Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Drip, drip, drip. 

Slowly overflowing with warm water, a bathtub. 

Bathroom tiles, covered whole in water. 

Herbal scents fill the air. 

Drip, drip, drip.

A dropped knife, sitting in a puddle of scented water. 

The water is covering your ankles by now. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

A limp body, lying still on the tiles. 

A clean towel, turning pink from the blood and water.

Blood flowing freely from a symbol on your chest, covering everything. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

Dead, yellow eyes consuming you whole. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

Faroe's head shot up from her desk, heart pounding in her ears. She hasn't had this kind of nightmare for quite a while, seeing how those horrid events had gone down a good 7 years now. The stray tears falling from her face were no surprise either, and she supposed that she hadn't found the closure she was looking for yet.  

More curious was how she fell asleep at her desk again. She rubbed at her eyes, wiping away the few tears on her cheeks, and looked up to the clock hung beside the desk. 5:15 pm. Oh. She must have fallen asleep at her desk again. Well, she supposed, there was no use in just sitting around, and she got up, shaking the nightmare and dread from her limbs. 

Art by: glassheartofgold

The clutter on her desk didn’t look any better from atop, but it was a functioning system. If someone was to ask her where she put a specific file, she would know exactly where it was, probably with better precision than anyone trying to make sense of the office’s filing system. 

Drowsily, she made her way through the office to the kitchenette, in desperate search for coffee. On her way, she passed by Parker’s desk and pressed a soft kiss onto his head. He looked up at her, slightly confused, but finally smiled at her. 

“Good morning, sleepy head. I tried to wake you, but you were fast asleep like a rock.” His voice revealed a soft air of playfulness that she knew from him all too well. He was in a good mood, and there was nothing she could say to take that from him. 

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and grunted, burying her head in the crook of his neck. Parker sighed. “Another one of those dreams?” 

She nodded, and buried her head further in his comfort. Parker pulled her into a close embrace, chasing away the last awful feelings from her head. His arms were the kind you could stay in forever, knowing that you are loved. He may not be her father, but he's the best person who could have taken care of her, and she loved his presence from the bottom of her heart. 

"Hey, sweetheart, let's get you some coffee and lay off from work for a bit, okay? You've been doing more than enough as of late, and you deserve it." Faroe picked herself up, and looked deeply into Parker's shining green eyes, strands of blonde hair falling across his eyes. A soft smile grazed his lips, and she smiled right back at him. 

“I would absolutely love to, but I still need to finish the toxicology report by Friday, Parker.” 

He raised a finger, as if to shush her, and interjected. 

"But! You need the rest as well, don't you? I know how heavy it still lies on your chest, and you won't get anywhere while you feel like this. Come on, now." He pulled her arms from his shoulders, got up from his comfortable office chair and made his way to the kitchenette, gesturing towards Faroe to follow her. 

She giggled softly, and followed him. She knew that she couldn't say no to the way he treated her, and despite the fact that Peter Yang never had a child of his own, he made damn sure that Faroe felt like she was of his own blood. 

With a steaming hot cup of coffee in hand, they shuffled up on the couch in their office and let the afternoon sun warm the both of them from the outside while the drink warmed them from the inside. The golden hues of sunlight streaming through the window painted the old desks, the worn bookshelves, and the large wall filled with newspaper clippings from Parker’s latest case into a warm, cozy atmosphere. 

Faroe lay there for a few moments on the couch, well protected in Parker’s arms, and finished her drink. Once more, she stretched into the warm, comfortable couch, basking in the comfortable home she had made with Parker, and gathered the strength to get up and back to her assignment. 

As she got up, Parker held onto her hand for a moment. “Promise me something, Faroe.” 

She turned her head towards him and looked apprehensively. 

“Don’t overwork yourself, alright? I can remember just too well how much these due dates seem to press on, but you shouldn’t forget your own wellbeing. I can remember the nights your father would spend hours upon hours cooped up behind a desk, not seeing the daylight for weeks at a time, and I don’t want you to end up the same, alright?” 

Faroe perked up. Parker rarely talked about her father, and the genuine concern in Parker’s voice made her heart ache. 

“I promise, I won’t overwork myself.” 

She planted another kiss on Parker’s head, and made her way back to her desk, the warmth and comfort still radiating from within. She settled in, grabbed her fountain pen, opened her copy of “Legal Medicine and Toxicology” and got to work. 

A few days later, Faroe heard a knock on the office door. She was pulled from her thoughts while storing away files, and nearly dropped them in surprise. It was Saturday, so there shouldn’t be any clients coming over today. The only other conclusions she could come to were either that Eddie, the maintenance man, came by to check on the pipes, or a delivery, which seemed even less likely than the social recluse actually doing his job well. 

She sighed, put away the files, and walked over to the door. She let her hand hover over the doorknob for a second, gathered her composure, and turned it. 

Outside the door, the gaping absence of Eddie, or really of anyone, met her. Even if there was a delivery made to their office, the mailman should have stayed to deliver the package. Her foot struck something hard, and she let out a curse, bemoaning the fate of her pinky toe. 

The parcel on the floor looked absolutely inconspicuous. It held a simple rectangular shape, and the stamps on the brown paper told of the sender: J. D. Ackerman Rare Books. The lack of a return address spoke volumes of the mystery hiding behind this plain delivery, and Faroe’s eyes brightened with excitement. Who sent this book to them? What book was sent to them? Why did someone drop this off without wanting to be associated with the delivery? These thoughts were racing through her mind as she picked up the heavy book, anticipation burning away any hesitation. 

“Parker, there’s a parcel at the door!” she called out across the office as he let the door slide shut behind her. 

From across the office, she quietly heard Parker answer. “Go ahead and open it, I’ll be right there!”

Once she arrived at her desk, she dropped the parcel. For a few more seconds, she pondered the packaging, before deciding that there was absolutely no reason to hold back. 

The paper quickly gave way under her curious fingers, tearing through the paper with practiced ease. What waited for her under the paper though made her heart freeze in her chest. 

The book itself was bound in an unassuming brown leather binding, and the pages had weathered throughout the many years this book clearly had faced. Under her fingers, the leather seemed to shift and change, sending chills through her spine. What actually caught her attention was the symbol clearly burnt into the front. Proudly displayed were three lines, shifting around two intertwined circles. The symbol that haunted her dreams. The same symbol that adorned her chest, the symbol that was carved into her with the knife she carried with her at every step. 

She dropped the book back onto the table. Was this a joke, some elaborate prank to be pulled on her? Who could possibly know what happened to her all those years ago? Her head was spinning. Not even Parker had ever gotten a closer look at the large scar adorning her chest, and this carving looked rather intricate and close to reality. A numb sensation spread across her fingers and her lungs were seizing up. 

In her daze, she picked up the book. The second time around, it seemed even heavier and solid, much like a brick, and the odd sensation the leather left on her fingers seemed even more fluid and sticky than before. She let her fingers softly glide along the carved symbol in disbelief, feeling every groove that she knew every winding twist of, and rested her hands on the inside of the pages. 

Obviously, it occurred to her that opening such an odd book that defied all reasonable expectations was the worst thing that Faroe ever could have come up with, but then again, someone clearly must have sent this book with some sort of intent to their office, most likely to send a message to her. Her unrelenting curiosity tingled in her fingertips, and her anger for how someone could do this was right beside it in her chest, so any further consideration fell away in that moment, and she opened the book. 

The paper was even more worn on the inside than the outside conveyed, and the writing was.. more than just strange. Through her studies at Miskatonic University, she had read many books about ciphers and hidden messages, but she had never seen anything like this. The writing was sharp and crisp, yet seemed to be crudely etched upon the paper. The ink it was written (carved?) with was of a deep crimson, not having weathered away nearly as consistently as the page around it. If she didn’t know any better, she would have said that the pages formed around the words. But, even stranger yet, were the sketched out shapes of creatures beyond any imagination. 

One page depicted a fish-like creature with humanoid protrusions, claws long enough to slice through its own arms, seemingly about to leap out of the page at her face. Another showed a creature reminiscent of a featherless bird with wings acting as clawed arms, poised and ready to attack, and a long, sharp beak filled to the brim with sharp teeth. A blob-like thing, standing on tiny, stub-like legs, with long, hair-like tentacles sprouting from its bulbous head danced across the page with jaws opened in an impossible angle. 

She kept skimming through the book until she found an oddity. One of the pages was written in what appeared to be liquid gold, and her heart sank even further. She knew this shade of yellow. It stared out of her father’s dead eyes all those years ago, the same way the color was staring up at her now. As she tried to make sense of the writing once more, the writing suddenly started burning. A pain shot through her head, and she clutched her eyes, dropping the book in the act. 

Faroe cried out in pain. A stinging, hot feeling pushed its way into her very skull, leaving her struggling against the searing sensation of nerves being severed. Through the gaps between her fingers, she could make out the color softly swathing from the book, heading even further towards her. Imprints of the letters in the book were burning on her eyes, and the cloud of color shot forward. Through the fog of pain, she tried desperately to scurry away into a corner, but to no avail. The cloud moved fast, faster than a gust of wind, until it connected with her eyes. 

The cloud drowned out every bit of color and light around her until at first, until the pungent yellow darkened more and more, and steadily pushed at her sanity. She felt as though her consciousness was being folded up into a neat little shape, crushed together, only to be stuffed away in a far off corner, leaving her powerless and insignificant. Absolute darkness was all that she could make out around her. She felt how numbness spread through her limbs like frost settling on a cold window, consuming her everyf iber of being, until nothing but void enveloped her, drawing her into the gaping maws of oblivion.