Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Melanie wakes up screaming. Again. In the tiny corner of her mind not occupied with sobbing her lungs out, she wishes she could hurry up and get used to this already. 

There’s the faint click of a light switch from nearby. She must have woken Georgie. In a few minutes, she’ll feel bad about that, but right now, there’s no room in her skull for anything except terror. 

Georgie says something, voice low and soothing. Melanie can’t force herself to make sense of the words, but it helps to hear a voice that has never – and maybe, hopefully, will never – appear in her nightmares. Georgie doesn’t touch her, which is a relief. Melanie’s imagination is too full of knives and bullets and Sarah Baldwin’s staple gun for unexpected contact to be welcome.

Finally, finally, boredom wins out over terror, and Melanie can think straight again. Her throat hurts, and her back as well. She rubs her hands over her face, wincing as the movement makes her aware of how damp her shirt is.

“Tissue?” asks Georgie.

“Sure,” Melanie mumbles, voice thick and hoarse. There’s a rustle, and then something soft brushes her upturned hand. 

Once she’s disposed of the tissue and narrowly avoided knocking the hand sanitizer off of her bedside table in her fumbling, she settles back into the pillows. The sheet under her hand shifts as something deliberately presses into the mattress a few inches away, once, twice, asking permission. Melanie weighs her lingering discomfort for a minute before placing her hand over Georgie’s. 

Georgie doesn’t squeeze, but she does gently lace their fingers together, rubbing tiny circles with her thumb on the side of Melanie’s palm.

“Thanks,” Melanie whispers eventually.

“Of course,” Georgie whispers back. Her weight shifts on the mattress, but her hand stays still, and while Melanie has never been quick to trust, Georgie has always been quick to prove herself reliable, so Melanie doesn’t bother to brace herself against unexpected touch.

There’s a scraping sound from the direction of the door, and a pitiful, drawn-out meow that lasts nearly ten seconds. There’s a beat of silence, and then both Melanie and Georgie burst into a fit of giggles. 

“Want me to let him in?” asks Georgie when they can both breathe again. 

Melanie thinks about the stapler gun again and says, “If—if you want to hold onto him for a minute, I’ll pet him? If you don’t mind, that is. But I don’t—I’d rather not give him the run of the place. I’m not in the mood for claws.”

“Okay,” says Georgie, a smile in her voice. The mattress shifts as she gets up, and then again a minute later as she sits back down, now accompanied by the sound of purring. Melanie reaches out and lets Georgie guide her hand to the Admiral’s furry little head.

He gets antsy after a few minutes, and Georgie banishes him back into the hallway before he can escape and bother Melanie.

“Thanks,” Melanie says again when they’re both settled. “For—for staying up, I mean. It’s probably really late, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” says Georgie. “But I don’t mind. Are—” She hesitates for a moment. “Are you all right? That sounded like a bad one.”

“I’m okay,” says Melanie. “Or at least, I’m going to be.”

Chapter Text

Melanie lets Georgie drive her to therapy.

The first time, it happens because it’s storming out. Melanie already feels anxious enough traveling alone to her therapist’s office, and with the sky low and gray and wet, lightning flickering through the clouds, it’s hard to convince herself to go at all. But she isn’t going to get better if she doesn’t work at it, and she wants to get better. She does. And Georgie has both flexible working hours and a car.

So she calls Georgie.

One trip turns into two, which turns into three, which turns into many. Melanie’s requests for a ride change from paragraphs of apologies and justifications, to a few sentences, to a handful of words. Georgie always says yes, and never minds.

She always smiles when she sees Melanie. Melanie wonders if she notices that she’s doing it.

Here’s the thing: Melanie doesn’t get along with people. Never has. People call her quick-tempered – hell, she calls herself quick-tempered – but that’s not all it is. The real issue is that it’s hard for her to remember that she occasionally enjoys other people’s company when they keep disappointing her all the time.

That’s not to say that she doesn’t have friends. Or, rather, that she didn’t have friends. She’d been friends with pretty much everyone who worked on Ghost Hunt UK; there had been late nights at each others’ flats after a long day of filming, drinks at the pub every couple of weeks, group texts about everything and nothing on slow afternoons. But even the people she’d liked and felt close to would sometimes forget plans, or break promises, or use a nickname after she’d told them, repeatedly, to stop.

Melanie wonders when it will be Georgie’s turn to get careless. To knock Melanie’s glass-fragile peace of mind to the floor with a missed meet-up, an absentminded word.

She tells herself it’s the questionable sandwich she’d had for lunch that’s making her stomach churn, and directs her thoughts to other things.

Two months pass. Georgie is never late even once.

Once, Melanie leaves the archives a few minutes early, restless after a particularly stressful day. She considers telling Georgie, but decides that Georgie’s probably already on her way, and texting now won’t get her to the Institute any faster. Melanie heads to the lobby in order to wait there, but stops in the doorway at the sight of Georgie in one of the antique armchairs, typing away on her laptop.

“Georgie?”

Georgie looks up. “Oh! Hey, Melanie. I didn’t expect you to be out this early.”

Melanie shrugs. “I figured I could probably get away with it as long as I don’t make it into a habit,” she explains as Georgie leads her out into the evening air. “You’re here early, too.”

“I know you don’t like being late,” is all Georgie says.

Melanie frowns as she buckles her seatbelt. “Wait. Are you here early every time?” Georgie nods. “Why?”

“It’s important to you,” Georgie says, as if that’s a sensible explanation.

“But—I mean, sure, it matters to me, but it’s not important to you,” Melanie protests.

Now it’s Georgie’s turn to frown. “It matters to me that my friends feel like they can trust me.”

“It’s ten minutes!” Melanie snaps, not sure exactly what point she’s trying to make but nevertheless sure that Georgie is missing it. Then she presses her hands against her face. “Sorry. I—I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” says Georgie, a smile coloring her voice ever so faintly. “And—I don’t know whether you meant that ten minutes is a long time to wait or a short time to care about? But what I meant was that I remember how tense you were when you were late out the door that one time, early on. So I figured it would probably be easier for me to get used to answering some of my emails from the Institute lobby than it would be for you to get used to being late to therapy.”

Melanie stews for a minute. “It’s not… about the timing itself, per se,” she says eventually. “It’s more that—I don’t like it when people make me wait. Never have. It always feels like they… forgot I existed, or something. Or like they’re trying to make me look bad in front of other people, if they make me late for something else. I dunno. I know that most of the time it’s not deliberate, but… it still bothers me. I know that doesn’t really make sense, but…”

“It makes sense to me,” says Georgie, to Melanie’s befuddlement. “Will you tell me if there’s anything else that bothers you the same way?” She says it matter-of-factly, eyes still on the road.

“Sure,” says Melanie. 

Here’s the thing: Georgie isn’t Melanie’s only friend. She’s not even the first person to take Melanie’s various idiosyncrasies seriously. But it’s been a long time since someone was so careful with Melanie’s trust, careful enough that Melanie doesn’t even have to think twice about giving it.

It’s a strange thing to get used to. Relying on someone else.

But not, Melanie thinks, a bad thing.

Chapter Text

It’s a good thing I can’t be afraid, Georgie thinks, because otherwise Melanie would probably get annoyed with me.

Melanie hasn’t quite gotten used to using her cane yet, nor has she yet memorized the myriad of tiny landmarks between the house and the nearest row of shops, or the library, or the Tube station. She’s still very new to navigating the streets without sight. But she’s determined to learn, so she goes on a walk every day. Sometimes she asks Georgie to go with her, and sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she makes it back home with no problems, and sometimes she doesn’t.

Today, Melanie arrives home around twenty minutes later than usual. She’d gotten mixed up, she says. Too distracted by her own thoughts to remember how many blocks since the last turn. She hadn’t gotten lost, but she’d had to backtrack until she was sure she knew where she was.

“I’m sort of surprised you didn’t call to ask where I was,” Melanie says over dinner that evening.

Georgie shrugs without thinking about it. Then she says, “I figured it was a temporary mix-up, or that you’d gotten sidetracked by something and would be back before long. I would’ve called in another ten minutes, probably.” And she would have, exactly thirty minutes after she expected Melanie to get home. Not too late, because there’s always the chance it could be something requiring immediate intervention, but not too early, because Melanie has always been prickly, and if there’s one thing she hates, it’s other people seeing her as weak. Thirty minutes is a good compromise, carefully reasoned out. 

It’s lucky that Georgie doesn’t get worried when Melanie comes home late. Having that emotional remove means that she never gets overbearing, never feels tempted to fuss in the way she knows Melanie hates. It’s a good thing.

I hate that I can’t be afraid, Georgie thinks, because I don’t notice things I really should.

The Admiral has been outside for at least two hours, and they can’t find him. Georgie should have realized when she filled his food bowl and he didn’t come running, but the thought that something was wrong hadn’t even occurred to her until Melanie had asked where he was and Georgie hadn’t had an answer.

Georgie isn’t afraid, and Melanie is, and it makes her feel… bad. It feels so wrong not to be worried, not to be able to dredge up a single scrap of concern for her stupid, beloved cat. She just lets Melanie cling on hard enough to make the bones in her hand ache, and keeps looking.

(She spots him napping under a bush in the front garden, content as can be. Melanie fusses over him until she finally falls asleep sitting up, the Admiral still tucked in her arms. Georgie stares at the two of them, her little family, and pokes at the blank space in her head until she gets bored and nods off as well.)

I don’t know how I feel, Georgie thinks. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know how I feel.

Melanie accidentally cuts herself on a knife while washing dishes, and Georgie calmly cleans and bandages the wound while red spills into the sink. A car runs a red light and whooshes through the crosswalk, barely ten centimeters in front of her face, and she keeps walking like nothing happened. A dead woman and a wide-eyed man stalk her dreams, night after night after night, and Georgie feels nothing.

Well, that’s not true. She feels a lot of things. But she never feels afraid.

Georgie decides to put the whole mess from her mind. It’s already been years, and there’s no point in obsessing over something she can’t change. Besides, she has better, more productive, happier things to dwell on now.

She lasts a week before she’s thinking about it again.

Chapter Text

Melanie’s leg aches. 

Not, to be clear, because the wound had never truly healed or any such rubbish. There’s a scar from when the bullet went in, and a bigger scar from when it had come out, but they’re just that—scars. The skin is sealed, the muscle beneath knitted back together. There’s no lingering damage aside from the cosmetic.

It’s just that sometimes, Melanie can feel a void in the place where the bullet used to rest. It doesn’t hurt, exactly; it’s more the memory of pain than pain itself. A ghost.

A ghost of a ghost. It’s a wonder she can feel it at all.

It mostly happens when she’s upset about something: a missed train, or a stranger’s condescension, or sometimes just the slow pace of her recovery. The anger sings within her, but there’s always a missing note. It doesn’t feel righteous anymore. But, even though the drive is missing, the anger remains; it has been the air in her lungs for too long to have vanished completely. She doesn’t think it will ever truly be gone.

But that’s not entirely a bad thing. Anger is a part of being human. And Melanie has never fought for anything in her life the way she has fought to remain human. She just has to make sure she doesn’t get caught up and carried away from the shore.

So when her leg starts to ache – when she starts to feel, very precisely, the place where something is missing – Melanie lets the feeling wash through her like a wave, and then lets the wave roll out to sea. She knows it won’t take her with it. She’s too well-anchored these days.

Chapter Text

On a summery Saturday afternoon in the middle of July, Georgie realizes she’s in over her head. 

The realization has been coming in fits and starts over the past few months, a bit here, a bit there. Melanie stretches after a longish car ride, and Georgie’s eye is drawn to the curve of her back, the way her hair is caught up in the breeze. Melanie cracks a joke about a book they’ve both read, and Georgie laughs and laughs. Melanie works through the menu of Georgie’s favorite restaurant until she finds something she likes, and Georgie is so happy to finally have an interesting conversation over dinner.

And then, finally, it arrives all at once: Melanie is over at Georgie’s house, for no particular reason other than to spend time with a friend, and the Admiral curls up in her lap and starts purring, and she smiles down at him, and they’re both bathed in golden sunshine, and a tiny dimple winks from Melanie’s cheek, and Georgie thinks I am in love with you.

And it’s nothing like falling, except for how she feels totally weightless, and it’s nothing like drowning, except for how she suddenly can’t breathe.

She has to excuse herself for a minute.

In the bathroom, Georgie splashes cold water on her face, avoiding her own gaze in the mirror. It’s been—well. It’s been a long time. She doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. She can’t remember how this is supposed to go.

“Georgie? Everything all right?”

“I’m fine,” George calls back. She takes another deep breath, dries her face, and ventures back into the living room. 

Melanie’s brows are wrinkled in concern. “You sure? You looked a little… out of sorts.”

Georgie can feel the heat threatening to work its way back onto her cheeks, so she drops her gaze to her own hands. “Yeah, I’m all right,” she tells them. “Just—needed a minute.”

There’s a faint thump as the Admiral hops to the ground, and then Melanie rests one hand on Georgie’s shoulder. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you looked nervous,” she jokes, but her voice is unusually gentle.

Well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“That’s probably because I am,” says Georgie, not a little sheepishly. The feeling is blunted, of course, but Georgie is still very much unsure of the answer she’ll get, and very aware that blundering now could be disastrous.

“Really? What for?”

Georgie peeps up at Melanie, whose eyebrows are still pinched in concern. “I’m about to ask you something, and I’m nervous about what you’ll say back?”

“Well,” says Melanie, concern smoothing away, a familiar mischievous glint in her eye. Perhaps Georgie hasn’t been as subtle as she’d thought. “It sounds like you should ask me, then, and get it over with.”

Georgie takes a deep breath, a diver poised on the precipice. “Will you go out with me? To dinner? On a date, I mean,” she asks, managing not to stutter, though not quite managing a smooth sentence. Her face feels warm again.

Melanie’s teeth gleam with reflected sunlight as she smiles, wide and lovely, and Georgie’s breath is going, going, gone. “I’d love to.”

Chapter Text

Melanie is lying full-length on the sofa, the back of her head resting on Georgie’s lap, when Georgie asks, “Do you remember our first kiss?”

Melanie blinks up at her. The lamp in the corner is on, but the overhead light isn’t, so Georgie’s face is half in shadow. It makes her look mysterious, a half-moon rising over the horizon of… of… 

Hmmm. Metaphors are hard when she’s sleepy.

“Melanie?”

“Hi,” says Melanie. 

Georgie chuckles. “Do you remember our first kiss?” she repeats. 

Melanie struggles up into a sitting position, leaning against Georgie’s shoulder. “What, d’you mean last month?” Last month, Georgie had asked her out (thank god, Melanie had wanted to make a move for ages but hadn’t been sure Georgie was interested), and they’d had a lovely dinner in a nice restaurant a few streets over from Melanie’s flat, and Georgie had walked her home, and they’d kissed, shyly, before saying goodnight. It had been a beautiful reprieve from the awful mess that is Melanie’s life at the moment, and Melanie still gets a touch giddy when she thinks about it. Not that she’d ever admit that to anyone, mind.

Oh, whoops, Georgie is talking. Melanie tunes back in.

“—the rest of the Ghost Hunt UK folks were already a little tipsy, and I didn’t know them very well, so I stepped out,” Georgie is saying. What? “I think you were the designated driver? Anyway, I don’t think they noticed that either of us were gone for too long.”

Oh! That first kiss.

“Yeah, I remember,” says Melanie. “What was that, five years ago?” Georgie had made a guest appearance on Melanie’s show, and they’d all gone out for drinks afterwards. Melanie had stepped out for some fresh air partway through the evening, and found Georgie outside, watching the sunset. She can’t quite recall the particulars of their conversation – the memory is blurred by the intervening years – but she remembers that, on Georgie’s request, she’d stood on tiptoe and laid one on her. Georgie had blushed profusely and touched a hand to her lips as if to preserve the feeling there. 

“Wow.” Melanie laughs. “Why didn’t that go anywhere? That setup was, like. Stupidly romantic.”

“I think one of your friends called us both back inside right afterwards,” says Georgie with a smile. “Can’t remember what for, though.”

“Neither can I,” says Melanie. “But I do remember that I wanted to ask if you wanted to do that again for weeks afterward. Never felt like the right time, though.”

“Mmm.” Georgie lightly bumps her shoulder against Melanie’s. “Good thing we figured it out eventually.”

“Yeah,” says Melanie, reaching up to cradle the side of Georgie’s face in one hand. Leaning in. “Good thing indeed.”

Chapter Text

Melanie leaves her follow-up appointment bandage-free, with clear plastic shells under her eyelids.

“I’m supposed to get long-term prosthetics in a few weeks,” says Melanie conversationally as she and Georgie of them walk to the car, Melanie’s hand resting lightly on Georgie's forearm. “They’re based on a photo of me from before. I thought about asking for ones that don’t look like regular eyes at all, but I figured I’d go unobtrusive to start out with. I can still feel it when people stare.”

George hmmms agreeably as she leads Melanie to the passenger-side door. “Here’s the car door, right ahead of you,” she says, letting her arm go slack as Melanie reaches forward, fingers splayed. (Tell her when there’s a door ahead, but don’t open it for her unless she asks.) Once inside, Melanie takes a moment to situate her purse in her lap, poking through the pockets, making sure that the two foil packets of pills and the small nozzle-tipped plastic bottle are safely inside. Georgie fusses with the keys until Melanie is done.

When they arrive home, Melanie drops her bag on the floor and herself on the overstuffed armchair by the door. The Admiral immediately comes over to greet her. Georgie moves to nudge Melanie’s purse out of the way with her foot, and then stops herself. (Don’t move things without telling her, especially furniture or things she’s currently using.) “Can I hang up your purse?” she asks instead.

“Oh, let me do that,” Melanie answers, reaching down to grab it. “Gotta figure out where I’m going to put the new meds, and all.” 

They putter companionably around the house for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Melanie has a spot of trouble aiming the eyedrop bottle at first, but she manages without too much difficulty.

“Good thing these ones aren’t prescription,” Melanie says with a chuckle as she tucks the bottle away in the drawer of her nightstand, where the Admiral won’t be tempted to investigate the exciting new object. “I have a feeling it’s going to take me a while to get used to applying them.”

Georgie smiles. Knowing it will come across in her voice, she says, “Kiss goodnight?” 

(Don’t startle her. If you’re doing more than getting her attention, make sure she knows first.)

Melanie doesn’t answer out loud, just leans vaguely forward, head tilted back. Georgie leans down to meet her.

Repetition begets habit. Georgie continues practicing until her new courtesies are second nature.

Chapter Text

“I know how to quit,” is the first thing Melanie says when she comes in the door.

“Oh?” says Georgie before the words have quite caught up with her. Then she looks up sharply. “Wait—really?”

“Yeah,” says Melanie. She moves as if to sit down in the armchair by the door, but stands back up halfway through and begins pacing. “It’s pretty—drastic. But if I do it, I can leave. For real. I wouldn’t even have to set foot in the building, ever again.”

“Drastic how?” Georgie’s not sure she likes the sound of that, grateful though she is for the good news. Hopefully whatever it is won’t be life-threatening, at least—

Melanie stops pacing and turns to face her, but her hands still twist around each other, trying to release the frantic energy that has her so animated. “I’d have to go blind. I’d have to blind myself.”

Georgie takes a long breath in, and a long breath out. “I guess that makes sense, in a messed-up kind of way,” she says eventually.

“Yeah,” says Melanie. “That's part of why I think it’ll work. I mean, I’m pretty sure, because one of the archival assistants from a while ago managed the same thing, apparently. But it helps that it feels right.”

That’s news. “Someone else made it out?”

Melanie winces. “Well, he died afterwards. But it was unrelated. Or—if not totally unrelated, it was at least not because of complications, or because he botched it, or anything. And I don’t think I have anyone who’d want to kill me, if I left the Institute? Not if I stayed out of everything, kept my nose clean.”

Georgie and Melanie stare at each other for a minute, sharing a silent moment of disbelief at the strange turns their lives have taken of late. Then Melanie says, “I want… I think I want to do it. It’ll be—I mean, it’ll be a big adjustment. For me. I’d need to have—friends. Help. Of course I won’t—I’m not going to ask you to be my, my caretaker or anything. I mean, it’s just my sight, it’s not like I’m going to be helpless.”

“Of course,” says Georgie quickly. “And of course I’ll be there for you. Any way I can.”

Melanie finally collapses into the chair, her animation suddenly draining away. “Shit. I’m really going to do this, aren’t I?” She takes a shuddering breath and nods to herself. “Yeah. I think I am.”

“Should we, er. Make a plan?” asks Georgie, privately marveling at how fast things are changing. 

“Probably,” says Melanie. “But not right now? I want to have some time to… get used to the idea, I guess.”

“Sure,” says Georgie. They both sit in silence for another little while. Then Georgie stands, walks over towards Melanie, tugs her to her feet by the hand. “Hey. You’re going to get out of there.”

Melanie’s eyes turn bright and glossy with tears, but there’s nothing in her smile but relief. “I’m going to be free.”

Chapter Text

Georgie calls, right on schedule, just as Melanie steps through the front door. Melanie has to juggle her phone, keys, and purse until she can finally set them all down. The Admiral, adorable nuisance that he is, seems determined to trip her. When she finally does stumble over him, he has the audacity to start whining for food.

Georgie scolds him in between gales of laughter. Melanie listens fondly as she digs out the cat food and refills his bowl.

Melanie doesn’t settle in too much—she’s not really house-sitting, just making sure the Admiral is well-fed and not too lonely, and she’ll have to head home before too much longer if she wants to make it back by nightfall. But it’s so nice to sit here in Georgie’s cozy sitting room, even if Georgie herself is present only virtually as she recounts the events of the day. 

There’s a lull eventually, when Georgie is done talking. Melanie doesn’t have much to offer in return; her day was spent in a small basement room, whiling away the hours with a book that was only engaging enough to hold her attention because it was better than either playing the same three phone games for eight hours straight, or else doing literally nothing.

“I wish you could’ve come with me,” says Georgie after a little while, voice crackling over the tinny phone speaker. “I mean, I would still be busy pretty much all day. But I think you’d like it here.”

Melanie flops backwards with a sigh. “Yeah.”

“Do you really have no paid leave? I mean, I know the Institute is evil, but you’d think they’d at least try and avoid flagrant labor law violations.”

“In theory, I do,” says Melanie. “It’s just that we have to get it personally approved by the head of the Institute. And the current head is notorious for never returning phone calls or emails, or indeed being in the building.”

“And he doesn’t have an assistant or something?”

Melanie scowls. “He’s getting to be just as bad, these days. I did try sending an email and then just taking the time off without getting a reply, but I started to feel horribly ill two days in and decided I’d better not push my luck.” She groans. “God, I wish I could quit.”

That brings the mood down precipitously. Georgie doesn’t apologize for bringing the topic up, but Melanie can sense the regret in the set of her shoulders and jaw. A minute or two passes in silence.

But, oddly enough, the company actually helps, a little. By the time Melanie glances out the window and realizes that she needs to get moving, she’s in a good enough mood to smile as she says goodbye.

Chapter Text

“You know, it’s sort of funny,” Melanie says.

“Really?” Georgie asks, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “All the reviews said it was sort of scary.”

Melanie rolls her eyes – fondly, of course – and gently shoves her. Georgie laughs. “No, I mean, this. Us, watching a horror film. You’d think I’d be sick of them, or something, given… everything.”

“You’re not, though?” Georgie’s gaze is intent and piercing as always, but she’s one of a very small number of people who Melanie can stand to be looked at by for more than ten seconds nowadays without getting antsy. 

“Nope,” says Melanie. “Actually, it’s kind of relaxing, in a weird way. I’m so used to scary stories being real that it’s sort of – cathartic, I guess? – to see a fake one.” Melanie stops talking for a minute as the noise from the television rises, then falls. “So, how about you?”

“Hmmm?” Georgie glances away from the screen again to meet her gaze.

“Thoughts on horror films? Since, obviously…”

“Since they don’t scare me?” Georgie’s gaze goes distant. “I dunno. I guess I don’t like or dislike horror in particular? I’m not too fond of the more gory examples of the genre, but most of the time, it doesn’t even really register to me whether something’s horror or not.”

Melanie chuckles. “See, from anyone else, that would sound like a boast.”

Georgie laughs too. “Oh, you have no idea. I’ve gotten accused of bragging so many times. I pretty much gave up going to the cinema with friends my final year of uni. Everyone always wanted to go to the scariest thing that was showing, even if it wasn’t any good, just to try and get a reaction out of me.”

“Oh? Did they ever succeed?” Melanie means it as a joke, but she’s surprised when Georgie nods.

“Sometimes, yeah.” At Melanie’s raised eyebrow, she elaborates. “Not because I faked being afraid or anything. It’s just that a lot of the films they dragged me to were disturbing in ways that didn’t have anything to do with being scary.” Melanie makes a face, and Georgie laughs. “A lot of those friendships improved after I put my foot down.”

“I can imagine,” says Melanie.

“There were a few who I ended up cutting off around that time, though,” Georgie adds. “Mostly the ones who wouldn’t believe I wasn’t scared even when I let them feel my pulse as a lark.”

“Jerks,” says Melanie, and then, “I don’t know why it surprises me that your heartbeat wouldn’t react. It makes sense.”

“Want to listen?”

Melanie is about to protest that she doesn’t need proof, but then she notices that Georgie is making the soft expression she always has when she asks for a hug or a kiss. “I suppose I could listen. For science.”

It takes a minute to get settled, not least because Georgie has trouble quelling a fit of giggles at that reply. But once her laughter has eased and Melanie’s ear is settled below her collarbone, Georgie’s heart settles into a slow rhythm, steady as a mountain. 

(Melanie drifts off to sleep shortly afterwards and misses the rest of the film. She can’t be too disappointed, though. It’s more than a fair trade.)

Chapter Text

It’s a beautiful day out, and the birds are singing, and the scent of flowers hangs delicately in the early summer air, and Melanie is in Hell.

When she and Georgie had reconnected, after Melanie’s coworkers had… intervened in her condition, Melanie had been a twitchy, anxious mess. Every time something touched her unexpectedly, she would flinch; every time something hurt her unexpectedly, she would shriek. Even uncomfortably-textured clothes could set her off, on bad days. Georgie had learned very quickly to keep a buffer of at least six inches between them at all times.

It had been frustrating, not to mention deeply humiliating. She’d used to pride herself on her levelheadedness, her ability to stay in command of her faculties even when she was afraid. She’s not even close to that level of self-assurance anymore, and she isn’t sure she ever will be again.

But even if she’s not there yet – even if she never gets there – she’s getting better, slowly but surely. She hasn’t flinched away from human contact – well, anticipated human contact, anyway – in months.

Incidentally, it’s been much longer than that since the last time another person so much as shook her hand. Melanie could really, really use a hug.

Unfortunately, none of the friends who she’s been working on getting back in touch with lately live anywhere nearby, so the only friend she sees in person these days is Georgie.

Unfortunately, Georgie is the most considerate person Melanie has ever known, and will probably never touch her again unless she specifically asks for it.

Unfortunately, just thinking about the fact that she’s apparently touch-starved, of all things, is excruciating. The thought of asking someone else to hug her makes her want to climb out of her own skin. (Ha.)

Which brings her back to the present: she’s sitting on a park bench, and it’s nice out, and Georgie is right there, and Melanie can’t say a goddamn word. As usual.

Caught between the rock of continuing to stew in her own frustration and the hard place of trying for emotional vulnerability without being prompted, Melanie takes her favorite third option: she wraps her arms around herself and hunches over, trying to quell the nebulous ache that’s been plaguing her since April.

“Melanie? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Melanie grumbles, the years-old desire to avoid being seen as weak temporarily overriding her common sense. Then she sighs.

“Are you sure?”

Melanie shakes her head.

“Do you… need something?” Georgie asks. Her tone is gentle, but more than that, it’s earnest. If Melanie says yes, Georgie will try to help. If Melanie says no, Georgie will leave her alone. Either way, she won’t make a big deal out of it, or worse, make fun.

Melanie rallies herself for battle, and then scoots over half a foot and leans her shoulder against Georgie’s. 

“Oh,” says Georgie, then “Do you… is it okay if I give you a hug?”

Even though she’s not the one asking, it’s still bizarrely difficult to admit what she wants. She doesn’t manage to say it out loud, but she does, eventually, manage a nod.

The relief when Georgie’s arms wrap around her shoulders is sharper than any knife. Melanie sniffles and reaches up to scrub away a single traitorous tear before it can drip off her face.

“Thanks,” Melanie mumbles after a minute, making no move to pull away.

“Of course,” says Georgie, a smile in her voice. “Anytime.”

Chapter Text

Melanie slowly comes to realize that she has never, in all her life, known anyone quite like Georgie.

When Melanie first notices Georgie’s subtle magnetism, the gravity that makes her feel like the center of any room, she assumes that it’s down to charisma. And that’s certainly part of it—Georgie is very charming when she wants to be. But Melanie’s been hanging around ghost hunters and paranormal investigators for most of her adult life, and in order to maintain a career among that crowd, you have to know how to handle people, how to perform. So it’s not—well, of course it has an effect on Melanie, the whole point is that Georgie knows how to make an impression on people—but it’s nothing unique. Nothing Melanie hasn’t seen in at least half a dozen other acquaintances over the course of her life.

Whatever it is that makes something inside Melanie sit up and pay attention is more subtle.

She’s just… so steadfast. Even when she’s tired, or upset, or frustrated, there’s a steadiness to her that never falters. An unshakeable poise and grace. She never lashes out; she’s never cruel. The world could come crashing down around her ears, and she’d be just as good a person even in the thick of it.

Melanie knows Georgie well enough by now to realize that it’s not nearly as effortless as it looks. She’s seen the effort that Georgie puts into the deft way she manages her feelings, born out of care and practice and more than a few years of therapy. Her kindness, her compassion, her refusal to give in to small-mindedness and spite—it’s all the product of hard work. 

But, Melanie muses, even if it’s not supernatural, it’s still impressive. In fact, it would probably be less impressive if it were a supernatural talent. It’s easy to let something else control you. It’s harder to guard against your own worse nature. But in the end, that’s what goodness is, isn’t it? The quiet, often-thankless task of holding yourself to your own standards, even when it’s tiring, even when giving in would be the easiest thing in the world.

And—well. Melanie’s never been one for flights of fancy. She doesn’t wax poetic. But sometimes she wonders, when the light comes through the window just right, illuminating just the edges of Georgie’s curly hair like a crown, like a halo, if the universe doesn’t have a sense of humor.