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It’s hard to know what to say. It’s hard to know what to do. Melanie could have just sent a text or called, at least to prepare Georgie for a visit. But she was too cowardly, too afraid, to do that. So she stands outside of Georgie’s flat instead. She just stares at the door. The door stares back.
She’s really starting to hate doors.
Melanie has never been good at that whole relationship thing. Before the Institute, she was always traveling for her show, always looking for the next ghost story. And there had been hook ups. Dates. Her and Georgie sharing a bottle and not using cups because they had already swapped saliva by then.
And then there had been John.
And there had been something real and truly frightening out there.
And there had been ghosts that could shoot.
And there had been a job and anger and the utter violation of having her body and mind trying to go in separate directions, the buzzing under her skin that kept her going and going and going. To kill and hurt and maim.
It hadn’t been a good time for Georgie.
The door opens suddenly, and speak of the damn devil. She’s standing before her, bag over her shoulder, sporting a “What the Ghost?” shirt. Her eyes are wide, mouth puckered up as her surprise registers who is at her door.
Melanie’s fists are clenched at her side. “Hey.”
“Hey.” One of her eyebrows arches. “What are you doing here?”
It’s been about a week since Sims dug that bullet out of her leg, and while there’s still anger and violence that ripples inside of her, it’s muted now. She can feel things that aren’t all Slaughter. Except there’s an emptiness that resides inside of her, a hole that’s been scooped out and left her bare. She wants to tell Georgie that she’s here because she needs help and that she’s missed her friend, that she’s made some questionable decisions, that she wants to burn the Institute to the ground, that she loves her.
But when Melanie tries to say any of those words, her tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of her mouth, Her bottom lip quivers.
For the first time in months, Melanie cries. She cries for the loss of Tim and for Basira’s pain and for her own inability to stop Elias. She cries because she hates Jonathon Sims and she hates that Georgie was there for him when he was in his coma. She cries for Georgie, who doesn’t understand any of the things she’s fucking gone through.
Georgie’s sigh is soft, but it rings in Melanie’s ears as she reaches out and gathers the mess of a woman into her arms. Melanie falls right into her. It’s horrifying to be so vulnerable. One hand is around her waist, while the other begins stroking Melanie’s unbrushed, unwashed hair. Gentle, loving, comforting.
“I’m so fucked,” Melanie says, accompanied by a hitch in her breath. “I’m so fucked, Georgie.”
“What’s wrong?”
What isn’t wrong?
There are a million things she could say. She could tell her every dark, brutal event. Every horrendous thought she’s had. Every plan that failed to kill her boss. The things Elias had whispered to her.
A shudder runs through Melanie.
“I need you,” she says instead. She presses a wet, and likely snotty, kiss to Georgie’s neck. She doesn’t want to talk about it yet. Don’t make her talk about it yet.
“Oh, Mels.” Georgie takes a step back, cupping Melanie’s face between her hands. Her touch is warm and soft and everything the Institute isn’t.
“I need help,” she admits in the tiniest voice she’s ever heard come from her. “And I don’t want you to hate me.”
“Well…” Her hands drop and she takes a step back, leaving room for Melanie to come in. “I’m rightfully pissed off.”
“I know how that feels.”