was alive. Pleasant, even though he was always more of a dog person, but nothing earth-shattering. Now it was like his entire being had narrowed to this couch alone.
This was it. This was all he got.
A woman he barely knew and her cat.
There would be no pulling anyone into hugs so strong and warm he lifted them off their feet. There would be no wrapping his arms around someone from behind to watch them beat their high score on some game on their phone. There would be no thoughtless brushes that came with existing in the same space as another person.
The Admiral stretched up again to bump its forehead against Tim’s chin. Even through the churning emptiness in his chest, he couldn’t help a small smile, but it was gone again in an instant.
No leaning against shoulders. No held hands. No pressed lips. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
In the tunnels below the Institute when Prentiss attacked, Jon had leaned on him most of the way. There was no chance for him to grab his cane and being stabbed with a corkscrew hadn’t helped. He slung an arm over Tim’s shoulders, Tim wrapped his own arm around Jon’s waist, and they had stumbled together through the maze of dark stone and fear. Even when he’d opened the trap door he kept close Jon at his side, ready to boost him through so they could get the hell out of that place.
He didn’t let go once they saw just what waited on the other side. He didn’t let go when those awful worms gave chase. No, he only broke that contact when he felt the first telltale bites and burrowing, corkscrewing pain on his calves and shoulders — he’d shoved Jon ahead as hard as he could and told him to run. Tim was down. That was it. Jon could escape.
Touch in those twisting spiraling corridors was what kept them sane. Even after, even once they escaped, sometimes he or Martin would reach out to the other, just to ensure they were both still real. They existed. They survived.
The Unknowing left him alone, and anything that touched him meant him harm. He struck, and struck, and struck. It wasn’t until the very end that his ragged, technicolor memories straightened into something he could comprehend, with Jon’s voice demanding, What do you see? and his hands locked around Tim’s wrists to hold back one more strike. It was over. It was all over.
Even before the Institute, touch was the way Tim defined his relationships. Sasha was arms pressed on the same sofa, legs across his lap, nails scratching through his hair. His mother, cold fingers against his cheek; his father, a distant hand brushed over his shoulder.
Danny, an arm across shoulders on the walk home from school. Danny, grabbing his hand to tug him to the posted cast list of the musical he’d decided was his next interest. Danny, pushing against his side to escape a relentless headlock. Danny, a brief, tight hug the day he graduated, with a whispered and far too honest, thank you for everything against his ear.
The Admiral purred in his lap, and Tim cried for something that in life he never thought he’d be able to lose. He cried, because getting it back in halves hurt almost as much as never having it at all.
“Give him time,” Georgie said from the kitchen. “He needs a chance to grieve himself.”
There was no telling how long passed before a touch to his shoulder damn near made him jump out of his skin. That jolt was, it seemed, the last straw for the stunningly patient Admiral, who gave one last flick of its tail before leaping down and off towards the bedroom.
Georgie pulled her hand away as soon as he flinched. “Sorry, I, um… I forgot that would startle you.”
“No, it’s— it’s alright. It’s good.” Tim scrubbed a hand over his face as if that would do anything about how red and puffy he knew he must be. “Did Jon go?”
She sat, this time on the couch. “Yeah. He was about to start doing that thing he does where he doesn’t know how to help someone but doesn’t want to do nothing, so he just hovers. Used to drive me mad, so I told him either you would come back to the Institute when you were ready, or I’d text him to let him know if you wanted the company on your way back.”
With clear hesitation and keeping herself in his line of sight as if to warn him, she reached out again and placed her hand on his knee. It was still a lot, but not so much so that he had to pull away like the first time. Instead, he placed his own hand over hers and marveled at how easy it was. Did he really used to do things like this without thinking?
It wasn’t just touching a person that he could hardly believe — when was the last time he was able to make contact with anything that wasn’t his own clothes without having to ensure that his body existed enough to do so, even for only a moment?
Georgie studied his face with no trace of her earlier suspicion. There was a steadiness to her that reminded him of Basira, one he envied as much as he appreciated.
“Let me know if I need to stop at some point. It won’t be any help if I just overwhelm you.”
Tim’s opposite knee bounced in place. “Why?”
“You haven’t touched anyone in months, Jon said, so of course too much would—”
“No, it’s not that.” The warm undertones in her dark brown skin against his own only highlighted how lifeless his looked. Desaturated, like the color was drained out. He hadn’t noticed until now. “Why are you doing this at all? We aren’t friends. You don’t even know me.”
In the corner of his eye, he saw her shift where she sat, but she didn’t pull away. “Because you need something that I can safely give.”
“Heartwarming. Why, really?”
“I care about Jon. Jon cares about you.” She sighed. “Is it that hard to believe that I might want to help for its own sake?”
“Considering you said you weren’t keen on all the dead men around? I’d say so.”
Even when her voice gained an edge, her hand remained. “That isn’t fair. All I knew when I opened my door was that Jon’s been digging into some pretty dangerous stuff for a long time, and last time I met someone who felt as much like death as you, he was basically resurrecting Jon to drag him even further into it all.”
“What, and you actually think me being around doesn’t do the same damn thing?” The words leapt out as soon as they entered Tim’s thoughts, but he didn’t think he would’ve stopped himself even with an intact filter. Maybe if he pissed her off, she’d pull away for good. Maybe she’d dig her fingers into his nonexistent flesh harder, leave him a bruise that was all his own. “Never thought Jon was into the naive sort.”
“Jon is into the sort who calls him out on his bullshit, and I got very good at it when we were together.” Georgie’s mouth sat in a hard line, and still she didn’t move. “So I’ll give you a moment to decide if this is the way you want to take this. I want to help you, but I don't indulge in Jon’s self-sabotage and I am not going to indulge yours.”
Contrary to what you think, I did not bring you here to indulge your death wish.
Maybe there was some truth to reincarnation — for others, a repetition of their soul from one life to the next; for Tim, a repetition of his previous life’s mistakes. He had no stamina to spare for misery over the thought.
When he didn’t reply, Georgie continued. “And… It helps me, too. The guy in Jon’s hospital room, Oliver? He was the only other non-catatonic person I’ve ever met who was connected to the End, and I wasn’t too eager to have a chat with him about it. Your situation is pretty different from mine, but you get it.” She shifted close enough for their arms to brush with deliberate care. “You understand how it’s all a single moment.”
And somehow, even without further elaboration, he did. Everything would end. Everything was ending. Everything had already ended, and reality shone on in pointless defiance like the light of a long-dead star.
“So how’d you meet our neighborhood horrific reaper deity?” Tim asked, trading his earlier snide tone for something much flatter. “Any explosives on your end?”
“Nothing so exciting,” came Georgie’s brisk reply. “Just a restless medical cadaver.”
“Fun.”
“Hardly. She had a lot less personality leftover from her life than you. Unless she spent all her time sitting ominously in hallways and reminding passersby of their inevitable end even when she was alive, anyway.”
“Oh, I only did that on Tuesdays.” The snort Georgie gave at his faint joke made something spark in his chest, like wires connecting for a fraction of a second. “Must be why.”
“Must be.” Again, another shift closer, this time enough that her leg left gentle pressure against his own. A trace of the tension in Tim’s shoulders eased.
“I’m…” He didn’t know how to phrase his cloudy thoughts, but Georgie was patient. “I told myself when I came back that I was done with all the self-pity. Sorry.”
“Self-pity?” Her head cocked to the side. “What do you mean?”
Tim took a deep breath. “I’ve, uh, dumped enough of my problems on you, but basically: like Jon said, the last years before I died were shit. And I’m sure you’ve noticed Jon and I’s fun matching scars.”
“He said they were from a… flesh hive? Do I even want to know what that is?”
“Not really. I wouldn’t say it was the worst day of my life, but it definitely placed with a medal in that competition.” He swallowed hard, for no reason other than the habit of it. At least exploding himself was cathartic. Trying to reach out to his best friend, the one who was there for him at his lowest moments in their teenage years, the one who consoled him through the worst funeral of his life, the one he'd been so relieved to see when he started at the Institute, and getting only cool dismissal in return had been no small factor either. “And everyone else just… moved on. Jon had— well, calling it a breakdown would put it mildly, and he sort of focused on me.”
It was a fair assumption, at any rate. The others would have said as much if they also saw Jon staking out their g-ddamn house. He wasn’t sure he would ever forget the stunned anger at the sight of Jon’s car across the street, all while telling himself that he had to be wrong and knowing with cold certainty he wasn’t.
They knew it was because of the Stranger’s influence. Jon apologized. That didn’t make the memory magically vanish.
“With that too, people didn’t care. Not after he was off on the run.” Tim’s knee started bouncing again with stale agitation. “I kind of… over-corrected, if that makes sense. Got self-absorbed.”
Georgie adjusted her hand so, rather than resting on his knee, it was laced with his. “And you don’t think you’re over-correcting now?”
“By not throwing a pity party at all hours? No, I don’t think so.”
“You acknowledging your own problems isn’t a pity party.” Her voice gained a note of gentle challenge. “I won’t act like I know how you were before, but I think with all this you’ve earned some distress. Trust me, you can’t just repress all your feelings just because you’ve decided you’re supposed to. It doesn’t go well.”
“That another fun thing you learned when dating Jon?”
“Yeah, but not from him. That was all me, and it took a long time for me to learn better.” Her thumb moved in small sweeps across the back of his hand.
“It’s not like me crying ever solved anything,” Tim said with a shake of his head.
“And you think me crying has? That’s not the point, is it?”
For the first time since she sat next to him, he met her eyes. His confusion must have shown, and she continued.
“Like… Do you cook?”
“Not much lately, but sure.” He wasn’t going to win an award for gourmet dining anytime soon, but someone had to keep him and Danny fed when their father was out on business. A person could only eat takeout so many nights in a row, teenage boys included. The Malaysian dishes his mother taught him were one of the few things he brought with him when he moved out of her house.
“When a pot starts to boil over and you take off the lid, that doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t make the stove stop being too high. It doesn’t make whatever’s in the pot stop being too hot. You do it to release the pressure, and bring everything back from red alert so you can fix whatever’s wrong.”
“And…” Tim’s voice was hoarse. “What if you don’t know how to fix it?”
“Then you take the lid off again when you need to,” she answered. “And you ask for help.”
With an attempt at her caution, his head sank to rest on her warm, solid shoulder. He had no words in him to ask, but in the way she leaned back against him, he swore he could hear a promise in return.
“Tim?”
Melanie sounded more hesitant than he’d ever heard. He leaned forward to set the front legs of his chair back on the ground and caught the stress ball he was tossing around. No noise came from the chair legs hitting linoleum — had he just been leaning through the back? Weird.
“Uh, yeah?”
Face a strange blend of uncomfortable and resolute, Melanie pulled the chair from Martin’s old desk to sit next to him. She spent a bit too long organizing a small notebook and pencil before speaking again.
“The day we met, you… you asked me to tell you about Sasha. The first one.”
Something dropped in Tim’s chest. He didn’t reply.
“And I didn’t. Because you were, um… intense about it, and I didn’t really understand. I had actually started to think I might be losing my mind,” she continued with a stilted laugh. “But between the bits I managed to get out of Martin and Jon, I— I think I know. Or, I know enough to know that it matters. To you.”
All Tim could manage was a nod.
Melanie cleared her throat, then opened the notebook. Jagged scrawl covered each page as if turned until she eventually stopped on a list. Like the rest, it was far from neat — question marks followed every other entry and some were crossed through, or so heavily scribbled out he couldn’t begin to guess what it first said.
“So, um… I wrote down everything I could remember about her. It— it was a long time ago, so it might be wrong, o-or just how she was the times we talked, but…”
She took another quick breath as if to steady herself, then pulled the notes around so he could read along as she explained.
“She was quite tall, I remember. Between her and Jon I asked if working in the archives had a height requirement. Not that being taller than me is much of an achievement, but she laughed still and said the other two — you and Martin, I guess — were plenty tall, so it must.”
Sasha was short. He remembered once sweeping her up onto his back and asking in a ridiculous, posh voice, Where to, my lady? Which top shelves simply must have your attention?
“And, um, her skin was brown, a little darker than yours. Covered in freckles, too. Her face, her hands, all that. There was one on her lip that was really prominent.”
Sasha was pale, without a freckle in sight. No spots. No birthmarks.
“She wore glasses. Round ones, I think.”
Sasha had perfect vision. She sometimes joined Tim in teasing when Jon or Martin forgot theirs were sitting on top of their head and asked for help tracking them down.
“Her hair was long, and blonde. She had dark brows so she must have lightened it, but it suited her. When I saw her it was in a ponytail, but I-I don’t know if that’s always how she wore it. I’m not an artist, but um, it was kind of like this…?” With a few quick motions at the bottom of the page Melanie drew a circle with round glasses, scrawled out a rough approximation of long, curly hair tied back high on her head, then added some fluffy bangs.
Sasha’s hair was short, light brown waves that fell just past her jaw. No bangs.
“And, um… She was really bright. I mean, she looked very upbeat, always had a smile. We chatted for a while, but when she noticed she had been away from work for a bit she didn’t seem to mind.”
Sasha was on the serious side. She focused on her work, and even when Tim coaxed a laugh or joke out it never lasted long. He hadn’t thought much of it — after losing touch for a few years, anything could happen. He did miss the cheerful, friendly girl he knew from secondary school, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t also changed a hell of a lot since.
Staring at the page wouldn’t replace the Stranger in Tim’s memories, but it didn’t stop him from trying to fit the sketch over it. The shoulder bumping into him as they passed in the halls between classes. The hand offering him a blanket when he slept on her couch as a teenager. The mouth laughing against his after a night out together.
He couldn’t make the truth overlay lies, but that didn’t mean truth was a gift he accepted lightly.
If he looked up he knew Melanie wouldn’t miss how wet his eyes were, but there was no hiding the roughness to his voice when he gave a quiet, “Thank you.”
“You’re— You’re welcome.” Melanie pulled the notebook away. The sound of her tearing the page out interrupted his protest, and she held it over to him. “I know it doesn’t solve anything, and it won’t magically fix your memories, so it’s not much—“
“But it helps.” He read over the list again, inscribing each word in his mind.
Tall. Brown. Freckled. Glasses. Blonde. Bright. Warm. Sasha. Sasha. Sasha.
“It doesn’t have to fix it to help.”
Knifeclaw sharpness. Copper in his mouth. Acid in his veins. Let death radiate off him so fiercely the air grew cold and heavy. He could feel his target coming near, and every part of him went tense. Prepped to strike.
Closer… closer… now.
Tim leapt directly through the wall, leaning hard on every bit of the fury and terror that made this appearance so effective before.
Georgie brushed past to continue towards the kitchen with no more than a glance. “You know, when I told you I can’t feel fear anymore, I didn’t mean it as a challenge.” The Admiral, equally unfazed, twined between his ankles with tail held high.
“Not even a jump?” he complained as he shook off the spooky nightmare face. “I’m hurt.”
“Bring all the bills in my mailbox with you next time. You’ll scare me plenty,” she called over her shoulder as she put away the groceries.
He collapsed back onto her couch, but when the Admiral leapt up to land on his chest and nose at his face, there was no keeping the dramatics. He couldn’t help grinning like a little kid whenever he got a chance to relish that warmth and weight.
“If you get any blood on my couch, I’m kicking you out.”
“Eh, if I do it’ll fade before long.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tim kicked his feet up to sit on top of the back of the couch, one arm under his head and the other hand scratching the Admiral behind the ear. “Hey, how long d’you think before I can pull out one of my ribs to play fetch with a dog like skeletons do in cartoons?”
The rustle of plastic bags went silent. “I… Wow, I hate thinking about that!”
“Not an answer!”
Georgie came into the living room with a small bowl of strawberries in hand. “Scoot.”
Tim shifted further down the couch, and when she sat he laid back again with his head on her thigh. It was still strange to touch her so casually, but the first day he came back to visit, he spent the whole time stiff on one side of the couch until she rolled her eyes and pulled him over to lean against as she read.
Abrupt, yes, but a comfortable Georgie was impossible to be stiff around. Tim just needed to relearn the tactility that used to be second nature.
The Admiral stood from its perch on Tim’s stomach to sniff towards Georgie. Apparently deciding her strawberries were worth investigation, it picked its way over towards her.
“No, Admiral,” Georgie chided, weight shifting under Tim’s head as she leaned away to hold the bowl out of reach. “Not for cats.”
Undeterred, it kept on, and apparently Tim’s face was just the stepping stool it needed. Paw right on the eye. Bastard.
“O-Ow, alright,” Tim hissed, then wrapped his hands around the Admiral’s middle and lifted it into the air. “Sir. This behavior is not becoming of your rank. Don’t think we won’t court-martial you if you push us to it.”
The Admiral responded to Tim’s threat by reaching out the offending paw to pop him right in the nose. Bastard.
When he let go, rather than attempt to climb his face again, the Admiral sat right in the middle of his chest. Tim didn’t know how, but it somehow looked smug.
Bluff called by a cat. Georgie snickering at their exchange didn’t help matters.
Tim put on the nightmare face — legal threats didn’t work, maybe mortal threats would.
The Admiral batted his nose with a paw again. The smug, furry bastard was purring.
Above him, Georgie checked her watch. “As funny as you arguing with my cat is, I need to start recording my next What the Ghost episode.”
“You need me to get out of here?” Tim asked as he lifted her head so she could stand.
“No, my office is soundproofed! Feel free to argue as long as you need.” Georgie began to leave, only to turn back after a few steps. “Actually, since you’re here — the anniversary of when I started WtG is coming up next week, and each year I do a sort of special episode.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Last year was rating different cryptids on how datable they are.”
Tim sat up despite the Admiral’s meow of protest. “Nice. What’s the plan this year? Can’t do the same thing again unless you just want to give me the gold and be done with it.”
“I was thinking: interview with the local ghost,” Georgie replied with a grin.
“You had my interest, and now you have my attention.” As he stood, the Admiral took it as cue to climb up and flop over his shoulder. He had no idea how that could possibly be comfortable, but cats always folded in weird ways. “Are we thinking full Anne Rice Interview with a Vampire interview, or Oh Hell This Is My First Job Search and I’m So Afraid interview?”
“I was thinking more, Listen to This Ghost Be Needlessly Ominous and Make Terrible Puns interview. Listeners will think the whole concept is the joke, but it’s really that it’s completely true, and they would never believe us.”
Tim grinned and clapped his hands together, only to pause for a moment. “Oh, hell. My voice doesn’t pick up digitally. It works on the damn tapes, of course, but I can’t use phones or anything.”
Georgie didn’t reply as she ducked into the office and stepped out a moment later with what looked like a very nice tape recorder — as nice as anything that obsolete could be, anyway.
“I thought that would probably be the case with how Jon has described all the— well, everything. Plus, considering the everything I thought it might be a good idea to have around in general. We can record it on here, then I’ll figure out some way to transfer the audio even if I just have to play it back while holding the mic close.” She waved for him to follow her into the studio. “Come on, we’ve got a lot of death to talk about and we’re losing daylight.”
A couple of weeks later, Georgie sat next to Tim on her couch and handed over her phone to show him listener responses.
M.King.UKGH said: not sure why the “ghost” kept insisting he was more datable than mothman?? WHOEVER the ghost is, he’s definitely not more datable than mothman, tim
When he laughed hard enough that the Admiral decided he’d earned another bat to the nose, Tim committed to the bit and flopped dramatically over onto Georgie while insisting that her cat had killed him again.
Georgie’s subsequent laughter didn’t fix anything for Tim. Her fingers carding through his hair and occasionally giving him a small braid here or there didn’t fill any of the hollow places in his chest. The Admiral nudging his jaw didn’t remove any memories of the last moments he carried on his shoulders.
Being here on her couch didn’t solve anything, but that wasn’t the point, was it?