Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

February 7th

—

It’s only a matter of time until they find out.  

The thought was far from infrequently in Jon’s brain, and crossed yet again his mind as he threw another half melted pen in the trash. Really, did it have to be his dominant hand ? 

Pestering against his curse was no use, he knew that, but he couldn’t help the anger, sometimes. And it was best to direct it on that rather than his assistants. 

At least, he was alone in his office, and the Archives were almost empty. 

Tim was doing fieldwork, and Martin was out on his lunch break, which left Sasha alone in the bullpen. And judging by the lack of knocking on his door, she hadn’t noticed the scent of burned plastic that made him wrinkle his nose. Really, how could he be so careless ? You’d think that after so many years, he’d learn to control it, but no. 

He held back a sigh and opened the bottom drawer on his desk, where he left his rather extensive collection of spare pens. Not that it was unnecessary, of course, given the number of times where he almost lost control. 

He went back to work, pushing aside the nagging fear of discovery ever clawing at his mind and concentrating instead on not burning the statement in front of him, even if it was a pile of garbage. 

—

It’s only a matter of time until they find out.  

Martin wanted to push aside the thought, but he knew how true that was. After all, it had been years, and he knew that his safety was relative – and illusory. 

And when his lie fell apart, well… 

It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been discovered at the beginning, after all. Back then, he had nothing to lose, as opposed to now, when he had everything.

A job, a flat (even if it was largely overpriced), a social life. A family (even if it was a strange one, and technically not human enough to be considered that). If he was discovered, he would lose all that, and then… He didn’t want to think about what would happen then. 

He hadn’t noticed he was absentmindedly scratching the back of his hand until the black mould living inside him screamed that he hurt it. 

He bit his lip, resisting the urge to apologise – not here, not in public, oh God he was so careless, people would look at him and he would be discovered – and pulled the sleeve of his jumper to cover the wound. 

He hadn’t meant to hurt the mould, really. He knew it loved him, and he loved it back of all his being. It was his, and thanks to it he wasn’t lonely. 

He held back a sigh of relief as he felt the song the mould sung to him shift to tell him that it was okay, that it would repair the skin, and that he was still a good home to it. 

—

It’s only a matter of time until they find out,

Tim thinks as he wipes the blood off his hands. Really, it’s gross. His least preferred aspect of… feeding, even if he hates thinking of it like that. 

He doesn’t think about the time when the mere thought of killing something would make him gag. 

He isn’t sure as to when he started to refer to it as feeding. Maybe when he realised that the uncomfortable feeling, the need for Hunting, was like a hunger he needed to satisfy. 

He looks down on the corpse at his feet. Urg. Why did he chase one of those bodybuilders, really. He should have gone after a clown. They don’t even imitate humans enough to have blood. 

His fieldwork that day hadn’t taken much time. Just a small breaking and entering, a few photos to take, he’d collected enough evidence to discredit the case in less than an hour. Didn’t even had to flee the police. 

Which left him enough time to go on a quick Hunt. 

Part of him regrets what he has become. Longs from the humanity he has lost. Another part of him says that it’s fine, that it was the only way he could have avenged his brother.

The last part of his screams that it wasn’t enough, that he needs to Hunt more, that he wants to feel the blood on his hands and the crack of bones beneath his teeth, the flesh tearing under his claws and the fear in their eyes as they look up to him as he is about to kill them like the preys they are. 

He shuts that part down, and goes back to cleaning himself. 

—

It’s only a matter of time until they find out.  

Sasha knows that very much, and that scares her. But from now, she is alone in the bullpen, and Jon is in his office with the door closed, so she indulges and turns off the light. 

Immediately, the tension in her body melts and she relaxes in the shadows. 

She knows it is a dangerous game she is playing, that she drastically increases the chances of her being discovered, but sometimes she can’t help it. Ever since Artefact Storage, the light had stopped to be a reassurance and became an enemy. 

Sometimes, she wonders if she has become like the monster under her bed. 

Honestly, it is a bit ironic, after all. She had come to the Institute to investigate paranormal phenomena, and ended up becoming one. That, and the fact that she successfully hid her supernatural nature to people supposed to be studying it for years. 

She feels more than she hears Martin coming back, and she rushes to turn the light back on. One day she won’t be paying enough attention and be discovered, but not today. She smiles lightly at the man when he enters the bullpen, and hides her wince at the harsh bright lights. 

—

Jon is not stupid, and, despite what most seems to believe, he isn’t oblivious either. 

So yes, Jon has noticed some… peculiarities, among his assistants. 

Of course, nothing on the same level as his curse, as he deemed it. He refuses to acknowledge it as anything better than than, a curse, a problem, something he wishes he could get rid of, and not something like a god-gifted power like people in the statements seem to believe. 

But there are things going on. Of course, he doesn’t believe his coworkers are monsters. No, they aren’t on the same level as him. He was human, until Jurgen Leitner and his goddamned library decided to ruin his life a second time. It was ironic, really, how he had gotten rid of the first book by burning it, and how the second book had responded by burning him instead.

But no, his coworkers were perfectly normal humans, they simply had their particularities, and it was his job, as their boss, to try to accommodate things and try to make their lives in the Archives as easy as possible. At least, that’s what he tells himself to dim the guilt overwhelming him everytime he snaps at them. 

Tim had sensitive hearing. Martin had frequent coughing fits, and probably respiratory problems. Sasha had migraines that forced her to dim or turn off the lights. 

None of them had brought up any issues with him, but he knew that both by deduction and by knowing them for a long time – except Martin, but his problem was easy to deduce. 

It also seemed that the man was reluctant to bring up the issue, probably by fear of being fired. He was clearly insecure about that and the quality of his work, something Jon reminded him of frequently. It wasn’t even that he particularly disliked the man, just that there was something in him that made Jon wish that the man would just choke on his overly sweet tea. 

Jon himself had his issues, of course, but it wasn’t like he would bring them up either. 

And his were hardly as simple as theirs. Really, what could he tell them ? 

Hello, I wanted to inform all of you that I am cursed, and that I am therefore both very dangerous to be near and prone to anger. Also, don’t mind the half melted pens in my trash bin, it’s normal. 

No, that was ridiculous. He couldn’t – and he wouldn’t – tell them. 

So he went back to work, ignoring his urge to destroy something.

It’s only a matter of time.

Chapter Text

February 20th

—

Martin’s leg was bouncing with nervous energy as he sat on the tube, eyes sometimes glancing up to make sure he didn’t miss his station. Today, he was going to meet up with a friend. 

He hadn’t seen her in a long time, and she moved frequently. Her landlord hadn’t appreciated her worms spreading and infesting the building, and had tried to bring an exterminator. In the end, she was forced to move out regardless, as her building had burned – killing said landlord in the process. He wouldn’t say that he was glad the man was no longer alive, but he wasn’t as bothered as he would have been in other circumstances. 

Apparently, being a Hive for worms instead of his mould was much harsher on her, and difficult to hide, too. But she was happy, being a home for her little ones the same way he was. 

He hoped that she was okay, at least. He remembered having plenty of nice chats around tea when her vocal chords were still intact. 

He had had a hard time keeping his, actually. After nine years with the mould, he knew that it loved him deeply, but at first, it hadn’t been that simple. He was terrified of it, the first few weeks, before it started to sing to him. 

Even after, his little – big – mould was hungry. Greedy. It wanted more, and as much as he would love to give his whole body to it, he actually liked having still a sliver of normal life. So he’d asked it to keep his face, and the parts of him that weren’t hidden easily with clothes free of mould, at least on the surface. It was free to come beneath, of course, as long as it wasn’t enough to make people suspicious. 

He rested a hand on his thighs, where he knew that small mushrooms would soon grow, in just a few months. It happened every year in autumn and spring, when the humidity was perfect. Else it was too cold or too dry. 

The ride was faster than he thought, in the end, and he was in front of the place Jane had agreed to meet up just a bit less than ten minutes in advance. It didn’t matter, his friend and her Hive was there, waiting for him. 

“Hi !”

—

February 29th

—

After some time working in the Archives, Tim had sort of become the assigned assistant to fieldwork. Not that it bothered him, of course. He was pretty happy to do that. 

It was the same in Research : he liked being outside, away from the Institute’s oppressing presence and the feeling of being watched. He rarely had companions, which allowed him to Hunt as he pleased. 

During his years in the Research department of the Magnus Institute, London, he had come to discover that only one person in the whole building could correctly keep up with him when doing a field investigation : Jonathan Sims. 

The two men had quickly bonded over that, and David, their shared boss – not counting double-boss Bouchard – was more than happy to pair them up, as Jon had a bit of a ‘difficult’ reputation among the staff. 

Tim remembered their first investigation together : that tiny, scrawny man who snarled at the face of the statement giver steadily climbing over the fence and ordering Tim to follow because ‘ come on, we are already wasting too much time on this pile of nonsense ’. 

Breaking and entering was always the fun part. 

Now, in the Archives, Jon was occupied with his ‘bossman tasks’ – and with Elias breathing down his neck, he couldn’t avoid them to go on a research trip like in the old days.  

Sasha never really liked fieldwork, something about daylight causing her migraines – he had joked about the possibility of her being a vampire many times – though she was perfectly competent to do it with him, and Martin had trouble writing reports, so he rarely went – and besides, his library skills were much more useful in the Archives proper than doing research. 

Jon had practically banned the poor man from researcher tasks after one too much badly formatted report. 

That is to say, Tim was usually alone doing fieldwork. And it was fine, because that way, he didn’t have to worry about being discovered by the others. 

And that is how, on this afternoon in late February, he found himself investigating the account of one Carlos Vittery. He already knew this would be a real one, because it didn’t record on other supports than tape, and nothing Jon could say would change that – his coworker’s scepticism was infuriating sometimes, but he had to admit that it was very useful to avoid being discovered. 

Anyway, it wasn’t like his friend would have wanted to come investigate the Vittery case. Jon’s arachnophobia was public knowledge at this point, and this statement was filled with the little beasts. 

Fortunately, Tim was able to catch the door still open and slip into the building unnoticed, avoiding breaking in – his ‘curse’ had a few advantages and stealth was one of them. He went to the nearest resident. 

“Excuse me !” he called.

They turned to him and saluted him, asking him if they could help him with something.

“Well, I’m envisaging to live here, maybe, so I’d like to know a bit of the residents.”

It was a good lie he’d set up. Come in, say you want to live there, ask if the apartment is still available and what happened to the previous tenant. Pray to avoid the owner of the building. 

“Oh,” they said. “Welcome. I’m Rachida Porchifada, the owner of the building.”

Well, shit.

—

In the end, the landlord wasn’t that terrible. But she wasn’t much help either. 

She was evasive about the previous tenant, saying that he was a model resident, paid rent, a bit of a recluse, especially near the end – the end of his tenancy, of course ! she had hurriedly added. Overall, she seemed eager to finally have someone to occupy the apartment, but hadn’t let Tim visit it.

In conclusion, there was definitely something happening, but nothing concrete could be extracted from Rachida. 

The other tenants hadn’t been much help. Those on the floor below – a lovely middle aged Asian woman and her girlfriend – had admitted Carlos had died mysteriously of asphyxiation, and that he was a massive arachnophobe. They didn’t know much, but said to go check with the woman living in the apartment next, as she was the one to call the police – something about the smell. 

Mrs Sanderson – an elderly lady living in the apartment next to the one Carlos had occupied, and also the guardian of Major Tom, previously Carlos’ cat – confirmed that she was the one to call the police, and saw the corpse, apparently encased in webs. She also said that there weren't many spiders in the building anymore, they had all left when the worms had started appearing. 

She didn’t elaborate on the subject, simply said that there was a worm infestation that had started a while ago – it comes and it goes, sometimes, she had said. She simply advised Tim to watch out to not step on them – they were a nightmare to clean from under the shoes. 

—

February 20th

—

“You know, I don’t think it is a good idea.”

Martin sat on the bench next to Jane. Thankfully, the park was deserted, despite the sunny Saturday afternoon. Probably because of the bone chilling cold of mid February. Martin didn’t care. He had his mould to keep him warm. 

He had actually taken off his jumper to let the mycelium on his arms breath a bit. That was one of the advantages of a park, the air was slightly less polluted than the rest of London. 

Jane tilted her head and asked “W-hy ?”

Talking was difficult for her, ever since she decided to give her throat to inhabit for her worms, but she had insisted on explaining to him her latest project regarding the Magnus Institute.

“Well, first, I work here. And I don’t particularly want doctors to look at me, because they would harm my little ones,” he said thoughtfully, absentmindedly caressing the soft hair of the mould on his arms. “Which would happen if you decided to come.”

He passed a hand through his hair, setting loose a few of the spores that were catched between the ginger strands. “Second, well, I like my coworkers. I don’t really want you to harm them. And I like my job, too, most of the time.” 

Jane paused for a moment, seemingly considering her thoughts. “Bu-t  m-my  lit-t-le  o-nes  tell  m-e  to  g-go  the-re. F-For  rev-eng-e.”

Martin sighed. “I understand that, Jane. Look, if you decide to go against my advice, it is your choice. But know that I won’t be protecting you.” 

She nodded, looking hurt, but with a hint of understanding in her eyes. He smiled gently. “Let’s talk about something else. You said you wanted to start knitting ?”

—

February 29th

—

The old lady hadn’t lied when she said that there was a worm problem here. 

Why Tim had decided to come back here, he wasn’t sure. Maybe because he felt like he needed to investigate more, because the answers he got weren’t enough, or maybe it was something else, the thrill of the chase calling him to the place. 

Maybe. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care all that much. Right now, he just needed to get inside. 

He’d spotted a small ground floor window on the side of the building, and if he was lucky, it would be open. As he wandered, looking for it, he found several wriggling silver bodies littering the sidewalk. Urg. She hadn’t lied either when she had said they were horrible for the bottom of his shoes. 

He had begun to scrub the rubber of his sole on the concrete to get rid of the sticky black substance – it reminded him of jello of all things – when he spotted the slightly ajar window. Bingo. 

The window was small, rectangular and narrow. From what he could see, there were also several cobwebs around the metallic frame, and he was once again reminded of how Jon would have hated working on this case. 

He squeezed his way through the narrow passage, and landed a bit harshly on the floor. Apparently, the window was on ground level only on the exterior. Immediately, his overdeveloped sense of smell was overrun by a thick and cloying scent of rot. 

He put both hands on his nose to stop it but it was so intense that even like that, he could practically taste it . It was musty and disgusting, to a point where he could feel it heavy in his lungs and tight against his skin. 

He felt his pupils become two thin slits beneath his contacts to adjust to the lack of light, and looked around the room. It was rather empty, all things considered. The walls were stained with something that looked too slick to be water damage, and the concrete pockmarked by age. 

A few old webs were hanging around the corners and ceiling, but there was something else. A sound. 

A squirming , disgusting sound. 

He glanced around, and saw a shape, something large and pale. It looked like a person. He froze like a deer in headlights for a moment, then relaxed. It was the middle of the night, and they were alone in the basement with the lights off. By all means, they weren’t here in a more legal frame than Tim himself. 

“Hello ?” he called, when the figure coughed. 

No, not coughed. He knows what a cough sounds like, even the more violents Martin had – when he thought no one was there and wasn’t as quick to hide the black wet substance that came out of his mouth. 

No, the shuddering motion of the figure was exactly like one of a cough racking their body, but the sound they made was the opposite of that. It was a sound of meat, wet, tearing and rotten, and as they pressed a green and stained handkerchief to their lips, it was not spittle that came out. 

It was worms. 

A literal cascade of worms, crawling out of their hand and stumbling on the ground in a horrible squirming and wet sound. 

Tim growled, feeling his vocal chords twist painfully to produce the unnatural sound in hopes that it would dissuade the person, no, the creature to go any more after him. He scrambled backwards, and then the figure twisted. 

It turned, painfully, slowly, to face him. The thing in front of him might have been a woman, at some point, before she was barely a husk of pockmarked human skin held together by the silver worms moving inside her torn red dress and overly large grey overcoat. 

She smiled, her teeth rotten, black and chipped and yellowed and worms crawling in and out of them, her purple gums showing underneath her equally purple lips, blood long ago drained from them. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, though Tim couldn’t help but notice that she had a dazed smile on her broken and dry lips. 

She slid off her overcoat, revealing even more of her blemish and pockmarked skin, and Tim ran. 

The wave of worms pulsating and writhing surged forward and he fled, jumping and catching the edge of the small basement window, pushing himself out of the place and its rot like a damned man with hell on his heels – and maybe that was what he was. 

He fled into the night, his withered figure with elongated limbs and shallow breathing stalking shadows between buildings. Except this time he wasn’t hunter.

He was prey . 

—

When Jon came home that night, he was greeted with a loud meow and the sound of a sizzling pan. 

“‘M home.” he mumbled to Georgie, before kneeling and cooing at the fluffy orange cat that just appeared at his feet. 

“Hello Admiral. How are you ? Yes, you’re a good cat. Yes, the best cat.” 

He picked up the cat with only a few protests – a simple mrow from the dignified feline – and went to the kitchen. 

“You know, I’m half convinced that he uses you as a glorified heating pad,” said Georgie.

“No, he wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you Admiral ?”

“Don’t trust him,” she laughed, “cats are all liars.” 

“Not him,” he protested, “he’s the best.” 

She smiled at them. “So, how was your day ?”

“Fine, I didn’t yell at Martin,” he sighed.

“That’s a victory,” she pointed.

“I also went by the library, and brought you a few books.” he retrieved said volumes from his messenger bag. “Here. You mentioned those subjects when talking about your potential newest episode.”

“Oh, thanks. I thought you weren’t supposed to bring them home if they came from the Institute ?”

“Yeah, well,” he answered, face half buried in the fur of the cat, “there are a few advantages from being head of a department.” 

“Uh. Well, that’s cool. Thanks.”

—

When Tim came home that night, his flat was empty. 

It always was. 

He didn’t even bother to get something to eat. He was just too exhausted, and slumped on his bed instantly. 

He hadn’t noticed the tiny silver worms following him.

Chapter Text

March 1st

—

Tim awoke from the insistent knocking on his door. 

He grumbled and got off his bed to answer. He shot a quick glance at his alarm clock to have an idea of the time. Who the hell was knocking at three in the morning ? Thank god he was too exhausted by the chase to undress.

He was about to unlock the door when he was hit again with the smell. The same that overwhelmed him in that basement. 

Shit.  

One of the good sides of having gone through a paranoid phase was that he had replaced his door by something practically airtight. Of course, that was before the changes that happened when he got rid of the Circus, but in this situation, he was extremely glad that he’d made his flat clown-proof, because as it was, it was also worm-proof. 

The downside of it was that, while he was safe, he was also trapped. 

Double shit.  

—

After ten minutes of frustrated screaming and pacing, Tim decided to finally evaluate the state of his situation. 

First, he was in the dark. He tried to turn on the light, but it didn’t work, which meant the power was probably out. He bit back another scream of frustration and went to grab his phone. 

Dead. Because of course it was. He resisted the urge to throw it on a wall and breathed. Right now, anger was not a good thing. How could he contact the others ? His laptop might still have some battery, he could send them an email. 

But what could he tell them ? He wouldn’t tell them to come help him, that would get them killed, or worse. He’d read what Jane Prentiss – because he was sure at this point that this was Jane Prentiss – did to her victims. 

And it was three in the morning anyway. It would be more suspicious to message any of them now. He sighed and went to bed. There was nothing he could do right now.

—

“Sasha, have you seen Tim, today ?” asked Jon, poking his head through the door of his office. 

She seemed thoughtful for a bit, before shaking her head. “He was here yesterday morning, then he went to investigate the case you assigned to him. Carlos Vittery I think ?” 

“Right.” Jon shivered at the reminder of the spider statement. “Do tell me if you receive any updates on him.” 

“Will do,” she nodded.

—

Tim woke up late, but there wasn’t much for him to wake up to anyway. The knocking on his door was still there, and judging by the lack of light when he tried his interruptor, the power was still out. 

He sighed and got up. The first thing to do was to prevent the others from coming here. 

He grabbed his laptop, with the battery thankfully still full, and he started to type his message, before remembering that he, in fact, needed an Internet connection to send it. 

Dammit.

Maybe he had some external batteries that hopefully will be charged.

—

“Jon ?” asked Sasha, barging in his office unprompted. 

This would hardly have been a problem in any other circumstance, but Jon was currently in the midst of re-heating a mug of tea using his scarred hand. 

Ever since he encountered his second – and for now, his last – book from the Library of Jurgen Leitner, an unmarked leather bound volume, he was left with a scar on his right hand where he had held the book. 

Of course, he was quick to discover that his scar was, as he called it, cursed. The passing of the years had brought their lot of secondary effects from the ‘curse’ that applied to the rest of his body, but his hand was capable ever since of reaching quite incredible temperatures. 

The last time he had tried to measure it, at Georgie’s demand, the thermometer broke when he reached 513°C. 

Regardless of his – still unmeasured – maximum, he had learned to control it and keep the temperature low when he focused. Which was exactly what he was doing with the mug of tea, keeping his hand around a temperature of about a hundred degrees. 

Of course, with Sasha barging in suddenly, he lost his focus, and the temperature of his palm was quick to reach up heights the ceramic – and the tea – couldn’t quite handle, which meant the material shattered almost instantly and the beverage inside – a very good tea, courtesy of Martin – vaporised into steam. 

“...”

“...Jon.”

“Um. Yes, Sasha, d-did… You needed something ?” he tried.

“Jon, what the fuck just happened.”

“I, erm. It seems I broke the mug… Because you surprised me.”

“And the tea ?” 

“I… already drank it ?” 

The uncertainty in his voice made it almost like a question. Thankfully, Sasha didn’t push. She sighed. “It’s fine. Tim sent a message. Apparently he’s sick, and his phone was dead so he couldn’t text us.” 

“Oh. Alright. Thank you Sasha.” 

She left the office, leaving him to clean the ceramic shards on his desk, hoping that no document were damaged by the heat. 

—

Tim was pacing in his flat, already driven half mad by the incessant knocking on the metal door. He had never really understood the expression ‘hammering on a door’ before. Now, he did, even if he wished for the contrary. 

Honestly, what was the point of becoming what he did if it was to be helpless against that . He destroyed those clowns goddammit ! Why were those worms so impossible for him to kill ?!

Well, he knew why. There were no doubts he could maybe kill Prentiss, but the risk of being infected by her worms were too high for him to take that gamble. No, the only thing he could really do right now was wait, and pray that the others didn’t come check on him. 

The major problem he would be facing was hunger. No, not hunger, he had plenty of canned goods and things like that he could be eating for at least a week, and also the contents of his now emptied fridge – even with the power out, he wasn't about to let it rot. So no, he wouldn’t starve. 

But he would face the problem of Hunger. 

He tried to Feed as little as possible, as long as it didn't impact him too much, and had found a rhythm of two Hunts per week manageable. Never killing humans, and overall trying not to kill – Hunting was enough. 

But the problem was that he already had missed Monday’s… meal, or whatever, and he would likely miss Thursday’s. And that would prove to be a problem. 

Since he’s gotten his powers, he had tried, multiple times mind you, to stop. To reject it, to choose not to, and everytime, it ended the same way : he starved. 

If he Hunted too much, it improved his abilities, but also set a new standard, but if he didn’t, the monstrous parts of him that he never wished for didn’t vanish, and turned on something else to Feed : himself . 

He remembered the first time, how the hunger had clawed at him, how he had watched himself go thin, even as he ate real food, until he snapped and lost control. 

No, that may have been the worst in the situation. He was perfectly in control of his actions. He had carefully, very consciously, chased this poor woman across London. He was completely aware of himself when his maw filled with too sharp teeth clasped around her leg, and how satisfied he felt when her scream echoed around him. 

That night, he came home covered in blood, and saw in the mirror a monster he didn’t recognise as himself anymore. 

He did everything he could to stay fed enough after that incident.

—

March 2nd

—

Elias was starting to doubt his choice of an Archivist. 

At first, Jonathan Sims had seemed like the perfect match. Angry and snappish, he was already isolated from most of his coworkers, and it would be easy to manipulate him into paranoia.

He had the reputation of a workaholic, and, most importantly, he was already Marked by both the Web and the Desolation. Really, a perfect match considering Elias’ objective. 

Jon was a gift, sent at his door by the Mother for him to play with, and he already had a place on the masterful chess board on which he was about to execute his plan. However, there was a problem.

Ever since he joined the Archives, Jon had stopped most of his workaholic tendencies. 

He went home mostly on time, didn’t come too early, and overall yes, he did his work diligently, but not with as much enthusiasm as when he was in Research. Elias had not believed the man to be confrontational enough as to try such things with him , but the results were there.

Jonathan Sims was resenting Elias for forcing the position on him, and was being petty about this. 

A glimpse in the other man’s private life informed Elias that it was the fault of Georgina Barker, his roommate – and probably only friend. 

Jon was oblivious, but Georgie wasn’t, and she had warned him to not give Elias what he wanted. Jon himself had agreed that he wasn’t qualified for the job in the slightest – not that it mattered for Elias’ projects – and that Sasha should have gotten it. 

So, obviously, he did the opposite of what was needed from him : he worked normal hours, and valued Sasha’s expertise. The Archive was well managed, and Jon was still keeping what he called ‘professional distance’ between he and his coworkers, sure, but that wasn’t what he wanted. 

Elias was seriously envisaging disposing of Georgie. 

—

“Day two of being trapped in my flat.” Tim began in a mournful tone, hoping that this would ease the boredom. “I’ve managed to find a bunch of charged external batteries. Well, that was yesterday, but still. I, uh…

“Fuck, why am I even doing this, it’s not like there’s someone listening anyway.” 

—

March 3rd

—

Tim was in his kitchen when he saw the first worm. 

It probably shouldn’t surprise him that his instincts took control before he thought about what he should do, but he was nonetheless surprised to find the black jelly insides of the worms coating the cover of his book he had just thrown at it. 

When the second worm came in, Tim was without projectiles, and, more importantly, in his socks. 

“Shit !” he shouted, before retreating and jumping on the counter, grabbing a handkerchief to slap the maggot with. Trying to think rationally, he looked around, trying to find the source of the worms. 

How did they get in ?

Then, he spotted it. There was a crack in the wall, and the filthy things were trickling through it like water pouring from a faucet. Double shit, he thought. How did they do that ? Are the walls so fragile that they can just… eat them, and come inside ?  

Not that it mattered anyway. He jumped from the counter to the entryway, and grabbed a pair of shoes to stomp on the things. He was furiously killing them, trying to come closer to the crack to be able to somehow block their access, when a sharp pain erupted in his leg.

Immediately, he knew what that meant : they had gotten to him. Reasoning that there was no point in safety now that it was probably too late, he jumped forward, pressing the handkerchief he was still holding against the crack. 

Now that the worms had stopped coming, he doubled down on killing them, adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. 

Finally, the squelching and wet sound that accompanied their writhing stopped, and he breathed. Now, he needed to get rid of the worms in his leg. 

He ensured that the crack was still sealed – as much as it could be at least – and went to the kitchen to grab a knife. Unfortunately, those he owned were either too big, or not sharp enough, so he resolved to use the only other possible thing : his claws. 

To say the experience was unpleasant would be an understatement, but at least they were out. He put the worms in a tupperware – to have a proof for Jon, if he ever made it out alive and un-wormed – and headed to the bathroom to fetch his first aid kit and patch up the still bleeding wounds. 

—

Martin was getting increasingly worried about Tim. Sure, he kept sending messages and updates on his conditions – says he had a stomach bug , for some reason – but that wasn’t to reassure Martin. 

Today was Thursday, and only yesterday he had remembered to check the old address of Carlos Vittery, where Tim had investigated on Monday, and connected it with the location Jane had said she resided. 

With his luck, there was every chance that Tim got infested with one of her worms, and that he was sick because of that. 

He wanted to go check on him, but he was torn between two sides of him. 

One of them was worried for Tim, of course, he was his friend, and Becoming like him or Jane was a painful process that Martin wasn’t sure everyone could survive. 

But the other side of him was also so happy for Tim, who had, maybe, the possibility of being a Home, of having a loving family of little ones ! And who knows, maybe they could still be friends after, right ? 

He doubted Tim would resent him for hiding his nature if he too had little ones to take care of. Humans – when had he started to refer to them as separated from him ? – were mean, and often aggressive towards things they didn’t understand. 

But nothing was sure about it yet. 

Well, it wasn’t like he could help Tim if he was infested. It would be no use to reveal himself too early, and if Tim decided not to accept the worms, it would be his choice. 

—

Elias was observing Timothy in his flat. Apparently, he was hanging on well enough. 

He seemed a bit exhausted, and overall worn out, but that was to be expected from the constant knocking on his door by Prentiss and the fear and paranoia induced by the possibility of worms getting in.

Speaking of, judging by the bandages his right leg was sporting, they had. 

Really, he needed to check on the poor man more often, to make sure he didn’t die. It would be a waste, a researcher as competent as him. He sighed. He should have sent Martin there. He was more disposable than Tim, lacking his drive for knowledge and answer, and mostly incompetent – a thing that Jon never failed to remind him of. 

But Martin’s paranoia and fear of discovery was something he liked to consume, even if it was far from a consistent meal. Why he was so preoccupied because of his fake resume was a mystery, but Elias didn’t care enough to peek in the other man’s head.

Elias’ lips stretched in a smile at the sight of Tim anxiously watching his door, knife in hand, and went on to focus on the spreadsheet displayed on his computer screen. 

Wait, did another intern in Artefact Storage get eaten by the Spiral Vase ? Tsk, such a rookie mistake. 

—

March 4th

—

Tim was lying on the floor of his living room. Why wasn’t important at the moment. He just was. 

He remembered buying this carpet, a while ago, with Danny. It was an ugly shade of mustard, and clashed with the rest of the decorations in his flat, but he had kept it. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away after his brother’s death. 

It was very comfortable to lay on, he found. Thick and soft, and it smelled like lint and wool. He brushed his hand flat on the surface, appreciating the thick strands of plushy wool between his fingers.

Things were getting… dire.

The wounds in his leg stung. It wasn’t healing. Of course not, it couldn’t. Not when he was starving. 

He had plenty of food, even without the contents of the fridge, but the need for a Hunt was clawing at his mind, ever present. 

He glared at an old water stain on the ceiling. He was getting bored, and he could feel the restlessness filling him. He sighed, a long and drowned out sound, until his lungs deflated completely. 

The knocking on his door continued. She was keeping perfect time, like a fucking metronome. The worse was maybe that she was knocking at the same pace that the beat of one of his favourite songs. He had tried to sing, at some point, to ease the boredom. But the only result was her cackling on the other side of the door, so he stopped. 

He sighed again, shorter than before, but just as worn out. 

It was a shame, he really liked that song. 

He’d been introduced to it by Martin, back during their first weeks working in the Archives together. They’d made a collaborative playlist to ease the silence in the bullpen. Jon had been invited to join, but had declined. 

The playlist ended up being an awful mismatch of hard rock and metal, trendy songs of various artists, and folk-punk of all things. Tim would have never thought Martin liked that, but apparently he did. A band, very steampunk and a bit unhinged, called The Mechanisms. 

Tim was infinitely amused that the lead singer sounded just like Jon, and was, even better, called Jonny . Martin never seemed to pick up on that, and even Sasha had agreed that the probability of Jon being in a band, especially a ‘steampunk space pirates’ one, was close to zero. 

Still, it was fun to joke about. Tim wondered if he would ever get to joke with them again. 

He knew he wouldn’t resist the Hunger for long. 

…

He had a decision to make. 

—

About an hour later, Tim was ready. He had a large and heavy backpack strapped up, as he mentally reviewed the things he had packed. 

First, his phone, his laptop, and his chargers. The power in his flat was out, but it wasn’t like he would go back any time soon, so he needed them. The tupperware full of dead worms was sealed, and tucked away in a separate pocket to prevent all risks of the hazardous material ending on his stuff in case of leak. 

He had packed a few spare clothes, and some food, along with his brown contacts – useful to hide unnatural eye colour and pupils. His first aid kit was easy to reach, and his keys were in his pocket, just in case. 

Now, he just had to take a leap of faith. He opened his window and looked down. Thank God he only lived on the second floor, huh ?

—

Ever since she was a child, Sasha always had some kind of obsession with notebooks. She wanted to keep everything somewhere, neatly tucked away between pages and ink. 

She had a huge collection, ever growing, and she loved to go in the shops to find new ones to scribble into. And sometimes she went through her collection to remember. 

There were some memories, thoughts from her teenage years she'd rather forget sometimes, or where she thinks ‘ how could I write this ? ’ and ‘ was that how I was like ? ’. Sometimes, she cringed at her awful handwriting or smiled fondly at the small doodles. She’d never been much of an artist, but they were fun. 

That is to say, Sasha had a lot of notebooks, and many shelves in her flat dedicated to host them. 

However, in this collection, one book stood out. Black, leather-bound, she took great care of it and always had it with her, though she rarely wrote in it. 

She bought it after she began working in Artefact Storage in the Institute, right after she had the confirmation that what she had seen as a child wasn’t a fabrication of her mind like everyone was determined to make her think. 

You see, one of the upsides of always taking notes was that she had an excellent memory, and a written trace of everything. That way, even if someone was denying her, she could know it was true. 

She had started to frantically take note of everything after the incident when she was nine. 

The leather bound black notebook – a colour fitting to her, she had later realised – started with a full and detailed account of her experience as a child, then went on to describe every genuinely supernatural artefact she had encountered during her three months in that dreadful department that was Storage.

The entries had slowed after her transfer in Research, but still earned a few, with a bunch of new additions to the double page dedicated to herself – she was a supernatural being, after all. 

But since working in the Archives, her entries had skyrocketed. Not only the ones regarding statements, though they were still a big part of it. What had greatly inflated the number of pages covered in her almost illegible scribe was the number of supernatural happenings surrounding… her coworkers. 

But before she could write down her newest entry about Martin whispering at the patch of black mould that had appeared in the corner of the breakroom that he loved it for the hundredth time – which was, in all honesty, a rather weird thing to do, especially that often – she was interrupted by Tim barging in, out of breath and covered in blood, holding a glass tupperware full of a silvery thing.

“I need to make a statement.”

Chapter Text

“Statement Ends,” finally said Jon when Tim had finished. 

He hadn’t really meant to say that much, but at least, Jon seemed to believe him, thanks to the dead worms he had brought with him. 

“Why didn’t you tell us ? You had your phone, we could have helped, right ?” asked Sasha. Tim bit his lip. She seemed hurt that he hadn’t thought about it.

“I… I wasn't sure what you could do. Really, you haven’t seen her, she’s terrifying . None of you could have done anything, and calling you would simply have put you in danger.”

Martin furrowed his brow and opened his mouth, as if he was about to protest, but decided against it. Huh. Martin hadn’t seemed like the type to go on monster hunts, why did he think he could have helped ? 

“And the blood ?” asked Jon in his usual ‘bossman tone’. Tim guessed he tried to seem detached from the situation because it was recorded, but there was a flicker of rage and worry in his eyes, like he was about to go chase down Prentiss and murder her on the spot for what she’d done to Tim. 

“It’s from when I broke the window to get out.” 

It was not. He didn’t break the window. The blood on his clothes – and the small cuts on his skin – were actually from the Hunt he just went on. He figured that it would be dangerous for him to go directly to the Institute in his state, so he decided to prioritise his recovery. At least that way his leg hurt less, but he also hadn’t found any public bathroom to clean up, so he resolved to give his statement first.

“Why didn’t you simply open the window before jumping ?” 

Ah, clever Sasha. Of course she’d find flaws in his lies. Jokes on her, he watched movies too, and always found that a bit ridiculous, going for the badass instead of safety, so he came up with his own little lie to make up for it.

“There were worms outside the window. I figured that if I opened it before jumping, they’d get in too quickly and the risk of getting infested would be too high. And it’s nothing to worry about, the injuries are superficial.” 

“Sure,” she said, her tone expressing the contrary. Martin seemed uneasy, more awkward than usual, and kept biting his lower lip. Tim decided to not mention it, but that probably meant Martin had something with worms, so he made a mental note to avoid the subject with him.

“Well, I think we can all agree that you shouldn’t go back to your flat with Prentiss still there. I doubt she’d come to the Institute proper, but if she does, there would be more witnesses and possibilities to fight back,” declared Jon.

He held his chin in his right hand – the one with the scar – and seemed thoughtful for a moment. “I think there might be enough space for a third roommate in my flat if you need a place to stay,” he finally declared.

“I… seriously ? You’re offering me to stay with you ?” Tim couldn’t quite believe that. Jonathan Sims ? Capable of feelings ? No way. 

“Well, as I said, there is enough space. Unless Sasha or Martin can take you ?”

“Nope. My flat isn’t big enough, sorry,” apologised Sasha. 

Martin shook his head as well. 

“Then I… You’re sure you don’t mind me ?” 

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I did.” 

“Alright then, I’ll… take you up on that offer.” 

“Right. If it’s settled then, I suggest everyone gets back to work. Tim, you should probably disinfect your wounds.”

—

Jon was an idiot. 

Actually, that wasn’t enough. Jon was the biggest, the stubbornest and the stupidest bloody moron existing on the face of the Earth, and possibly the whole galaxy (he didn’t go as far as the entire universe. Who knew what alien life forms could achieve in terms of stupidity ?)

Why, of all things, did he suggest Tim come with him ? 

It wasn’t a totally irrational decision, Prentiss was dangerous after all – though maybe his curse could be helpful for once and heat would take her down, but that certainly wasn’t the point – and Tim was very much human, which meant that he wouldn’t be able to defend himself against her. 

But having Tim as a roommate also meant that it would be harder for him to manage his curse. He already had much trouble hiding it during the workday, and took frequent pauses to release some steam. 

Hiding it both at work and at home meant that… many accidents risked occurring. He hoped Tim wouldn’t stay for long. Good Lord, who was he even kidding ? Georgie had figured something was going on within the first week of their cohabitation ! And it was before most of the changes had started ! Tim was clever, he would definitely figure it out. 

Georgie finally texted him back, after fifteen excruciating minutes of wait. 

‘sure i dont mind’

‘will you be okay tho?’

‘with ur curse and all’

Jon thought for a moment, then replied : 

‘Don’t worry, I will be alright.’

‘It would be best if you could hide the conspiracy board, though.’

‘will do’

‘see u tonight’

‘dont work too late’

‘I won’t.’

Ah, yes, the conspiracy board. Something they’d kept up since their uni days, trying to figure out what the hell was going on with his curse and Jurgen Leitner, later extended to the supernatural as a whole. 

He stopped thinking about that and went back to bang his head against his desk at his own incompetence. He doubted he would get much done during the few remaining hours of the day anyway. 

—

When the clock hit five, everyone in the Archives shuffled and gathered their things. Jon hurried when he saw Tim was waiting for him in front of the stairs that led out of the gloomy basement – even more bleak since Jon had asked to put dimmer lights, to ease Sasha’s headaches. 

She had seemed nervous when he had brought up the subject, but grateful when he did it, apparently it had really helped – and Jon himself didn’t exactly like the bright fluorescent lights, the reflections they casted on the lenses of his glasses were distracting and annoying. 

Jon put his things in his messenger bag, grabbing the few books he had borrowed from the library earlier and set aside for Georgie along with two statements that wouldn’t record that he had encountered that day, to add later to the conspiracy board – or rather the notebook he would use while Tim resided at his flat. 

Tim grinned as Jon joined him and began to climb up the stairs – one after the other, as the staircase was too narrow for them to stand side to side. Once they were out of the building, they began walking towards the nearest tube station while maintaining a little, quiet chatter. 

“Never thought I’d see the day when you’d leave work on time, boss !” grinned Tim, walking fast enough that Jon had to put a little effort not to fall behind. 

“Yes, well, I’ve dropped the habit of leaving as late as I did in research,” hummed Jon. 

“Really ?” exclaimed Tim, a bit surprised. “Never saw you leave on time.” 

“Again, I simply don’t leave as late anymore. Usually I still do half an hour or so of work after, which is about a recording or two, but I don’t leave at eight or nine anymore.” 

He winced slightly, feeling a tension in his shoulder and wishing he could stretch a bit to get rid of it. “I find the atmosphere of the Archives more… oppressing than in Research,” he finished. 

“That’s a word for it. I can give you like, five more.” 

Jon snickered, encouraging Tim to continue as a grin was stretching on his lips. “Let’s see… Bleak, gloomy, horrible, creepy… Spooky ?” 

Jon groaned at Tim’s smirk. “You are insufferable.” 

“Why do you hate that word so much ?” he asked, the grin on his lips somehow stretching further.

“I don’t hate it, I just find that normalising its use in our work encourages people who discredit it. We are academics , yet many refuse to give us the credit we deserve specifically because of it,” scoffed the shorter man, taking once again his ‘bossman persona’ to make his point. 

Tim’s smile suddenly dropped. “Seriously though, you feel it too, right ? Like you’re being watched ?” 

Jon swallowed, unsure of what to say, but decided in favour of honesty. “Yes. That’s… partially why I stopped leaving late.” He omitted the part where the statements felt like someone was hunched over his shoulder and made his hand itch with the desire to reduce the paper to ash. 

The conversation died down as they reached the station, and the rest of the tube ride was spent in silence. 

As they approached his flat though, Jon made an effort to talk again.

“I’ve mentioned that I had a roommate,” he declared in a neutral tone. God he was bad at starting conversations. 

Tim was startled at that. “Hm ? Yes, you did. Did they agree about me living here for a while ? You did tell them, right ?” 

Jon huffed. “Yes, yes I did. I’m not completely stupid. She’s okay with it.” 

“Oh ? She ?” Tim wiggled his eyebrows and Jon’s face heated immediately at the thought of the things he implied.

“What ? Do- Oh good lord Tim no ! No, we’re- We’re not dating or anything !” 

“Oh ? Alright,” he simply declared, keeping on his face a shit-eating grin that made Jon’s face heat even more than he thought was possible. Thankfully it wasn’t enough to make the gasoline in his blood ignite, because as ironic as it would be to have his face literally burning with embarrassment, he would have a hard time explaining it. 

“You… don’t have an allergy to cats, do you ?” he asked, trying to deflect the subject. 

“No, you don’t have to worry. Do you have one ?” 

“Yes, ah, I do. He’s called The Admiral.” 

Tim snickered. “The Admiral ? Why ?” 

“Because he’s distinguished !” he sputtered with indignation. How dared Tim imply that his cat wasn’t the most distinguished feline ?  

“I’m sure of it,” the other man snorted. 

They reached the building, and as Jon climbed the stairs, The Admiral left his thoughts to be replaced with a growing anxiety. 

What if he notices the scorch marks ? And what if Georgie slips up ? No, she wouldn’t, she is way too careful, but what if I mess up ? What would happen if I was discovered ? He would see I’m a monster, he would tell the others and I would lose everything ! Oh God, this was so much of a mistake !  

He was pulled out of his spiralling when he reached the door, and his stomach sank even further in his guts as he slipped the key in the lock and turned it. As the door slid open, he was immediately greeted by the – very distinguished , mind you – meows of The Admiral. 

A smile instantly spread on his face, and he reached down to pick up the fluffy companion. “Hello Admiral,” he said.

Mraw.  

Yes, I love you too , he almost said. Then he was hit by the sudden realisation that he should probably not baby-talk to his cat with Tim right behind him, and currently in the midst of watching him with an amused grin. 

Suddenly self conscious, Jon cleared his throat and deposited The Admiral on the floor, stepping aside to let Tim inside the flat. Georgie was at her desk in the living room, probably reading yet another article about sightings of ghost ships – this was the chosen subject of her next episode. 

She smiled when she saw them enter, and, to Jon’s horror, she was wearing a Mechanism band shirt. 

Jon was well aware of his assistants’ appreciation of his former band, and was also grateful to whatever Gods there were that said assistants never made the connection between his voice and Jonny D’Ville’s. 

It was also the reason why he usually clambered himself in his office every time one of their songs played. 

Georgie knew about it, of course, and was infinitely amused by the fact that her socially inept best friend – and ex boyfriend – got somehow roped into such a situation. He had her vow to never, ever reveal his immortal space pirate past to the assistants, but that, of course, didn’t mean that she couldn’t help them make the connection. 

However, Jon had his own end in the bargain. 

Sasha was, to his knowledge, a huge fan of ‘What The Ghost’, a well-loved podcast in the horror appreciation community. She’d listen to it at times, during her breaks, and sometimes, Tim and Martin joined her. 

A podcast hosted by one ‘Georgie Barker’, current roommate of Jonathan Sims. 

Jon had vowed to never, ever reveal that he knew her, but that, too, didn’t mean that he couldn’t help his assistants to make the connection. 

Georgie smiled as her eyes met Jon’s. 

Now, a war has begun. 

Chapter Text

March 13th

—

Cohabitation in the flat was going well, with few incidents. 

That was what Jon would have said, if asked about how well he was putting up with his coworker living with him. That was also what Tim would have said. 

‘That whole situation is hilarious and both of them are fucking idiots’ would have been what Georgie would have said if asked the same question. 

She was actually keeping a list of Jon’s mistakes next to the – now hidden – conspiracy board, along with a list-of-signs-that-Tim-may-be-cursed-too. So far, she seemed to be the only one to have noticed. 

The first mistake of the list had been made on the first morning of the cohabitation. It was Saturday, and Georgie had, as she usually did, woken up early, and was ready to start her day around nine. 

Jon, on the other hand, was the opposite of a morning person. But, he was also a very stubborn one. And so, like every morning on week-ends, he had refused to lose another hour of his time to sleep, and woken up around nine. 

Tim, apparently, didn’t have any problem with losing an entire morning in the profit of sleeping, and so, when Jon got up from his bed, next to the mattress set up for Tim, and stretched, the poor assistant had reacted like every normal person, and panicked. 

Because Jon, as he and Georgie had learned, didn’t exactly have human bones. Nor did he have any human blood, or others, but that wasn’t the current matter. 

Ever since his death in a structural fire, some six years ago, Jon’s bones were made out of what appeared to be debris and charred remains of said structure. 

You could then imagine the kind of sounds they could emit when he stretched. 

Georgie was used to it, of course, after almost eight years of sharing a flat and six of the ‘bone situation’, even though she was as startled as Tim the first time, but right now, the other man was looking at Jon as if he had just died and woken up. Which, sure, wasn’t exactly wrong, but still. 

“A-Are you alright ?” 

Jon looked mortified, and probably wanted to combust on the spot. 

“I, hum. Yes ?” 

“How on Earth can your fucking bones sound like that ?!” 

“I. I don’t know ?” he offered. Of course, he knew how, but it wasn’t like he could tell the truth to Tim, right ? “Look, I d-don’t know why it’s so loud, it’s been like this for a-a long time, a-and, look, I’m sorry for waking you I-”

He paused, and breathed out – something unnecessary for him, but that he still did, at least for comfort. Humans don’t realise how comforting those things are until they don’t have it anymore. 

“I’m sorry.” 

And then, he had fled the room. 

That occurrence had made Jon forget about the second supernatural happening of the morning, which Tim was thankful for and was thus only noticed the next morning, on Sunday. 

This time, Jon had waited to be inside the living room to stretch, startling Georgie and earning a scowl after almost making her spill her morning tea on the table, but thankfully not waking up Tim too early. 

Two hours later, the assistant was up, and, ignoring the fact that he was very charming in his sleepwear with messy hair, Jon noticed something with his eyes. 

“Erm, Tim ?” 

“Hm ?” 

“Didn’t your eyes used to be… brown ?” 

Tim’s very much not-brown-anymore eyes widened upon the realisation, and he quickly closed them. “Shit.” 

“It’s n-not really bad, it’s just-” 

“No, no, it’s… It’s fine, it’s just…” Tim sighed, not sure how to handle the situation. Shit, he had only two things to hide, and he managed to fuck up the easiest of them. “My eyes are… weird, and sometimes, people are, well, they’re staring and I don’t like it, so I wear contacts.” 

‘My eyes are weird’ great, Tim, wonderful way to tell your boss that your eyes are fucking yellow because you’re a bloody monster !  

“Oh. A-Alright. I’m… Sorry for bringing this up ?” 

Tim blinked and looked at his boss in disbelief, thankful that his pupils weren’t doing anything too weird at the moment. “Are you sure this doesn’t bother you ?” 

“No, I, I understand why you would hide that.” Jon looked away, and Tim realised he was probably referring to the glove he sometimes wore to hide the burn on his hand, or the large and covering clothes he wore in all circumstances that probably served to hide even more of those.

“Oh. Thank you,” said Tim, before heading to the bathroom to put on his contacts – he still wasn’t safe from questioning of why his pupils were too large or not enough at times. 

—

March 20th

—

Georgie was enjoying the forced cohabitation with Tim way too much, in Jon’s opinion. 

There still wasn’t a winner to the ‘war’ they had started, but she was certainly gaining a lot of ground on psychological warfare. There was only so much Jon could endure, and getting him drunk to make him sing Rose Red at three in the morning wasn’t one of them. 

He’d been well on his way to do the whole album when he’d been interrupted by the loud snorings of Tim, passed out on the couch, and the giggles of Georgie, who was trying to get photo evidence. Absolutely mortified, he’d had to threaten to melt her phone to get her to delete it, and thankfully, Tim didn’t remember most of the night. 

Jon had tried to subtly hint to Tim about What The Ghost – those hoodies were very much comfortable – but the large collars didn’t hide the burns on his neck, and he was too scared to show them. The burns were the most difficult things to hide, and he was thankful Jude didn’t go for the face. 

Meanwhile Georgie, on her side, was blasting Hellfire at full volume in the flat while Jon was cowering in his room, trying to get something done and ignoring his frankly horrendous American accent. He sighed when he realised how much he was failing at that. 

He was almost looking forward to Monday. At least those horrendous Archives didn’t try to expose his past to his coworkers. 

—

March 30th

—

Sasha was a bit disappointed that winter was ending. Already, the days were longer, and it was only a matter of time before the sun was up before her. Even before she was cursed and the light began to hurt, she was a bit of a night owl, though it had definitely worsened since. 

She was grateful to be working in the Archives because of that. Back in research, the sunlight filtering through the windows gave her the worst headaches, and she always had to take her work home for it to be done. She was even more grateful for the dimmer lightbulbs Jon had installed to accommodate her, even if he didn’t know the nature of the headaches. 

She opened her black-out curtains – a necessity she couldn’t survive summer without – and looked at the streets below. London was slowly coming to life, and she had to do the same. What a chore. 

That day, when she took her usual way to the Institute, she hesitated going to her usual coffee shop. There was something there. Someone ? Maybe they’d been cursed like her. But there was something with them, a feeling of wrong she couldn’t quite shake off. 

The man – man ? person ? – was blonde, tall even as they sat, and their long and curly hair seemed to coil around them. They weren’t even looking at her – they were just sitting near the window sipping their coffee. There it was, what was wrong. Their reflection. 

In the window, which she was fairly sure wasn’t warped in any way, the person was staring at her. Not in a way that they were just spying through the reflection, in a way that seemed like they were facing her directly through the reflection. Their hair had become impossibly long, and their eyes, because now she could see them, weren’t right, and she wasn’t sure what colour they were. 

So Sasha chose the smart option. She looked away. She turned a blind eye. 

That tendency, she had determined, was a side effect of her curse. She still loved collecting data, of course, but somehow, her curiosity had died down. She liked being ‘kept in the dark’. Thematically appropriate, she supposed. 

That morning, when she arrived in the Institute, she didn’t see fit to notify Jon about it. Nor did she when the person reappeared at the café, at the exact same place, sipping probably the exact same coffee that evening, nor when they did it the next day, and the next. 

On the fourth day, they had seemingly decided to do it themself, and waited for her at the entrance of her building. 

“Hello,” she said, not surprised at all. After all, there might be something that attracts monsters together, right ? And if they wanted to talk to her, and had come to her, they probably had a way to keep her if they wanted, so best not to upset them. 

“Hi,” they – it ? – said back. “I believe it is long overdue that we meet, don’t we, Assistant ?” 

So they knew about her work. After all, why not ? The Magnus Institute was researching the paranormal, and was well known for it, so a lot of monsters probably knew about it. Wait, wasn’t it rude to call people monsters ? Maybe there was a better terminology. Best to be careful. 

“Maybe it is,” she answered cautiously. “I'm Sasha.” She presented her hand for them to shake, and they took it. It felt wrong. If the weird reflection in the window hadn't been enough, now she was certain this person was cursed. Maybe their curse had warped their body so much they had to rely on a disguise based on illusions to live. She suddenly felt very sorry for them. 

They cocked their head to the side. “I'm Michael. Do you want to be friends ? Would it help you to be friends ? I want to help.” 

“Alright Michael.” They didn't look like a Michael. They didn't look like they had many friends either. “Let's be friends. What do you want to help with ?” 

Michael smiled, and for a second, it seemed like they had too many teeth. “I want to help protect you and your friends. The others Assistants” 

“Protect us ? Protect us from what ? The worms ?” she asked. They had started showing up since Tim came back from being trapped with Prentiss. Strangely, there wasn’t much, and for some reason they didn’t attack Martin, but they were there. 

Maybe if Sasha knew where Jane Prentiss was, she could deal with her. Maybe melt her in the shadows ? Would that even work on her ? 

Their smile widened again, and now she was sure they had too many teeth. “The Flesh Hive is rash, but you don't need protection from her. Although attempting to protect your friends from it would unravel so many lies.” They giggled. She was certain they knew about her curse. 

“However, I want to offer protection from something else. I want to protect you from The Archivist.” 

At that, she went very still. “The Archivist ? You mean Jon ?” 

They giggled. “That is a name. Yes. ‘Jon’ is The Archivist. He also isn't.” They giggled again, the sound rattling around and reverberating across her head. “What a paradox !” 

“Why would I need protection from Jon ? He's just a human, he's not-” Not a monster like us , she almost said. 

Their smile fell from their face, somehow managing to do it literally. “The being you call ‘Jonathan Sims’ is about as human as I am. And Archivists don't have a very good track record of taking care of their Assistants.” 

They turned around, somehow able to maintain eye contact, the colours in their eyes swirling and twisting. “Be careful, Sasha James.” And they walked away, through a door that was never there.

Chapter Text

April 14th

—

Martin stared blankly at the piece of paper in front of him, terrified and incapable to act. 

Statement of Lauren Revol, regarding a dead man and an agressive species of mould, 13th of March, 2009.  

That was around the time of his death – when he finally accepted his family. And given the description of that ‘man made of mushrooms’, his identity left little doubt. 

Apparently, Lauren had been a cleaner in his building at the time, and they were the one to stumble on his mould-covered corpse by the time he woke up. They had tried to clean the mould, to which it had gotten angry and woken him up, demanding to be protected. 

It had… not been a pleasant experience, neither for him nor the mould, and apparently, it hadn’t been for Lauren either. He could understand, really, that they had all the rights to call him a monster, especially after his behaviour. But they had hurt his family, and he wasn’t about to pardon that easily. 

And they had broken in ! His flat was locked, and, he’d verified, his rent had been on time, so really, they were in the wrong. Even if they were concerned by the smell of decay, they shouldn’t have gone in. They should have left him alone. 

So what to do with that paper ? Granted, the description of him – his corpse, rather – was vague enough that someone completely ignorant like his coworkers would have no idea it was him, but the address of the flat had been listed, and he was still a tenant there. If they decided to investigate, and discovered the state of his flat, even the current one that had been slightly more curated of the mould, that would go badly for him. 

The solution was simple, really. No one would ever know of that piece of paper he’d fed to that patch of mould on his arm. 

(No one would ever know, either, of those pieces of paper that had ended up as ashes in the trash bin, or ripped apart by clawed hands, or sunk into the depth of shadows. No one would ever know.) 

—

April 17th

—

Jon was confident that this day was going to be just fine. Until Elias came down to remind him that he had a statement giver that would come in the afternoon, and that he was apparently obligated to take that statement in person. 

Now, it wasn’t that Jon was ‘socially awkward’ – despite what Georgie might say – nor that he was particularly confrontational. It was just that… Well, the last live statement he had received had given him nightmares that he still suffered from, and he wasn’t about to reiterate the experience. 

Or, no, the last live statement he had taken was Tim’s, and he’d been just fine. But he had this… gut feeling, as much as the scorched remnants of his insides could be considered guts, that this one was going to give him as many nightmares as the others. 

And what nightmares they were ! It wasn’t that they were particularly scary, he never really woke up in cold sweat after them like he did so many times before with Mr Spider or even Jude. But they felt… off. He was sure they weren’t normal. 

They almost felt like lucid dreams, except despite all his awareness, he could never move, or will the scenery to change. He was just… stuck. Watching. The most he could do was to twitch the fingers of his burned hand, but everything else was a miss. 

He wanted, despite everything, to help the projection of Naomi Herne his subconscious had created. She seemed so desperate, stuck in that grave. The first nights, she had called to him, begging for help, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move, nor talk. 

He had managed to, once. That had been painful, and incredibly hard, but he had willed his tongue to move, and mumbled a miserable “sorry”. She had heard him, hopeful, and he had tried a bit more. They couldn’t converse together, but he hoped he had passed along the message that he couldn’t move. 

The following nights, she had stopped begging, and her eyes seemed less angry, more understanding that he was as forced as she was to be here, and slightly less scared. At least she wasn’t alone. Still, Jon couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t the only one in his nightmares. 

So, of course, he was a bit anxious at the prospect of another statement giver coming and telling their story. He wasn’t sure if he should expect another nightmare, but something really told him that he better prepare for the possibility. 

However, more than the prospect of even more restless nights, what settled dread into his stomach was the name of the statement giver. One Melanie King. 

Of course, he knew her. She was one of Georgie’s friends, and he’d actually offered to lend her some help on one of her videos a while ago. Unfortunately, their personalities had clashed too much, and he didn’t have any actual experience as a sound engineer beyond helping Georgie a bit for her podcast from time to time, so they had decided to call it off when Georgie had suggested Sarah Baldwin. 

He never actually met Sarah, but Georgie had said it was probably fine, so they did just that. He never saw Melanie again after, but he didn’t particularly want to, and he knew this meeting was about to go sourly. 

He was glad when Martin brought him tea, having picked up on his nervousness, and Tim and Sasha proposed to take the statement if it made Jon uncomfortable. They winced when he sighed and said he had to do it to Elias’ request, but dropped it. 

So, when at 10AM sharp, Rosie sent in Melanie after having her sign the usual waiver, Jon had no other choice than to try to maintain a straight face and look professional while desperately wishing to sink into his chair and disappear. 

He did not go to greet Melanie at the entrance of the Archives, instead asking Martin to lead her to his office. Given the face Melanie did when she recognised him, he was right, and Martin was thankfully gone by the time she exclaimed an incredulous “Jon ?!” 

He heaved a sigh, and tiredly responded by an hopefully polite “Hello, Melanie.” 

She carefully headed over to his desk and the chair placed in front of him, eyes still fixated on him. “Wait, you’re the Head Archivist here ? I thought you were a researcher.” 

“I was, last time we spoke. I got promoted in May.” 

“Oh. That tracks.” Then she frowned. “Are you qualified for this ? I’m not an expert but I don’t think archival work is that close to research, right ?” 

“No, you’re right. I don’t know how I got this promotion. Everyone was kind of under the impression that I’d blown the boss for it. If I’m honest, Sasha should have been promoted.” He figured he could at least be honest on that with Melanie. If anything, Georgie would probably have told her at some point. God knew these two gossipped way too much. “So, what brings you here ? Did the recording with Sarah Baldwin go well ?” 

Melanie winced. “Actually that’s why I’m here.” 

Oh. That meant this was going to be serious. Despite not particularly liking her, Jon was aware that Melanie firmly believed in the supernatural, but considered the Institute a joke. She wouldn’t have come here without anything serious. And if she hadn’t told Georgie about it – he would know if she had – then it was really serious. 

He took out a tape recorder from his drawer, checked that there was a blank cassette inside and put it on the desk, in front of Melanie. 

“I’m going to take your statement, then.” He clicked on the record button and let the device run. 

“Do I have to tell it to that thing ? I knew the Institute was outdated but-”

“What you saw was real, correct ?” he interrupted, back with his usual professionalism, making her frown. “Genuine accounts don’t record on digital devices. We can have my laptop recording as well, but the file will likely be corrupted beyond recognition. With the tape recorder, we can transcribe it later and record it on a laptop to see if it works.” 

Melanie glared. Oops. he had hoped to avoid a confrontation. “Fine.” 

“Good. Statement of Melanie King, regarding…” 

“Events at the abandoned Cambridge Military hospital during filming, in January 2015.” 

“Statement taken directly from subject, April 17th, 2016. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”

—

“Statement ends.” 

Melanie exhaled as she finished her statement, leaving Jon a second to think. “Do you still have the corrupted recording ?” 

She nodded. “Yeah, but it’s unusable. I still brought it, just in case. You can go over it if you want.” 

“Thank you.” Jon paused for a second, brows furrowed as he couldn’t help the tingly feeling at the back of his mind. He was sure Melanie’s experience reminded him of something, just- 

Jon shot up from his chair, startling Melanie. “Hold on a second,” he told her, before getting out of the office and calling for Sasha. She lifted her head up from her laptop, raising an eyebrow. “Do you know where we put the file on the Anglerfish statement ? Nathan Watts, in Edinburg.” 

“Over there I think ? With the 2012 statements.” 

“Thank you.” 

He came back to his office with the file in his hands, giving the statement to Melanie and keeping the follow up to review. “Here. Is it possible that this creature could be the one Sarah was talking with ? It’s one of the statements that won’t record digitally.” 

Melanie took her time going over the statement, wincing when reaching the most displeasing parts of it, then putting it back on the desk. “I mean, it’s possible that it was what Sarah was talking with, but I’m not entirely sure. As I said, I didn’t really see it, mostly just fled after she…” Melanie gestured to her arm, not really wanting to elaborate but passing along the message. 

Jon nodded, and handed her the follow up of the statement. “Here. Look at the list of victims.” 

Her eyes widened when they fell on Sarah’s name on the paper. “That’s-”

“Yes. If we theorise from here, I think it’s safe to say that the real Sarah Baldwin must have been attacked and… skinned ,” the disgust in his voice was obvious, “by this thing, and whatever was pretending to be her sort of ‘wore’ her for all this time.” 

Melanie swallowed and Jon put his head inside his hands. “Honestly I’m not sure what to do from here. I’d recommend you to go talk to Georgie. She’s been worried about you, and besides, she knows a lot about this stuff. Though I’d recommend doing it quickly, today if possible. We… have someone staying over, and I think you’d probably appreciate some privacy.” 

She nodded. “Can I bring the file home ?” 

“I’m afraid not. Those must strictly stay in the Archives. I can try to get you access to the Institute library though, if you’re interested.” 

“That would be perfect.” She gathered her bag and stood up, leaving the Archives and going to see Georgie. Jon shot her a text to warn her, and went back to work, assigning Martin on the textual transcription of the statement and Tim on the follow up. 

—

May 24th

—

There was not a day Jon regretted more having offered to Tim to stay with him than the day Georgie decided that it was alright to tell his coworker of his approaching birthday. 

He never really liked his birthday. He didn’t have a borderline antagonistic relationship with it like other people did – time was time, and he was fine enough with ageing – but he had simply never gotten into the habit of celebrating it. 

As a kid, he never invited friends over to have cake or presents, as he didn’t really want to face the inevitable disappointment when no one would show up. His grandmother usually put a piece of cake and a book in front of him, uttering a simple ‘Congratulations, Jonathan’, before leaving him to his own devices once he was finished. 

With Georgie, things were different. She liked parties, and had taken to her personal challenge to make Jon at least acknowledge that it was his birthday beyond just saying it. She’d invited friends – there was one time his old band had tried to play some god awful song to cheer him up – and always made a point of never leaving him to brush it off like the useless celebration it was . 

So when she told Tim a few days before, and that Jon saw his face light up with excitement and a mischievous smile stretch on his lips, Jon knew he was doomed. The following days, Jon had tried very hard to ignore the hushed whispers between Sasha and Tim, that Martin occasionally joined, and that he knew were about him. 

And when the D-Day finally arrived, Jon felt like a soldier sent to war. He had half the heart to ask Georgie for the licence plate of the truck that hit him as he got up from his bed. Standing upright made the pounding headache inside his skull double in intensity, and he realised that it was one of those days . 

He needed fuel. As strange as it might sound, he hadn’t really found a better way to formulate it, except for being Hungry , but he really didn’t like the idea of having a literal appetite for destruction. 

His curse had always pushed him to set things on fire, but that was fine. Well, it wasn’t, but he almost missed the time where it was only limited to that, fire. A lighter engraved in webs he wasn’t quite sure where he’d found, and a few papers, then everything transformed to ashes and it was enough. 

He was relieved that it was done, and didn’t question it further than the need to be reassured that if he ever encountered Mr Spider again, he would be able to face it. 

Until, after a few years, he realised that he didn’t have all that much free will regarding the things he set on fire. It started slow, at first. Just the itch to reach for that lighter always resting in his pocket. Then it was different. He didn’t just burn things . He burned possessions . 

Things that belonged to people, people that would miss them. Then more. And more. Until he burned homes . It never quite was fire that was satisfying anymore. It was the pain . 

Then he found out he couldn’t quit. 

But it wasn’t exactly in the way he couldn’t quit smoking (though he never did, because even without his system craving the nicotine, he still found relief in the simple gesture. And besides, it wasn’t like the smoke could damage his lungs anymore – they were burned to crisps already. At this point, he was practically sure the smoke was good for whatever he was.)

When he could quit smoking anytime, he couldn’t quit burning things all the same. Maybe at some point it had been the case. Maybe at some point he just had been an addict, a pyromaniac like any others. But not anymore. Now, the fire was a need, a fuel to his system he couldn’t go cold turkey from, much like food or sleep – though maybe he could for the latter, if he burned more things, but he found he didn’t want to try. 

He’d tried to stop. Once. For Georgie. He hadn’t told her about his curse, not at the time, and hadn’t wanted to. He wanted to prove that he was stronger than that. She’d found him shivering, half passed out on the floor and blood bubbling under his skin. 

She – thank God – hadn’t touched him, but did drop a few important papers – essays she had spent the past night on – causing them to erupt in flames. The resulting destruction gave him a bit of energy, and that had been how she’d finally learned of his curse. 

She was understanding, at least a little bit, and in the end they were able to make it work. It wasn’t great that he had to literally destroy properties to live, but it was what it was, and it was better than him dying. 

The rest was history : she told him of he own encounter with the supernatural, and they started the conspiracy board, that had throned in their living room for the next few years, until they had to eventually take it down when they moved out of Oxford and to London, then later when Tim came to stay with them while they deal with Prentiss. 

He’d kept feeding his curse for a while, enough to keep living but not enough to stop having basic human needs, and looking anything more than rail thin and tired constantly. 

Which led to that fateful day of May 24th, 2016, his twenty ninth birthday, which he predicted was going to be a shit day. He didn’t particularly like celebrating his birthday, for one, and he was needing fuel. He hadn’t fed his curse nearly as much as he should have in the past couple of months, not having nearly as much freedom to sneak out and set something on fire with Tim living at his home. 

As he stumbled into the kitchen, his head pounding something awful, he exchanged a glance with Georgie, and immediately she understood. 

“Do you want some help ?” she asked, worried. 

“I’m fine ,” he snapped at her, and immediately regretted it. That was another thing with his curse, when he needed fuel, he’d take every little scrap of hurt he could have, and that included hurting people by being an asshole. Georgie was long used to it since, and it didn’t even have an effect anymore, so Jon always regretted it more when he was snapping at her in particular, because he didn’t even have the flimsy excuse of his curse. “Sorry,” he muttered, and he meant it. 

“‘S okay,” she muttered, and wordlessly handed him a mug of tea she had prepared. The rest of the morning passed in quiet companionship, Jon not trusting himself enough not to say something harsh again. 

The day at the archives was… surprisingly okay. No one made too much of a fuss, and apart from Tim loudly offering him a bottle of wine for ‘the birthday boy’, nothing happened. Jon was very content to lock himself up in his office and pretend this was a normal day. Until of course, Martin told him that his tea was in the breakroom, and to come take it. 

Jon was, of course, unsuspicious of this only slightly unusual demand, and simply thanked Martin, deciding to finish what he was doing before going to fetch it – he could still reheat it anyway. 

However, when, fifteen minutes later, he came into view of the breakroom and was startled by three voices screaming ‘Surprise !’, he almost slipped and scorched the door. He didn’t, thankfully, though he let out a very undignified yelp that Georgie would tease him endlessly about if she was here. 

“What the hell- !” he shouted. If he still had a functioning heart, he might have had a heart attack. 

“Happy- are you alright ?” Martin asked. Jon took half a step back, pressing a hand to his heart. 

“Yes, quite alright,” he tried, putting on his ‘bossman’ persona. “You startled me.” He shook himself, trying to pretend the previous moments hadn’t happened. 

Sasha snorted. “That's kind of the point.” 

Tim took that as his cue and approached Jon, throwing an arm around the shorter man and smiling. “Happy birthday, boss !” he exclaimed.

Jon glared at Tim. “The bottle of wine was fine.” 

He snorted. “As a decoy .”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I suppose this was Tim’s idea ?” he said, raising his eyebrows at him. Of course, as soon as he glared, he was the picture of innocence. 

“Y- Yeah, Tim told us and wanted to throw a party. Sorry for scaring you,” Martin stuttered. Jon pretended not to see the other man mutter something along the lines of ‘ snitch ’, and nodded, trying to reassure Martin. 

Sasha cut in, steering the conversation towards Martin’s birthday and how Jon had spent one afternoon talking about emulsifiers. They laughed as he claerly didn’t remember that, and continued chatting a bit. Sasha was about to say something when she heard the voice of someone that she didn’t really want to see. 

“Knock knock !” Elias said as he leaned on the door frame.

“Double boss !” said Tim, though a slight discomfort filtered in his voice. Hopefully they weren’t in trouble for throwing their little party. 

Everyone visibly tensed at the intrusion, though Elias seemed entirely unbothered. He stayed for a while, steel eyes lingering on everyone and never quite leaving Jon, even as he ate his slice of cake – a slice Tim was not happy to give him but did anyway – and sang to Jon – his ‘Archivist’ dissonating clearly from the rest of them. Seriously, couldn’t he just call Jon by his name ? 

Everyone was relieved when he was out, and they continued chatting a bit about how he always seemed to know when there was cake in the building. Sonja from Artefact Storage had apparently experimented about it, and concluded that chocolate and cream were the most likely to draw him out of his office, contrary to anything more fruit based – though a strawberry cake for Jon hadn’t had the desired effect. 

They finished their glasses, ate their slices, and went back to work, but Jon couldn’t help but notice that the somewhent tense atmosphere that had been installed for a few weeks now was dissipated. 

When he went home that day, accompanied by Tim, Jon was feeling better. Sure, he almost had a panic attack as Tim lit up the candles but… overall, it had been nice. He’d had a nice time, for once. 

That night, Jon felt warm inside, and he wasn’t sure it could be attributed to his curse all that much. 

—

June 10th

—

“Look, Tim, please , I just need to know !” 

“Know what , Sasha ? If Jon is a monster ?” 

Sasha bit her lip. Sure, that was what she wanted to know but… she hadn’t anticipated Tim to react that way. 

She’d seen Michael again, a day ago. They’d appeared in the same place as last time, warning her again against the Archivist and telling her to protect her friends. This time, she’d told Tim about it, because she needed an ally. She’d needed Tim’s level headedness and proximity to the situation to help her find out about whatever Jon was hiding. 

She didn’t believe Jon was dangerous. She didn’t believe Michael, because they were probably lying. She shouldn’t believe them. 

Yet, she did, didn’t she ? She knew something was up with Jon, whatever it was, and she always had that itch at the back of her neck, that prickling feeling that something wasn’t right. 

It wasn’t a normal thing, to make a list of all the little oddities and inconsistencies of her coworker. 

(Jon was always running a little hot, didn’t he ? And why was he always smelling of smoke, not cigarette smoke but charred remains and large fires ? He had scars, burns, all the way up his arms and beneath his clothes, likely covering his whole body. That wasn’t normal, right ?) 

It wasn’t a normal thing, to follow him to his home, hoping not to be discovered, just to be sure he didn’t suck out during the night to hurt people. 

(But she was sure, there was one night, one night where he’d gone out and came back with his sleeves burned and trailing smoke, one night where his eyes had been glazing like embers, one night where she was certain she had seen it, the monster he was.)  

It wasn’t a normal thing, to ask other people if they, too, had seen it, the monster hiding under a disguise. 

Yet she did it, because she needed to know if Tim and Martin were in danger, if Jon was a danger, if Michael told the truth. She needed to know, because she needed to justify what she did, because if she couldn’t, what better of a monster was she ? 

“Look Sash, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. But Jon is- Jon is human, okay ? Jon is just a- a prickly, unlikeable coworker that yes, is an asshole sometimes, but he is our friend , Sasha. You know him. Hell, you’ve known him for- for four years !” 

Guilt was… an unpleasant feeling. One she started to be a bit too familiar with, ever since she started investigating her coworker – her friend . She swallowed, mouth dry. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not me you should apologise to.” She lowered her eyes, and Tim sighed. “Hey, I know you’re stressed. This- This Michael, they don’t want anything good for you, or for any of us. We’re fine. You don’t need to worry about it.” 

She nodded. She should accept Tim’s advice, listen to him, because he was her best friend. She really should. 

Perhaps Michael had targeted her because they knew she wouldn’t be able to drop it.

Chapter Text

July 18th

—

Jon was about to get scolded by Martin for his ‘crimes against humani-tea’, as put by Tim, and that would be his fault. 

Yesterday, he had wanted to make himself a cup, using his usual method and completely forgetting the presence of his host. The problem resided in the fact that his method was a bit unorthodox. 

He reached for a mug – from Georgie’s merch – and a teabag in the other cupboard – peppermint, his favourite – along with some sugar – he never got it perfectly right like Martin did, but he wasn't about to admit that. Then, he grabbed the faucet and poured cold water directly into the mug. 

He was about to head back to the living room and continue reading his book – an old story about a family of French minors in the nineteenth century – and boil his mug by himself when he realised that he wasn't alone in the kitchen. Standing in the doorway was Tim. 

Usually, Jon's unorthodox tea-making method involved boiling the water himself, waiting a few minutes for the tea to steep, then drinking the scalding hot beverage immediately after. But with Tim here, he couldn't quite do that. 

"D- Did you just- Are you going to drink it like that ?" he asked, shocked. Or rather Jon assumed that was what he said through the strangled and undignified noises his throat emitted. 

At that exact moment, Jon started experiencing a 'stress reaction'. 

This occurrence wasn't unusual per se . Stress was an unfortunately common thing for Jon, as his life was spent with a constant level of it ranging from mild to high, for reasons that went from his nature as a source of arson to the arsehole that was his boss, with a thousand things in between. 

And sometimes, he was put in a stressful situation for an extended period of time, e. i. hosting his colleague at his home and hiding the fact that he was a bloody ticking bomb. 

And other times, the situation reached a peak during which he felt cornered, kickstarting a fight or flight response, e. i. being confronted by said colleague about something he didn’t have a non-supernatural explanation for. 

During those moments however, neither fight nor flight were an option, so he, instead, did a secret third thing : freeze. There was no decision to be made, so he made none. He, to simply put it, blanked. 

And, in the absence of anything else to do, his mind found nothing better than to start blasting Staying Alive by the Bee Gees. Something he could find slightly ironic if he still had the brain processing capacity for that, because he'd much rather combust on the spot than 'stay alive'. 

“Uh. Yes,” he stammered, rigidity and uncomfort already deducible from his posture clearly showing in his voice. Not that he himself would notice, of course, as all his thoughts were drowned in the high pitched voice of the singer. 

“You’re going to drink it. Like that. Cold,” said Tim, still a bit stunned. 

Staying Alive seemingly transitioned into Dancing Queen by ABBA. 

“Uh. No. I’m going to… heat it up.” said Jon in the exact same way as previously, his posture stiffening ever so slightly more. 

“How ?” cried Tim, and Jon could almost congratulate him for putting up with him with such patience. He was sure he would have slapped himself if he’d been in Tim’s place. 

Jon’s eyes darted across the room, trying to find an excuse. “I will, uh, use the microwave,” he declared, his voice slightly more relaxed now that he had an actual, plausible lie. He swallowed and continued, trying to make his lie more believable. “Like I always do.” 

Ignoring the look of disbelief on Tim’s face, he had darted towards the device, set the timer on three minutes, and waited. 

And this was how, the next day, Jon found himself being scolded by Martin because of that, since of course Tim had complained. 

“And, and, I can’t believe it ! Why couldn’t you put the kettle on ?! And seriously, even if you had to microwave the water, don’t do it with the tea bag still in !” Martin went on his rant for a while, and Sasha was all too happy to put on her earbuds and ignore the fuss happening in the Head Archivist’s office. 

She would have thought Jon would chew up Martin, declaring that ‘ his method was perfectly effective, thank you ’, but the man actually looked ashamed of himself, which was a wonder. She snickered at the thought of Jon, eyes fixated on the papers on his desk, not daring to meet Martin’s gaze.

The being you call ‘Jonathan Sims’ is about as human as I am. And Archivists don't have a very good track record of taking care of their Assistants.  

Michael’s rattling laugh echoed against her temples, and she was reminded all too vividly that Jon was probably not what he pretended to be. Was Jon even his – its , she reminded herself – real name ? Did it have a name at all ? No, she couldn’t follow that train of thought. Jon was Jon , he was a he and not an it, and he was her friend . 

So what if he might be a monster ? She was one too ! And if he really wanted to harm her or Tim or Martin, he had so many occasions, and he had never acted on it. He was just a slightly rude, a bit snappish coworker, and it was fine . 

… When had she started to doubt as much of Jon ? Or rather, when had she started to doubt at all ? She wasn’t usually like this. Was it Michael’s doing ? It had been months since she’d last seen them, yet they had said exactly the right things to send her spiralling back then, lost in thoughts and paranoid, and it hadn’t stopped since. What did it remind her of ? 

She was sure she’d already encountered something like that. Quietly, she looked around to make sure no one saw her, and she pulled out the first of her black leather bound notebooks. This one was the one she’d started back in Artefact Storage. 

She flipped through a few pages before finally finding what she needed. There it was. Michael reminded her of a Leitner. Perhaps they had even fallen victim and been transformed by the exact same one as she remembered. 

The book wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary. Innocent, welcoming. It was a simple notebook, one with a worn cover and slightly rusted spirals – figures it did for a great metaphor. Her notes on the thing said that written inside were things about the victim’s friends and acquaintances. True or not, one may never know. It was different with everyone, but always seemed innocent enough at first. 

Some offhand comment about how one thought their work wasn’t enough, or another thought they were annoying, and all that. Then it was worse, and it always, systematically ended with the victim doubting their reality. An evil gaslighting book, if you will. 

Was Michael gaslighting her ? Maybe. She wasn’t sure. Their tales were certainly perfectly aimed to shatter just the right point in her reality to make her anxious around her boss, her friend. Jon . Who was about as dangerous as a small cat. Even a cat could do more damage than him. Yes , he was an arsehole sometimes, but he always seemed so apologetic once the heat had cooled down. 

She put her notebook back in her purse, and took the second one out. This one was all about the Archives. And it contained detailed notes on all the supernatural occurrences that happened near her coworker. If Jon was truly a monster, the proof would be there. 

She was about to open it when she heard footsteps, and quickly put it back in her pocket. She heard a huff, and then saw Martin walking past her, taking his coat from the rack. 

“I’m going to get lunch,” he explained as she took out one earbud and shot him a quizzical look. 

She smiled and nodded. “Bon appétit. Also, did you manage to make Jon apologise about that microwaved tea ?” 

He huffed and rolled his eyes. “He tried to play his bossman card, but I could tell he was actually sorry. Made Tim promise to stop him next time it happened.” He waved, and he was out of the dusty basement. 

Soon enough, Jon – her friend that might not be human and microwave tea but that did not want to hurt her or Tim or Martin, she had to convince herself of that – was back into his office, and Tim joined her in the bullpen. 

Everything was fine, until she heard a crash in Jon’s office, before seeing the man scamper out of his office with a panicked look, yelling at her and Tim to run, and grabbing both their wrists to lead them in Document Storage, silver maggots on their heels.

Chapter Text

Georgie had always told Jon to take those anger management classes. 

He never did. After all, it wasn’t exactly his fault that he was cursed by one of these fucked up books when he was barely thirteen, and that said curse literally needed him to be an angry and snappish asshole to survive – at least to some extent. 

So yes, Jon had some problems with overreaction. He had had a stressful morning, anxious that Martin or Tim would discover the real reason why he’d microwaved his tea – an irrational fear, he knew, but that didn’t ease the anxiety. 

He also had a deep hatred for both Jurgen Leitner, and spiders, and held absolutely no remorses were he to murder either of those. He would gladly do it, in fact, though Leitner was probably dead, but if he ever met the murderer, he’d hug him. 

So on that fine Friday afternoon, it wasn’t Jurgen Leitner who had turned up on the wall of Jon’s office, but a spider. 

Naturally, he murdered it. 

Just as naturally, he didn’t approach the wretched thing. Usually, he dealt with these by calling Martin and asking him to put it outside, but the man was gone on his lunch break, and Jon didn’t feel like asking Tim or Sasha for help. 

Following this reasoning, naturally, he, in all logic, threw a paperweight at it. 

Now, that is when the first problem comes in. See, the wall, supposedly an exterior wall, wasn’t as solid as Jon had expected, and the plaster collapsed on impact. And instead of crumbling and leaving dirt or concrete in its wake, as expected, behind the plaster was a gaping hole. 

Jon would have approached the dusty rumble with curiosity, if the second problem hadn’t made its appearance. 

A literal cascade of worms, wriggling and pouring from the opening in the exact same fashion as described by Tim in his statement. 

He knew immediately that he could not face them on his own, not if he wanted to keep Sasha and Tim safe. And he may not be the kindest with them, but he wouldn’t let them die, not to something like Prentiss. Instead of confronting the worm-made abomination that was emerging from the hole in his office wall, he bolted out. 

“Run !” he shouted, closing his door to try to gain some time. He hesitated an instant, unsure if he should take the tape recorder or not. After all, it might help to have something to exploit and analyse after, right ? Prentiss looked like she might have been human once, could she help with his own curse ? He needed answers. 

He waited for too long. That split second of hesitation was all the worms needed to flood his office, likely including the tape recorder, and beginning to burrow under the door. To hell with that recorder, he needed to act fast . 

He yelled again to his assistants to run, before grabbing both their wrists and leading them to Document Storage. The room was airtight, they would be safe. He was keeping enough control not to burn them, but he was still acutely aware of how hot his skin was. Hopefully they would chalk it up as an impression, and not think too much. 

The worms were on their heels as they finally entered Document Storage, and Jon was able to close the door without a single one of them entering. Good. 

“What,” started Tim, “the fuck . What happened ?” 

“I- I’m not sure,” said Jon. “The wall of my office broke, and she emerged from what appears to be a- a sort of secret room ? Something like that, I didn’t really have the time to see with… all the worms.” 

Tim and Sasha visibly paled, and Sasha asked : “And… What now ?” 

“We wait.” 

Sasha was… having a hard time. 

The situation clearly didn’t help her spiralling thoughts, and she was resisting the urge to bite her nails. 

She was trapped. She was trapped with Tim, a defenceless human, and Jon, a potential monster. Was allowing Prentiss to come here really an accident ? Or was it intentional ? Did he seek to hurt them ? Shit, maybe he did. No. No he didn’t . Michael could go to hell, or whatever was out there instead. 

But even knowing that, rationally, that didn’t stop her hand from nervously reaching for the black notebook tucked in her pocket, nor did it stop her eyes from darting from Jon to the door, still thankfully closed, keeping the worms out – and the monster in . And what about Martin ? God, she hoped he didn’t have the idea of coming back. He did say he had to meet up with a friend though, and that it would take a while, so as long as they weren’t trapped for too long… 

“Does anyone else hear that ?” asked Jon, suddenly sounding up. He was standing next to her, checking himself for any worm bites. 

“Hears… what ?” asked back Sasha, confused. She didn’t hear anything. 

“No, no, I hear it too. Is it- a tape recorder ?” said Tim. Now that she paid attention, yes, it- there was definitely a faint whirring. How- 

“Did you bring a tape recorder here, Jon ?” she asked, furrowing her brow. Well, not that it wasn’t reassuring, in some way, to know that maybe there would be a trace if Jon tried anything, but… That would easily be removed if necessary. 

“No. I didn’t,” he firmly replied. “I know I didn’t. I hesitated to, but the worms were already flooding my office and- I didn’t.” 

So that was another mystery. “Why did you hesitate ?” 

Jon stiffened. “Dunno. I… I guess I just wanted to… to have a proof. To… to have something after, to keep, to- to study, to understand what the hell that was and how to fight it.” 

Understandable. But that didn’t explain the recorder’s presence if no one had brought it there. Sasha spotted it on the top shelf and grabbed it. She shot a quizzical look at the others. It appeared to be a regular portable recorder, exactly like the ones used by the Institute, except this one didn’t have a label to indicate where it belonged, nor did it appear to have any visible brand. 

Unsure, she tentatively reached for the button to stop the recording. She distinctly heard a click , saw the wheels stop turning, but as soon as she released the button, the whirring came back, and the device recorded again. She furrowed her brow, trying again, but it led to the exact same thing. She looked at the others, who shared the same look of confusion and understanding : whatever this was, it was certainly of supernatural origin. 

The room fell into a tense silence, everyone refusing to talk or give anything to the device recording. Sasha sighed and ran a hand through her hair in a vain attempt to calm herself. She wanted nothing more than just retreat and sink into a shadow, finally be calm, quiet, away and- 

The lightbulb overhead burst. Shit . That was prone to happen, when she was stressed. Now she had to even more take it on herself if she wanted to at the very least stay corporeal. She- 

Wait. What- What was that light, there in the darkness ? Usually, when this happened, no source of light could exist in her Darkness. Candles were extinguished, and bulbs exploded. How- 

Did- Did the light just blink ? This wasn’t Jon, she was sure of it. Jon was right next to her, and he seemed equally petrified at the sight of this faint yellow glow. Then it blinked again. And Sasha realised that those weren’t lights . Those were eyes . Glowing, yellow eyes, with a split pupil in the centre. The eyes of a predator . 

Whatever those eyes belonged to seemed to get self conscious, and closed them. Then Tim spoke, all wariness against the tape recorder vanished in light of the current happening, and Sasha froze again. His voice was coming from the exact same place where these eyes had been glowing moments ago. 

“ Shit . Okay, hum… Look guys, I hadn’t planned on this but… you’re going to have to trust me on this one.” 

Was Tim the monster ? Did Michael lie, and made her doubt Jon, only to make the revelation of Tim hurt more ? Did Tim tell her to drop the matter in fear of being discovered if she investigated Jon further ? Sasha herself was a monster, too, but she never wanted to hurt anyone. Was Tim with Michael ? Was it why they’d come up to her ? 

The temperature in the room went up noticeably. “You’re not human,” whispered Jon, stepping closer to Sasha. 

“No I- Shit, look, I’m still Tim alright ? I’m the same guy you’ve known for years. I- Fuck, let’s just get out of this situation. I’ll explain everything later.” The eyes – Tim’s eyes – opened again. And without further warning, Tim started to break down the wall. 

Sasha screamed. He stopped for a moment. “Look Sash-” he said,” I know how that looks but trust me when I say that all I want is to have you two and Martin safe . I- I can feel a breeze, there. I think if we break down the wall, we can have an escape.” 

“Tim, wha-” tried Jon, before being interrupted by a loud thump that indicated that Tim had started acting on his plan again. He didn’t stop when Jon tried again. “Why can’t we stay here and wait for help ?” he screamed over the noise. 

“This is lunch time-” thump “-so no one is going to-” thump “-check on us any time soon.” thump “In fact-” thump “-the only one that might do-” thump “-is Martin-” thump “-and I really don’t want to-” thump “-let him confront Prentiss alone,” he yelled back, still doing God knows what to break down the wall – in the darkness it was impossible to tell. 

Sasha felt something shift in the shadows, in the exact place Tim was standing. His form was… changing. Taller, limbs longer. He’d dropped the act, in the same way Michael did with his reflection, though she had never noticed anything similar with Tim. Perhaps he was just good at hiding. Finally, one last hit, and the wall crumbled. 

“Come on,” he said, and his voice crackled, not exactly human anymore, as if his vocal chords were protesting from forming those sounds. 

—

Jon had no idea how he managed to lose Tim and Sasha in those tunnels. One moment he was with them, walking behind in the absolute darkness, guiding himself with the sound of their footsteps and breathing – he refused to take Sasha’s hand, too afraid she’d notice his abnormal temperature – and the next instant he wasn’t with them anymore. 

He’d felt something shift, heard the sound of stone scraping against stone, but then, nothing, and he was facing a wall. It was as if those tunnels had moved on their own ! 

In the absence of anything better to do, he knew he only had one option left. At least he could take care of Prentiss knowing Tim and Sasha were safe – or, at least that Tim could defend Sasha in any case.

He couldn’t believe what he’d just learned about him ! They’d known each other for years, and it turned out he was cursed like him ! Or, maybe not like him, his curse was clearly different, but he was cursed too. How had they never noticed each other ? In films and such, monsters could always detect each other, with a sort of sixth sense or whatever, and his encounter with Jude had somewhat proved this theory, but there, nothing ! 

Which also begged the question, how many other cursed people had he encountered unknowingly ? Sasha and Martin were off the table, Sasha’s reaction to Tim being enough to know she clearly wasn’t invested in the supernatural world – not that he was himself, knowing nothing apart from his curse and the existence of Jude’s cult – and Martin didn’t fit the type. 

Still, he wasn’t about to blame Tim for hiding his nature. He had done the same, and even now, he wasn’t sure he would admit it to Tim. Probably just stay with him a bit, try – and probably fail – to be comforting, assure him that it didn’t bother him. All of that would probably hurt Tim even more when Jon’s jig would eventually be up, but for now, that was an acceptable temporary solution. 

At the moment, in the darkness of the tunnels – and was it just him, or did they seem slightly brighter ? – he knew what to do. If he couldn’t go back with Tim and Sasha, he would deal with Prentiss himself. 

Making his way back to the hole in the wall of Document Storage wasn’t difficult, and the walk even somehow felt shorter. Opening the sealed door was just as easy. 

And there she was. 

Exactly like Tim had described her, in all of her glory, full of rot and silver maggots. Jon smiled maniacally, his hand itching for burning and his instincts roaring in his ears. Oh yes, she felt so, so loved, and her despair from the loss of what she considered family would be so filling and sweet . 

She turned as she felt him stomping on her worms, rage distorting her face in a rictus showing all of her rotten and decayed teeth, eyes gone but still conveying her fury as Jon shivered with pleasure. He took his time as he approached her, palm heating up and scorching the worms he took between his fingers. 

He was a mere metre away from her, and finally, finally , rage gave out to fear. He lunged for her, feeling the skin bubbling beneath the iron grip he held on her face. She screamed, and he laughed from sheer delight. 

Until he heard the squeak of hinges as a trapdoor opened behind him. 

—

Tim was having a really hard time, half crawling in the tunnels. With Prentiss so close, his instincts had stopped their constant whisper at the back of his mind and were now downright screaming at him prey killhuntbloodhunt- in an unending litany. 

It was complicated enough to keep that under control, let alone wrestle his form back into a more human one – which was even more difficult given that he had half starved himself in the past few months. 

At least, he was thankful for the darkness. He wasn’t sure how Sasha would react if she saw him like that. Even with all the time he’d had to get used to it, he couldn’t help a moment of horror every time he catched a glimpse of the monster he was, all sharp edges and glistering teeth. 

He braced himself, hand on the wall to try to find an exit in the pitch black. They’d lost Jon a few minutes ago, facing a wall when they’d gone back to find him. Now, Tim was facing a ladder – and above him, what he assumed to be a trapdoor. 

“Do you want to take our chances with that ?” he asked Sasha, grimacing at the sound of his own voice. His vocal chords weren’t exactly made for speech, like that. It sounded like the combination of a growl and the cracking of his voice when he’d just begun HRT. 

“I mean, not sure if we can go anywhere else. It’s- really dark there, and I’m not sure there is any other exit.” Was that Tim or Sasha’s voice sounded… deeper ? With a slight echo, more than his. Probably the tunnels but… that was weird. 

“We just have to hope it doesn’t open back in the Archives, right ?” he tried to joke, but it sounded hollow. He could practically hear Sasha grimacing. He cleared his throat. “Right. Anyway I- I’ll go first I suppose.” 

He climbed the ladder, putting an ear to the wooden panel above him, listening for worms. He couldn’t hear them but he was sure he heard- a scream . Awful, hollow and devastating, but it was one. He took Sasha’s hand in his, anxious, braced himself, and pushed open the trapdoor with a grunt to see- 

To see- 

What the hell was he seeing ? 

There was Prentiss, he knew that. He was sure of that. There was Jon, too, even if Jon- 

Jon was… Jon was like him. God, Jon was like him, and he was covered in burns, part of his clothes singed and smoking, showing large, red and angry scars all over his body. Jon was hurt, Jon was covered in burns Tim wasn’t sure any human could survive and Jon- 

Jon was bent over Prentiss, a hand pressed against her face and the other on her shoulder, pinning her in place so she couldn’t move as he melted her features . 

The monster – Jon, his friend, who was a monster like him – slowly turned around, a fearful look on his face. His eyes lingered an instant on Tim, taking in his form, his glowing yellow eyes, likely judging his dangerousness, but instead of staying on him like Tim expected, Jon’s eyes went right next to him. To Sasha. 

Tim turned around, afraid of what he wouldn’t find there – was she injured ? Was she- 

Tim forgot what he expected to find in Sasha’s place the moment he looked at her. 

It was Sasha. He was sure of that. He still had her hand in his, their shoulders were brushing, it was Sasha . Yet, did Sasha always have eyes like black holes ? 

Looking at her was like looking at a version of her that had been painted with- whatever the name was of that paint that was so dark it absorbed almost all light. It was mesmerising. It was terrifying. It was- 

Jon cleared his throat. Tim hadn’t even noticed Prentiss had finished screaming. Oh. That handprint melted in her face will be hard to explain. 

“I- I think we’re good. For Prentiss, at least. But I think… I think we will all have a lot of explaining to do.”

Chapter Text

January 3rd, 2008

—

Nora wasn’t sure how exactly he’d ended up in this situation. Well, that was the lie he told himself, even though it held very little comfort. Did self-gaslighting technically count as feeding his curse ? With a name like that, the thing felt like he was literally lighting himself on fire. Actually, that was an option, right ? 

Everything to avoid telling it to Georgie. 

They’d been dating for almost two years now. They’d met in Oxford, at school, through one of their shared classes, and then realised they had common acquaintances, and after a year and a half, decided to give a go at dating. 

Nora was sure it would end tonight though, and that he would lose both a friend and a partner. 

The thing that would end it all wasn’t bad in itself. It would simply be the proof that it would never work between them. 

It had started at the beginning of the year. Honestly, if Nora hadn’t been so recklessly curious, nothing would have happened. He was sort of glad it happened, still. He’d taken a lot of various classes, mostly for his ‘personal enrichment’, as he called it when he wanted to sound posh. The subject didn’t matter, as long as it was entertaining. Human Diversity, Evolution and Cognition, Introduction to Theatre, Arabic Cultures, and eventually, Anthropology. 

That last one had fascinated him. Humanities were mostly hit or miss, and for him, he needed a good professor for the subject to hit. Mrs Vuillemiers was perfect . He still remembered the first time she had asked that question. Who here thinks sex and gender are the same thing ?  

After that, it went quickly. The Internet was perfect for that, and Jon rapidly found himself neck deep into a research rabbit hole. Queer Politics, Queer History, Transgender Studies, all of those very interesting and enlightening topics. And after reading all that, he started drawing conclusions. 

They weren’t comfortable conclusions , at first. The idea that he was wrong , for his whole life, with something as big as himself was stinging hard on his pride. And what to do of others ? They wouldn’t like him as a he , he was sure of that. They wouldn’t like him as anything other than Nora , the girl that was a bit weird and dated Georgie. 

But he couldn’t deny that it was weighing on him. He’d become short and snippy, more than usual, and he could see that it hurt Georgie. He needed to tell her. Or at least someone, but she was his only option, right ? His confident. His best friend. 

For that matter, the Internet wasn’t of any help. It just gave him a lot of stories about how badly it could go, how people like him were told that what they were feeling wasn’t real, or got sent to conversion therapy, or maybe worse. 

He had no idea how to tell her. He’d actually wondered if making a Powerpoint was too much. 

And now, Nora was sitting on the couch of he and Georgie’s shared flat. They’d been living together for a few months now, since the beginning of the school year, and he wasn’t sure what he would do once she’d actually kicked him out. He really, really hoped it didn’t come to that, but how else could it go ? Georgie was a lesbian, and he, as it turned out… 

“…And that’s… just it. I’m a man. I… I suppose you’ll want to… end this, because well… I know you’re a lesbian, and you’ll probably not really want to be with a man. A-And I know this relationship hasn’t been going too great, lately, but I- I just wish we’d stay friends and I-” 

“Nora,” Georgie interrupted. Then she paused for a moment. “Do I still call you Nora ?” 

He rubbed his neck, slightly embarrassed. “I haven’t really thought of a name yet.” 

She nodded. “Nora. You’re trans. That’s fine. And- You’re right that we haven’t exactly been doing great as a couple, and that I won’t really want to date you as a man but… I’m not letting you go,” she smiled. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’ll stay your friend, whether you want it or not. And think of The Admiral ! How could you think of abandoning your baby !” 

Nora smiled, and for the first time in many weeks, he thought things might be okay. 

—

January 5th, 2008

—

“And how about Achilles ?” 

“ Achilles ? Really ?” snorted Georgie. “Do you hear yourself ? Oh my god, it’s like it’s your Greek Mythology phase all over again !” 

Nora sputtered for a bit, flustered. He’d been trying to come up with a name for himself for a while, and ended up requesting Georgie’s help reviewing those he’d picked. 

“Then maybe you have suggestions, Miss Barker ?” he asked in what he hoped was his most posh, condescending tone. Apparently it was, given how she scoffed. 

“Of course I do, Mr Sims. How about… John ?” 

“John ?” 

“Well, yes, John ! That’s maybe a bit bland , but at least it’s not as over the top as some of your suggestions.” 

“Yes, but it’s a bit… too bland. Not remarkable. Maybe as a nickname of sorts, but not as the full name.” He paused for a second, then took on his posh accent again. “And Mr Sims must sound professional !” 

Georgie snickered. “Alright, your call. But I must remind you that Achilles isn’t really professional. What’s next on the list ?” 

Nora flipped over some pages of his notebook, looking for something satisfying. 

“Michael ?” 

“There are too many Michaels in the world, we do not need another one.”

“Fair. Elijah ?” 

“Wasn’t that your dad’s name ?” 

He shrugged. “I like it. Maybe as a second name though.” 

More pages, and silence for a few seconds.

“And how about… Jonathan ?” 

“Jonathan ?” 

“Yes, Jonathan. Jon for short. How does that sound ?” 

“It sounds… nice. Jonathan Sims. Yeah, that suits you.” 

“And that’s professional ,” he joked. 

“Yeah, that too. Where did you take it from ?” 

“Nowhere,” he replied, slightly tensed, reddening in embarrassment as she raised an eyebrow at him. He looked away and muttered “Dracula.” 

She snorted. “Of course you like Dracula,” she teased lightly, giggling as he glared daggers. She smiled, looking at him. “But yeah. Jonathan Sims. It sounds… like you.” 

—

November 19, 2009

—

Jon was rambling. Georgie was trying her best to listen intently, but he sure was talking a lot. For how long has he been going on already ? She should buy him a book about the subject. One more gift to accompany the lot. 

They were out to celebrate Jon finally getting on HRT after many months of battling against the NHS. Seriously, whoever thought it was okay to make it that difficult to access should go eat a dick. But to celebrate that, Georgie had decided to gift something to Jon. The gift would be a bit for her, but mostly Jon. 

So here they were, in the middle of Oxford, in an animal shelter, looking to adopt a cat. A big cat, if Jon had a say in it. A fluffy, orange one, ideally. He always wanted a cat like that. And it was, in Georgie’s opinion, an excellent choice.

Jon was talking about his latest deep dive, something that had nothing to do with cats, but cinema instead. The Rashomon effect. He’d seen the film after one of their mutual friends had pirated it and landed Jon the DVD, and he’d loved it. 

“…and it’s considered as one of the most innovative films of the time ! Did you know it was the first one to show the sun directly on camera ? Everyone thought that was a dumb thing to do before, like it would burn the pellicule or the lens, and since those were expensive, no one wanted to be the one to explain to the production that they’d been stupid enough to try it. Also, all the first part of it is filmed in the woods, and they used mirrors to reflect the light and have decent exposure, since there were no colours, only black and white – it was 1950, you know. That seems like a no-brainer nowadays, but can you imagine how innovative that was ? Anyway, we named ‘Rashomon effect’ the idea of using different camera angles to present characters differently. It’s kind of the same thing we did when we named ‘Vertigo effect’ the fact that we unzoom in the picture while driving the camera closer. It was first used by Hitchcock in Vertigo , so we named it like the film – by the way, you should absolutely see it, it’s so great. And in Rashomon , the whole twist is that-” 

Georgie let Jon go on for quite a bit, nodding along and asking a few questions here and there. 

“…and then , we learn that the woodcutter was-” 

“Hm ?” said Georgie. Why had he stopped talking ? What he was saying was interesting. She glanced at him, and smiled as she saw what had catched his attention. 

Not even dignifying her with an answer, Jon continued to stare owlishly at a little kitten in the shelter. Orange and fluffy. He looked perfect. Then, without warning, he scurried over to the place, letting an adorable sound escape from his lips as he kneeled and took a closer look to the tiny ball of fluff. 

“Georgie, look !” he exclaimed as he took the thing in his arms. “It’s so cute !” 

Jon’s eyes were glimmering as the small form in his arms squirmed and meowed, trying to press its tiny body to Jon’s. The scene was adorable, and Georgie kind of wished she had her camera with her. 

Jon continued cooing and scratching the kitten’s fur for a while. She looked adorably at her best friend and the meowing cat, both so happy she was certain Jon would purr alongside the cat if he could. 

She smiled. 

A month later, Jon was snoring on the ratty old couch in their flat. On his chest, a purring and much more sizeable loaf of orange fur sat. 

—

March 3rd, 2011

—

Jon was twenty four when he climbed the few steps to the massive door of the Magnus Institute for the first time. 

He knew why he was there, of course. The moment he had received that opportunity to work in Research in this building, he knew he had to take it. After years of fumbling around blindly in the dark, managing his curse while struggling to keep a barely normal looking life, he knew that was the place where he would finally have answers. 

So, Jon was twenty four when he opened the door to the place that he was certain would finally give a meaning to his life. 

He was also twenty four when he returned to that place, a week later, to finally start on his new position. 

Elias Bouchard greeted him personally in the lobby. That was a bit unsettling in itself. Jon didn’t have much experience with workplaces in general, but he was quasi certain that the big boss wasn’t supposed to be around new hires like that. But, after all, he’d been the one to personally conduct his interview, so perhaps academia was different. 

Or rather, it would be more logical to say the Institute was different. It wouldn’t be the only strange thing happening here, given the reputation of the place. 

Immediately as he stepped into the building, anxiety overcame him. There was such a strong feeling of- of scrutiny , as if everyone there was watching him, judging him down to the charred remains of his bones. He shuddered and steeled himself, determined to bury every inhuman trait he possessed as deep as possible. 

Was it possible to get rid of his curse through sheer willpower ? Probably not. But he would be damned if he didn’t try. 

Elias greeted him, a plain, neutral smile on the lips, as bland and corporate as the man himself. Jon resisted the urge to wipe away the sweat that he was sure was beading on his brow and instead too Elias’ hand. 

Elias – now officially his superior – took him through the corridors of the building. Most felt dusty, and Jon resisted the urge to scream as he spotted several cobwebs in some corners. It was clearly an old building, and he decided to instead distract himself with what Elias was rambling on – the history of the place, Jonah Magnus, the fondator, the way some departments worked, et cetera. Interesting things, but said in a tone so monotone and repetitive that it was clear the man had learned his speech and regurgitated it to every new hire. 

The visit ended in less than half an hour, leaving Jon in front of the department, with Elias introducing him to David – the Head of Research – and leaving him to be introduced to his new ‘team’. 

He was given a desk in front of another researcher’s – Sasha James. She’d been here for a short while already, having been transferred from Artefact Storage after working there for a few months. She was nice enough, a warm voice and a cheery laugh. 

She did appear very professional, wearing heels and a blouse with a tight pencil skirt. Rather pretty, objectively speaking. She actually laughed at Jon’s dry, sardonic humour, and even though she raised an eyebrow when he told her he was thirty four – a lie, but he was certain this was the right thing to do; people take you more seriously when you’re older in academia. It did help that his voice was deep enough at this point to appear convincingly masculine, and not just like a fourteen years old that had screamed too much into a microphone. 

Speaking of microphones, that reminded him that he would have to go over one last time with Georgie to make sure he erased all traces of his real name in his little band project. No one would take him seriously if the carefully uptight and curated image he had for now successfully maintained was shattered by videos of him in full steampunk pirate gear screaming about mythology and expelling his lungs into an armonica. 

Within a month of working with Sasha, he was thinking he may be able to hold some sort of friendship with her. He probably wasn’t anywhere near answers, but in all honesty, the Magnus Institute wasn't so bad. 

—

May 15th, 2015

—

Jon was almost running as he exited Mr Bouchard’s office, and went straight to the fire exit on the third floor. 

It was a rather lonesome place, one he went to when he didn’t want to be deranged on a particularly bad day or wanted a cigarette. He had lied on his resume saying he didn’t smoke, and had started going there out of fear of being caught. After a while, it had just sort of become his spot. 

The rusty metal stairs were clearly there to respond to some HSE criterias, never used and even less maintained up to date with the regulations. No one ever went there, out of fear it would collapse under the weight of multiple people. Jon was always alone, and rather light, so he was fine, he assumed. And besides, it wasn't like the fall would kill him. 

However, when Jon burst out the door to get on the small platform and let the warm air of mid-May hit him, it wasn't because of a cigarette or a desire to be alone. It was because he was about to enter a full blown panic attack, and that he needed Georgie. 

She picked up her phone almost immediately. “Jon ?” 

“Georgie,” he breathed, a wave of relief washing over him as soon as he heard her voice. “I need your help.” 

“I figured that out. What’s going on ?” 

Georgie. Georgie, wonderful Georgie. His best friend. She was going to help him. She knows what to do, of course. He just needs to find a way to tell her. He took a deep breath, steeled himself and- 

“Mybossjustofferedmeapromotionanditookitbutimnotqualifiedandidontknowwhattodo.” 

“ What !?” she screamed in the receiver, making him wince. Maybe she just didn’t understand what he said ? He did talk very fast. 

“My boss-” 

“I understood you the first time, that was rhetorical.” 

Oh. Well, of course she heard him. And now she’ll tell him what to do, because he very much doesn’t feel capable of doing that himself right now. “So what do you think ?” 

He heard her take a deep breath to calm down on the other side of the line. “What position did he offer ?” 

“Head Archivist. There’s…” he tried to think of something nice to say about the job. He found none very convincing. “There’s a pay raise,” he settled on. 

“That’s not normal,” she calmly said. That’s one of the things he always admired. Her calm. 

“The- pay raise ? Yes it is, that’s a head of department position so-” 

“Not the raise, Jon. The fact that he offered the position to you. Didn’t you say Sasha should have it ?” 

Right, Sasha. He told as much to Bouchard, but the man had simply said that he’d ‘ gone over Ms James’ candidature, but had judged that she wouldn’t be a correct fit ’. Which was a nicely corporately curated way to admit that he was a misogynistic piece of shit and that after Gertrude, he thought the Archives needed a man. Jon was almost certain the position wouldn’t have gone to him if Bouchard had known he was trans. 

“Yes, but he said I would be a better candidate.” 

“That’s a load of bull. You aren’t even qualified to work in an Archive, much less manage it on your own ! Aren’t there anyone that could be better suited ?” 

“Well, Sasha was considered by Gertrude to be her replacement. Other than that, I don’t know. I don’t think there was anyone but Gertrude working down there.” 

“Gertrude ?” 

“The previous Head Archivist.” 

“Wait, you mean Gertrude Robinson , the old lady that mysteriously disappeared while leaving behind a very large amount of blood on her desk ? That everyone but the police is saying she’d been murdered ?” 

“The very same,” Jon grumbled. 

“Jon.” 

“Yes.” 

“Tell me you didn’t take that position.” 

“Well, Mr Bouchard didn’t exactly leave me any time and-” 

“ Jon . Do you realise that your boss just offered you the perfect opportunity to be killed by the same thing that killed Gertrude ?!” 

“Not like I can die anyway,” he muttered, hopefully too low for her to hear. 

“Jon,” she groused, and oh, apparently she’d heard that. Oops. 

“It’s fine, it probably wasn't anything supernatural that killed her and, for all we know, maybe she had a- a heart attack or something !” 

“With that much blood on her desk ?” 

“Look, that’s already done,” he groaned. “And besides, it’ll help ! We’ve been tight on money for a while, and the raise will mean we can stop worrying that much about rent ! And we’ll be able to buy some new equipments for your podcast and-” 

“Jon. I’d much rather stay a bit tight on rent and use some old equipment to record my podcast for now than to lose my best friend to a monster in entirely avoidable and horrific circumstances. He’s using you as cannon fodder !”  

“I-” 

“And I know how you’ll get. You’ll be stressed out because you don’t know how to manage an archive, and the Admiral will be upset and then I will be upset. So, please Jon, think this over. Go back and tell Bouchard you don’t want the position. No matter the number on the paycheck.”  

“...” 

“... You already accepted it, didn’t you ?”  

“He didn’t leave me any time,” hissed Jon in response. “And you know how academia is, that’s a one in a lifetime opportunity to be promoted !” 

There was a long sigh at the other end of the line. “Fine,” spit Georgie, but Jon knew that anger was less directed at him than it was at Elias. “But don’t come to me crying when you get murdered by your creepy boss !” she warned.

Chapter Text

Even outside of the cramped space of the Archives, the air was still charged with an almost electric tension. It didn't help Jon's own tension, exacerbated by the ever present fear of being discovered. After the adrenaline of Prentiss' attack, the anxiety had crept back full force. 

Not a word had been uttered between Jon, Tim and Sasha since that floating, almost surreal moment during which they'd all stared at each other, monsters looking at other monsters, recognition and fear sparking in their eyes. 

Then, Jane Prentiss' scream had echoed through the basement, shattering the instant. Pain, despair and hatred had mixed into a wail made by hundreds of thousands of tiny bodies, all in a terrifying unison. Deafening. 

And then there had been silence. Even louder than the scream, there was the nothing.  

Sasha and Tim had stood there, their eyes coming and going between the dead woman's melted features and Jon in rapid succession. A fleeting thought had traversed the younger man's head – were they truly Sasha and Tim ? His Sasha and his Tim, the two persons he had closest to friends, not counting Georgie, and even though he would never admit it to them ? Had he ever truly known them, or just a facade, a disguise, a deception ? Had the two individuals that stood before him, staring, ever been the ones he thought they were ?  

As he was interrogating himself anxiously, not daring voicing the thoughts, both of the creatures had fully climbed out of the trapdoor. Jon had been struck by how tall and imposing Tim was like this. The sheer sight of the predator had made his brain scream with the urge to run, and his hand itch with the desire to burn. 

Sasha's silhouette was more human, though it was impossible to mistake her as one, darkness radiating from her in waves. The light around her had seemed to bend, like a black hole, absorbing all the light in an impossible, terrifying way. 

One look into Tim's yellow irises and inside the twin black holes in the centre of Sasha's face had confirmed a hint of recognition buried under shame. Jon felt the same. He, too, had lied. He, too, was a monster. 

None of them had said a word as he incinerated what was left of the corpse he was still tightly holding by the face. That was too much of a risk to take; the hand shaped burns impossible to realise. Jon hadn't survived for so long by being stupid or leaving evidence. 

The acrid smell had made them all gag. It had been the most awful thing any of them had ever encountered, even given what they were, or the variety of things Jon had burned in his life. Like a corpse left to rot too long in the summer heat, with burning rubber and hair accompanying the stench of melting concrete. 

It was, by far, the most awful smelling corpse Jon had ever had to dispose of. 

The fire suppression system had been set off almost immediately after. Suddenly aware again of their respective inhuman aspects, they had all run off in various parts of the basement, emerging minutes later to the outside, a cloth on their face to avoid breathing any of the CO2 – though in Jon's case, it was largely unnecessary, and was only there to avoid looking suspicious. His lungs had been burned to crisps years ago. 

He was, with little surprise, the first one out. His curse didn't have as many external changes to his appearance as they were internal, save for the large amount of burns that covered his body. Nothing to the level of Tim or Sasha, or even Jude Perry and her cultists. He didn't dare be grateful for it, in fear that the curse would take it from him like so many other things. 

Sasha's case was maybe a simple question of disguise, of pushing the darkness beneath the surface in the way he did with the roiling heat. Maybe harder to maintain for long periods of time, but conceptually the same. 

Tim's situation was... very obviously painful. He was certain that the few bones he'd heard snap and pop in the tunnels were his, and he couldn't imagine it as a pleasant thing. 

Despite everything, still, he owed one more to Tim. The man had been willing to undergo some extremely painful process for the sake of helping his friends. 

Jon wasn't sure the same could truly be said for himself. 

If Tim hadn't been there to take action first, what would have happened ? 

It was still very likely, according to statistics, that there would be only one monster working down there. Actually, the statistics said there should be no more than zero monsters, but the statistics probably weren’t aware of monsters. Nor that Jon was one, and that he was working down there. In a scenario where Jon was the only one able to act, if both Tim and Sasha had been human, what would have happened ? What would he have done ? 

Maybe he would have waited indefinitely in Document Storage, torn and unable to make a choice. Maybe Martin would have come back by then, and would have been at Prentiss' mercy, dying in a horrendous way, devoured by hundreds of hungry toothless mouths. 

Would he have had the guts to step out of the room and expose himself, his inhumanity plain to see, for the safety of his coworkers ? 

He knew the answer. He wasn't a brave man. 

Tim's nature may have been revealed by the light bulb blowing – which, with hindsight, Jon was pretty sure was Sasha's fault – but it wasn't difficult to guess that, after Jon had cowardly trapped them all in a small, tight room he foolishly believed to be secured, Tim would have stepped in and revealed himself if he believed he had no other choice. In fact, Jon was even certain he wouldn't have waited for that long, going to confront Prentiss as soon as he'd have realised Martin would have been in danger. 

That was just Tim for you. 

Tim was a strong person, and despite being cursed by something just as evil, if not more, than the thing that had Jon in its hold, he was a good man. Jon knew he wasn't. 

The three of them were outside, Jon alone on a chair and Tim and Sasha still fussed on by the paramedics, pointedly not looking at each other, when Martin arrived. 

The man looked... frazzled. Maybe not out of breath, but he'd clearly been running. Jon was only half surprised to see him here; he'd departed less than an hour ago for his lunch break. 

Not even an hour. That had been how long the attack had taken. It had certainly felt longer to Jon, when he was in the midst of it. Long minutes passing too slowly as they waited in the cramped space of the document storage room, the squirming of worms outside still slightly audible even through the heavy door. 

Martin looked around, taking a step towards Tim. Unsurprising of him; the two were close. Where Jon had been rude, snappish and a downright arse to the poor man, applying his eternally proofed technique of rejecting people as hard as he could to make himself safe, Tim had been friendly and approachable. He always kept people close where Jon was doing the opposite. 

Jon had too often chalked up that behaviour as 'regular human being stuff' in his mind, justifying being so rude compared to others by arguing he had a curse to keep secret, but with the recent revelations... He felt like he owed a lot of people apologies. 

As Martin approached Tim, still held by a few paramedics, he was stopped by Elias. Jon couldn't suppress a grimace of what was maybe disgust, maybe simple annoyance at the sight of the man, and a wave of sympathy for Martin, who had to endure exchanging with the man, coursed through him. 

He couldn't quite hear the conversation from where he was, but he could observe as Martin fidgeted. Elias, calm and cool as ever, still held that pleasant smile that almost looked comforting, but never quite reached his eyes. 

Martin breathed a sigh of relief as Elias turned around. Jon did the exact opposite when he realised the older man was heading straight to him. 

Jon breathed in sharply, the scrutiny of those silver eyes making him want to shrink on himself. He was persuaded that, in this instant, Elias knew.  

Vaguely, like every time Jon felt this gaze on him, he wondered if Elias was cursed as well. He'd dismissed it every time, thinking it was impossible that he'd work with someone else like him – and also that this someone was his boss – but in the light of recents events and revelations, the Magnus Institute now seemed more and more like a magnet for monsters. 

"Jon," started Elias. The sharpness of the other man's tone, cutting like a steel blade, made Jon jump. He shoved aside his thoughts on monsters in the Institute and fully focused on Elias. "What happened ? Martin told me he had no idea." The way he said the name like the other man had been purposefully wasting his time made Jon furrow his brow slightly. There was still a tiny hint of concern in Elias' voice, behind the snare. Though, Jon had the hunch that it was more directed at his precious Institute than at his employees. 

" Well," started Jon bitterly, sensing anger mounting. "It happened that all of our concerns about Jane Prentiss confirmed true, even though you dismissed them," he snarled. "She used what seems like a network of tunnels below the Institute to breach through the wall of my office. She attacked us while Martin was on his lunch break." 

Elias raised a brow, undisturbed otherwise. It made Jon feel like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Which was perfectly unreasonable; he was an adult man, and what he was saying was true, Elias had completely ignored all of his concerns, leading to a situation in which his and his assistants' lives had been at risk. "Did she ? And how did you dispose of her ? I can't imagine you all came out of this... intact." 

Oh, you can't, can you ? Well it's certainly not thanks to you. Prick.  

"We took refuge in Document Storage. Tim broke down the wall and we all went back into the tunnels. There were less worms here, though they were faster. Sasha found a way back into the Archives through a trapdoor, and we used my... lighter, to set her on fire. That set off the fire suppression system, and that was it. We got out soon after." 

Hopefully, he was not talking loud enough for it to be suspicious, but he hoped Tim and Sasha could hear him. They hadn't exactly had the time to set their cover story straight. Maybe later, when they would explain everything. But considering the supernatural was involved, the police wouldn't be looking into the case too closely. 

Elias didn't do so much as blink in face of Jon's explanation. His eyes looked him up and down. 

"You look perfectly fine to me." 

"I can assure you that it would not have been the case without the occurrence of those very unlikely events," he huffed. Still, there was a question scratching at his mind. "Say, Elias, why is the fire suppression system CO2 based ? Not that it's bad, I'm thankful we don't have a water logged Archive to deal with on top of the attack. But I distinctly remember it not being the case when I first started there." 

The other man calmly nodded. "I changed it last month. The company I hired was rapid enough to take only a short weekend to do it. I planned to do it for a long time already; it seemed unwise to keep it as it was, with water risking to damage the documents more than fire if the situation presented itself. It simply took time to ask for government aids and find the right company that would do it quickly enough to not impact productivity down there. God knows it’s the last thing you needed." 

"Right," Jon breathed. He sat back down on the dingy plastic chair he was provided after shrugging off the shock blanket he had been offered for the fourth time. 

Elias turned on his heels, ready to go check in with Tim and Sasha once the paramedics were done, or maybe to check in with some ECDC workers about the damages to the building. 

"Elias I-" said Jon before he could stop himself. 

The older man stopped. He didn't turn, but Jon felt like he was under the scrutiny of those cold eyes again. 

"Do you know anything about... About curses ?" 

Elias turned around, a look of perplexion and... anticipation, hunger almost, on his face. "Curses ?" 

"Yes, curses, like-" Jon started, before pausing. He sighed briefly before going on. "A few weeks ago, my team and I came across Jane Prentiss' Statement. The one she left to the Institute in 2014, before her hospitalisation. It sounded like- It sounded like she was slowly corrupted by that thing living in her attic, that nest. Like a- a malevolent god, something greater than herself. Like a curse." 

Jon swallowed the fear in his throat, waiting for Elias' answer. 

Jane had been cursed, just like him. But why did she turn out like this, physically and mentally decayed in barely two and a half years ? His own condition was nearing fifteen years, yet he was still looking mostly human from the outside. Would the remains of his charred insides spread outside as well, showing the burned husk he should look like, yet still alive, moved by the desire and the need to destroy ? 

No, that wasn't even a question. The question was when it would happen, when he would end up like her. 

"That is... an interesting theory, Jon. But I don't know much about it." 

Jon stifled an exasperated sigh between his teeth. 

But Elias said one last thing before departing. "However, you should perhaps know that some curses are blessings to whom accept them. Not all Gods are malevolent, after all." 

Jon almost stopped breathing entirely. As he took out his phone and shot a rapid text to Georgie, he made the decision that Elias Bouchard must never know about his curse. 

—

Georgie

Something happened at the Institute.

Take the board out.

jon???

wait wdym something happened????

ARE YOU SAFE??

Jonathan Sims. When I get my hands on you.

—

Sasha's eyes didn't leave Jon as he guided them through the streets. Tim was much more relaxed, though it was probably because he knew his way to Jon's flat. He'd been living there for almost five months now. Had he ever noticed odd things about Jon, hints that he decided to keep from me when I asked him about ?  

She'd let herself be convinced by Jon to come with him, enticed by the promise of answers, finally. Tim came as well, not only because he wanted answers, but also because he needed to go there either way. His flat was still rented, but all of his necessities were at Jon's. He'd be returning home soon, hopefully, without the threat of Prentiss looming. 

The tube ride had seemed to take several eternities, with only feeble attempts at conversation done by Tim. Sasha only now remarked, but his canines were sharp. She looked in his eyes for any signs of golden yellow, but found nothing. He was shut down in his attempts by Jon's silence and her own monosyllabic answers. Neither were in the mood for chatting. 

So far, the only thing she'd coaxed out of Jon was that Georgie, his roommate, knew about him, and that she had something at home that would help explain things. 

But, from that alone, Sasha didn't exactly expect a very angry woman to open the door Jon knocked on, yelling and brandishing a phone displaying- a text conversation ? 

"Jonathan Sims !" she screamed, and Jon winced. 

"I'm sorry Georgie I-" 

"I was worried sick ! You don't just text people something ominous, turn off your phone and let me panic ! You call for that sort of thing ! What happened !? Are you alright ?" 

Next to Sasha, Tim snickered. Okay, so maybe Georgie yelling at Jon for scaring her wasn't that uncommon. 

"I- Yes. Yes, I- I'm fine, just-" stammered Jon, then he sighed, shoulders dropping a bit as he looked away. "I'm sorry." 

Georgie sighed, a look on her face that indicated a hint of guilt for yelling at Jon. "Come in." 

She stepped away, holding the door open and hushering the three of them inside. Sasha followed Tim and Jon towards what looked like the living room while Georgie went to the kitchen. 

Jon sat on the ancient looking armchair that wouldn't have looked out of place in her grandmother's house, and Sasha took the spot facing him, next to Tim on the couch. 

On the wall, positioned in a certain way to ensure everyone would be able to see it from where they sat was a massive cork board, filled with notes in a messy scrawl and variously coloured strings. Symbols, photos, maps and post its adorned the thing, awfully messy but organised somewhat to a trained eye. 

In a word like in a hundred, it was a conspiracy board. 

Sasha didn't know why she was so surprised. She had one at home as well. 

The eyebrow Tim raised told her it wasn't here before. It had been stored away somewhere, because there was no way something that complex had been assembled in just the twenty minutes they had taken to come here. 

Georgie reappeared from the kitchen, holding a tray filled with four cups of tea. She looked apologetically at Sasha when she handed her her mug, whispering that she hoped what she’d made her was okay, since she didn't know her tea preferences. Then she took a few steps back, going next to Jon and the conspiracy board. 

"So," she began, eyes going from Tim to Sasha. "I suppose if you're here, we have some things to tell you." 

Chapter Text

"So. I suppose if you're here, we have some things to tell you." 

When Georgie declared that, she maybe expected an embarrassed, or perhaps disproving look from Jon, and some questioning from the guests. Not that she had any experience in revealing that particular kind of information about Jon and herself, but she knew her best friend enough at this point to be able to predict most of his reactions, and expect him to be exasperated when she was acting dramatic as she was, usually claiming that the acting was more his role than hers. And she knew enough about how human interactions functioned to be certain that this kind of declaration was prompt to spring confusion. 

What she did not expect, however, was for Jon to look down with shame and for Tim and Sasha to look at him intensely before going to her. 

"They... they already know, Georgie," murmured Jon. "They've seen it. They've seen me."  

Immediately, her expression shifted into one of alarm. That- That hadn't been a scenario she'd anticipated. She had no idea how to react. She wasn't scared – she couldn't be – but she was aware that anyone knowing about the Curse and holding it against Jon was a potential threat to their peace and safety. 

Tim seemed to pick up on that, at least, because he held up his hands in a motion that wanted to be calming. "It's- It's fine. I won't- I won't do anything against you." His gaze had gone back to Jon, who was curled up on the armchair like he was trying to disappear in it. "I don't- I don't hate you for that. I understand why you hid it." 

Sasha was looking at the floor. "I'm sorry about how I acted," she murmured. "To the both of you." 

Georgie let the silence stretch on for a bit, and cleared her throat when it became apparent that none of them was willing to break it. The three others jumped at the sudden noise, taken out of their thoughts. "I feel like I'm missing some important context here. Mind catching me up to date ?" 

Jon's face burned. "Right. Sorry. I- uh, where do I start ?" 

She smiled in return. "How about what happened at the Institute today ?" 

"Right. So, hum. Do you remember Jane Prentiss ?" 

Georgie raised an eyebrow. " The Jane Prentiss ? The parasited one, presumed dead after her hospitalisation and disappearance in 2014 ?" 

Of course she knew her. She'd actually planned to do an episode of her podcast focused on the woman. That was exactly the kind of paranormal mystery her listeners were avid of, and she herself was intrigued. Jon had been greatly helpful at providing sources, including bits of her official Statement to the Institute before her infestation led her to the hospital. Unfortunately, it turned out that every attempt at recording them were a mess of static, and without them, the episode turned out too short and repetitive, so it had been abandoned. 

"The very same," nodded Jon. 

"What about her, then ?" 

"She attacked the Institute." 

"She what ?!" 

Jon immediately backed away at her tone. "I'm fine ! I'm fine, we're fine, none of us were injured. We just-" 

"Where is Martin then ? Why isn't he here ?" 

"He was on his lunch break when it happened, he didn't see-" 

"Then you know you'll have to tell him eventually, why didn't you bring him over to-"

"Because the situation is much more complicated than just my curse !" he yelled, putting an end to the mounting shouting match. He continued, quieter. "It's- It's not just my curse. It's- Please let me explain first. Please." 

"Fine," she bit. She didn't like how Jon excluded Martin like he always seemed to do. She understood why he didn't appreciate the man, but sometimes Jon could really be a dick. And that seemed to translate by stupid, rude things said to the poor man. But Jon better have a damn good reason to exclude him from something like that. 

"I-" he started, but shut his mouth, searching for his words. His eyes darted to Tim and Sasha, seeking approval. 

Finally, it was Tim who spoke. "Sasha and I are both cursed, like Jon. And I don't know about them," he pointed, looking at the two others, "but I don't want to freak Martin out right after his workplace was attacked by telling him that his three, seemingly human, coworkers, are all, in fact, monsters in disguise. We'll tell him eventually, but for now, I prefer we take time to explain ourselves together and set things straight before we inform him of our- err, situation." 

Georgie had to take a moment to process what Tim had said. The- "Alright. That's- I won't say that I approve, but it's reasonable." 

Jon blinked, almost like he couldn't believe what Georgie had just uttered. "What ? You mean you don't- You're not surprised about..." he gestured around the room in a way that was meant to signify this whole thing.  

Georgie took a moment to consider. "Not so much ? It does explain a few things about Tim. I will need some time to process, and questions that will need answers, but for now, I can see it." 

Sasha looked at Georgie for a few moments. "Are you...?" 

"Cursed ?" she finished. "No. But I've known Jon for years, and I've had my own encounters, so I'm fine with it. I can see you aren't bad people, and you're probably just as lost as us when it comes to the supernatural." 

The other woman furrowed her brow. "Hang on- You mean you don't know anything ? Jon had promised us answers, " she said, drawing an accusatory glare to the small man. 

"I promised answers about myself, " he corrected. "I don't know much else about the supernatural outside of it." 

Tim raised a brow and pointed a thumb towards the board. Jon made an annoyed huff. "This is compiling almost twenty years of research, and there are more questions than answers pinned on it. There isn't as much as it seems." 

"Twenty years ? Just how old are you ? I thought you were twenty eight !" 

Jon backed away slightly. "I am," he said quietly. 

Silence fell on the room as realisation hit. Eight years old. Jon had been eight when it started. 

He started speaking, even quieter, but still audible through the silence of the room. "That had been my first encounter. A Leitner. It- It killed someone in front of me. I- I'll admit I didn't really research anything back then, I was too terrified any book I might pick up would have a giant spider leaping out to devour me but- Yeah. 

"It wasn't until five years later that I encountered another book. There's a bitter irony, I think. After I'd witnessed what I had, I'd burned the first book. With the second, I didn't even hesitate; I took my lighter out the moment I saw the bookplate."

He held out his right hand, the one with the burn wrapped around the surface of his palm. "It- Heh, it burned me back. After that, it had been slow but- it had been there. I was cursed. It progressed. I'm- I'm not comfortable sharing with you the details of it but- I-" 

His voice broke down in a sob. Georgie reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. The pressure was nice, grounding. His breath hitched as he inhaled. 

"I- I won't lie to you. I won't- I won't change the truth or- or try to sugarcoat it or anything. I-" He stopped, taking a deep breath in and exhaling. "I need to feed it. The curse. I- I have to burn things for it. Well, it's- It's not exactly things anymore, no. Possessions. Objects that will be missed.  

"I can't stop. I- If I do, either I die or- or I break. And I'm scared. I'm scared that if I do, if I break, I'll turn out like Jane Prentiss. And death... Death isn't a choice. It's not. Hate me for it but- I won't stop." 

He sobbed that last part out, his hand over Georgie's to stay grounded and not break down this moment, in front of his coworkers. She was proud of him. That part, that guilt Jon had for being alive and needing to destroy as a price for his survival, they had had long talks about it. Talks that, more often than not, ended by cries sobbed late in the night. But it had paid. 

Monsters were people, too. 

And he was not to blame for choosing to stay a person, even a bad or evil one. 

Maybe Jon hadn't fully understood it. Maybe, inside, he still felt like living was a privilege he shouldn't have access to. But it was good that he'd said it himself. Death isn't a choice. Georgie of all people knew that. And maybe, one day, Jon would, too. 

Tim approached a tentative hand near Jon's thigh, letting it hover there, as if unsure if he should touch him or not. 

"Jon. I- I don't. Hate you, that is. Or even blame you, for anything. You're- You're still my friend, alright ? I don't care if you're cursed. I am too. I don't care if you hid it. I did too. And I-" His voice caught in his throat. "I have to feed my curse, too. I think- I think all of us, all people that are cursed, they do, too. But you're right. Death isn't a choice. And I don't blame you for being alive." 

Tim's hand finally fell on Jon's thigh in a reassuring, grounding grasp, and he took it in his own hand. Maybe he was crying. Maybe Tim was crying, too. It was impossible for Georgie to tell, with the way their faces were angled downwards, as if too shy to look at each other. 

Sasha got up from the couch and approached Jon, kneeling to look him in the eyes. "Jon. I wanted to say that- I'm sorry. To both of you. I shouldn't have said what I did. I don't blame you either. And- I'm glad you made the choice to live. I-" 

She took a deep breath, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "Can I hug you ?" she asked. 

Jon nodded, and fell into her arms. 

Tim didn't need even a second to join them. 

And together, they cried, finally letting out emotions they didn't know they had been holding for years. 

—

After an intense hour spent crying, muttering reassurances, crying again, and drinking Georgie's tea – she had made some again after the first round had gone cold – the four of them were ready to address the rest of their problems. Or, maybe not all of their problems, that would be asking a lot out of this small group of emotionally dysfunctional adults, but at least talk on the subject of their respective curses. 

It was Tim who spoke first. "So, what do we do ?" 

"About what ?" asked back Sasha, still glued to his and Jon's side. They had moved to the couch to be able to sit together. 

"About... You know..." Tim gestured around the room, in a motion meant to encompass all three of them. 

"We don't tell Martin," declared Jon, still hunched over himself and pressed against both their sides. His voice was a bit raw from crying. 

Sasha sighed. "We'll have to, eventually." 

"Yes, but it's unwise to tell him for now. We don't have enough information on the situation to make this kind of decision, and I'd rather not have our coworker freak out by learning he worked with three supernatural beings for this whole time. Especially not right after our workplace was attacked by another supernatural being." 

His arguments were reasonable, Sasha had to admit it. But he also had that adorable frown on his face that mostly meant he just didn't want to tell Martin yet. Maybe because he didn't trust the man, or maybe because he just didn't like revealing secrets about himself. Especially not that one. 

Dammit. What he said was still true. As much as she loathed having to keep things from Martin, it probably wouldn't be the best thing to tell him right now. What if he tried something drastic, like getting rid of them out of fear ? Or, maybe even worse, what if he told Elias ? Jon was right, they couldn't afford it. 

"So what now, then ?" 

Jon's frown just deepened. "Dunno." 

Tim sighed. "Maybe you and Georgie could explain the conspiracy board ? It wouldn't hurt to pool our knowledge." 

Georgie, still on the armchair, scratched her chin. "I'll probably leave you to it, then. Jon can explain well enough, and you three obviously have some stuff to talk through together." 

"Are you sure ?" inquired the smaller man. 

She rolled her eyes in response. "Yeah, don't worry. I'm going to see Melanie, I'll be back in a few hours. If you want to talk about- my own thing, you can. Tell them everything they need to know. I trust you to fill in the blanks when I come back, hm ?" 

He nodded, and she smiled in return, waving a bit before going to the entryway and putting on her shoes. 

"Right," squeaked Jon as his best friend exited the flat. "Well, I suppose we can start by how you both got cursed ? I already told you about mine so- You don't have to go into details either." 

Sasha grimaced. "It was an artefact. From when I worked... there."  

Jon nodded with a sympathetic grimace. 

"I don't really know, for me," Tim winced. I- err, something happened, and it- it made me start chasing after answers. Anything I could put my hand on that could remotely explain what had happened. That's why I came to work in the Institute. And, as I chased leads, I ended up hunting monsters. The- The curse was slow to set in, so I guess that's why it took me so much time to even notice.  

"I think it's either that I encountered something that cursed me during that time, or that the influence of the things I was hunting was enough to make me a monster as well. Maybe it's something else entirely. I don't know." 

Jon's brow furrowed. "So that disproves my original theory." 

"Which was...?" 

"That curses can only be transmitted by objects, like Leitners or Artefacts. Georgie thought that a monster alone didn't have enough power to curse humans, whereas objects contained the curse's essence in a purer form. We'd already proven that a monster could influence humans, but not curse them. Although you did say you were chasing after a number of monsters, so maybe that's it ? We don't have enough data." 

"What do you mean, affect people ? Curse them to a lesser extent ?" 

"Err- Not exactly. Georgie has had her own brush with the supernatural, and it affected her- emotionally." 

"I mean, the supernatural rarely leave people unscathed. I don't think a single one of our true Statement givers was stable. Trauma is a normal response to these kinds of things." 

"It's not trauma. It's-" He sighed. "She can't feel fear." 

"She- can't ?" 

"No. Nothing. She mostly compensates with anger and such, but fear isn't something she feels anymore. Sometimes, she can be stressed or- or have a bit of anxiety, but nothing that could be properly qualified as fear. There's just nothing. She isn't cursed, we made sure, this is the only side effect." 

There was a moment of silence, during which Sasha looked puzzled. "So that means Artefacts and Leitners have a higher probability to curse people, but an exposure to the supernatural can be a contributing factor. If the exposure is long and multiple, it can result in a fully fledged curse. Are we all with this ?" 

"We'll need a bigger sample to draw conclusions like that," said Tim, lightly scratching his chin. "But you're probably right." 

"Let's settle with this until we get proof of the contrary," concluded Jon. 

Sasha smiled. It was- reassuring, to see Jon beck at being his normal self. It was like all the anxiety and bitterness that had been piled over him during the last year had finally fallen. He looked more happy than he'd had in months, theorising with them. 

Somehow, the image was- grounding. Like finally, she could see the true side of Jon, and he was no different than the Jon she knew beneath his layers of stuffiness. That was the same Jo,n she'd worked with for years, the one who sat at the desk next to hers instead of being hidden by a closed door. 

"Hey, Jon ? There seem to be an awful lot of names there. Care to explain ? I recognise a few of them from the Statements, but not all." 

The small man snapped his fingers. "Right. Well, all of those-" he gestured to an entire part of the board "-are from the Statements. I don't know anything more than you for those. Actually, there's only the four over there that I can tell you about." 

The four, bright green sticky notes were closer to the centre of the board, just below the orange one titled 'Curses'. They read 'Jude Perry', 'The Dead Woman', 'Elias Bouchard' and 'Jane Prentiss'. 

The one for Elias seemed crumpled, as if it had been removed and balled up to be tossed at some point, but replaced there at the last minute. The one for Jude Perry was singed at one corner. 

It was Tim's turn to furrow his brow. 

"Elias ? Our boss Elias ? What do you think he has to do with the supernatural ?" 

The note was connected to three others by blue strings. 

• Cursed ??? 
• Feels like he knows everything about you
• May be due to the Institute (feels watched when statements)

"Well, I'm sure of nothing, but there's definitely something. You know that feeling of being watched ? It's always ten times worse with him. And since the Archives gives me the same effect, I figured something had to be linking the two. He's the Head there, it's possible he's cursed the place." 

Tim's face lit up with interest. "Or that the place cursed him." 

Jon nodded excitedly, but Sasha frowned. "Hang on, watched ? I never had that with him. Or with the Archives." 

"That doesn't make sense." 

"Maybe it does ? Your curse is about- Darkness, right ? Being dissimulated." Sasha nodded, encouraging Tim to go on. "Well, if whatever's going on with Elias is about being watched, wouldn't it make sense for it to be your polar opposite ? Like your curse protects you from his ?" 

"Maybe ? Better write that down." 

Jon quickly scribbled something on the relevant sticky note, and turned back to the others. 

"You should probably add that Jane Prentiss got killed by your curse. I didn't manage it. Maybe your curse is her's opposite ?" 

"Maybe. But I think it's more a case of different opportunities. If you could have gotten past her worms and directly to her, you'd have killed her. We aren't much in terms of opposites." 

Tim hummed. "What about the other two then ? The Dead Woman and Jude Perry ?" 

"The Dead Woman is the thing Georgie encountered. It's- dead, probably, or rather I should say it's inactive. We won't have to worry about her." 

"And Jude Perry ?" 

Jon's frown morphed into a grimace. "A woman I met. She seems to be running a cult of people with a curse similar to mine and hers. They believe it originates from a God they call 'The Lightless Flame'. I don't believe in her theory though, and when I told her so she spat, and said it was blasphemy. I think she knew more about curses in general, but since I refused to join her, well, she killed me." 

"I'm sorry, she killed you ?!"  

"Well, I didn't stay dead, obviously. But I highly doubt anyone can stay alive after receiving a burning building on the face." 

"Jesus Jon." 

"Rather gruesome, I'm aware." 

After a moment of silence, Sasha's eyes went back to the board. "We should probably finish with that." 

The other two nodded, and went back to staring at it. Jon answered the occasional question, and they fell back on that easy banter they used to share. 

"Your Artefact list is incomplete. I could give you a whole lot more, just from memory." 

"Please do. I'll need it." 

"And Jon ?" 

"Hm ?" 

"I'm glad you're real," declared Sasha. 

It was a strange way to formulate the thought. Jon understood. He didn't flinch this time when Tim put a hand on his shoulder to signify he meant the same thing as Sasha. He understood. 

"I'm glad you're real too."

Chapter Text

July 29th 2016

—

As he carefully threaded through the empty corridors of the Institute, Elias was positively fuming.  

The situation was much worse than he anticipated. 

Realistically, it wasn't that bad. The outcome was far from the one he desired, but at least, his Archivist was mostly unharmed, still alive and apparently kicking. In fact, he had survived without a single scratch. Not even the faintest physical Mark whatsoever. 

That really wouldn't do. Maybe he still had obtained a psychological Mark from the attack, but Elias' plan couldn't rely solely on those. His Archivist needed to be both scared and scarred, and if that was how his first encounter under Elias' supervision went, it absolutely did not bode well for what was to come. 

Thankfully, this more than uncertain Mark wasn't his Archivist's first. As a matter of fact, the reason why Elias had chosen Jonathan Sims over everyone else to fill in this position was that he wouldn't have to handle his first Mark. Or his second, even. 

But while the Web's impact had been strong, and the Desolation's fire ingrained deep in his skin, the Corruption had left nothing on his Archivist's body. Maybe on his mind, but nothing was sure; when Elias had interrogated him, there was no fear transpiring, just anger. 

A fleeting thought traversed Elias' mind. Could it be that the Desolation's claim was more deeply rooted in his Archivist than he had thought it ? 

He dismissed the idea almost immediately. That was nonsense. Jonathan had already begun his transformation into the Archivist, and The Watcher would never accept an Avatar belonging to another Entity walking into Its stronghold and stealing one of Its most important and cherished roles. And, even if It did, there was no chance Jon could be an already fully fledged Avatar of the Desolation without flirting with Arthur Nolan's Cult. Wasn't it Jude Perry's now, since Arthur died ? How time flies. Well, matter is, Elias never Saw any members of the Lightless Flame around Jon, and he'd been keeping close tabs on them ever since the disaster that was Agnes Montague. 

Thoughts like these were nonsensical. A waste of time, really. 

The thing was, Elias had no idea if his Archivist was Marked or not. And that was bothering him deeply. 

How had he not Seen what was happening ? He'd kept his Eyes peeled, Watching everything from the moment Jon knocked out the wall with that paperweight to when he and his assistants were panicking in Document Storage. 

And then- nothing. It was as if the light had suddenly gone out, abruptly closing his Eye in his own place of power, Its stronghold. Was including Miss James in the Archival Team a mistake ? Was she more entrenched than he thought ? Mr Stoker shouldn't be a problem, and Mr Blackwood shouldn't either. But if there was a pawn he couldn't keep control of there...  

Well, it probably wouldn't matter, as long as she never learned of the nature of the Institute and he kept his abilities a secret for as long as possible. Maybe use her to Mark Jon for the Dark as soon as possible, then dispose cleanly of her before she becomes a problem. The other three also needed to stay ignorant that she was a monster until the very end. 

Well. At least that would be easy. Those Dark types were always so keen on keeping secrets. 

Anyways, Elias had, fortunately, a back up plan all set up, should Jane Prentiss not suffice to Mark his Archivist. A bit more risky, causing him to reveal himself a bit too soon, but nothing a bit of blackmail wouldn't solve. Hopefully it wouldn't leave Jonathan too damaged. 

It truly would be a shame to let almost two hundred years of planning go down the drain because of a small delay. 

—

August 15th 2016

—

Coming back to work was- dire, for Martin. He'd spent the last two weeks with anxiety and grief rolling in his guts, unceasing, because he knew he should have been there. He should have prevented it, somehow. 

God, why did I go to lunch that day ?  

Fuck, he knew she wanted to attack the Institute ! She was stubborn, she'd already ignored his warnings once by going after Tim ! And wasn't blind, he'd noticed her worms around the Institute, he should have done something instead of just trying half heartedly to find her to talk to her, hoping naively it would make her change her ways. 

He should have been there when she attacked. 

Screw his cover ! He should have been there.  

Yet he hadn't ! For some nebulous reason that was probably just his own cowardice, he hadn't been there. He'd just frowned and sat around like an oblivious idiot, like she would just hear him out and abandon what her song was telling her. Reality wasn't a bloody Disney movie goddammit ! 

But now, it was too late. He hadn't been there. And she wouldn't have listened. 

He'd considered his own cover too precious, refusing to risk it when he knew the situation would put his friend's lives in danger. 

And now, she was dead. She was dead, and it was his fault. 

God, he couldn't even mourn her properly. 

He shouldn't, by all means. She wanted to hurt people. She did hurt people. But she also was his friend. His only true friend, really, who shared his song. And he didn't know how he should feel about the whole thing. 

Going back to work should have been a welcomed distraction, finally something to get his mind off Jane, his personal emotional issues he refused to address and the mourning tone the mould's song had taken on. Taking care of his family for the last two weeks had done wonders to his health, but he could see it was missing Jane and her worms even more than he did. 

But it didn't help as much as he wished it did. 

First, he came back to a place still reeking of Jane, which didn't help in the least. He could almost feel her little ones trailing on the floorboards beneath his feet. He had to stop himself from sobbing when he saw the shrivelled up corpse of a worm left forgotten by the ECDC workers. 

But more important than his useless grief, Jon, Tim and Sasha seemed to have gotten closer than ever, somehow, over the two weeks off work they'd been allowed. 

It wouldn't have bothered Martin, honestly, if it wasn't for the unspoken tension it had somehow sparked between the three of them and himself. 

It was far from a secret in the Archives – and even perhaps in the whole Institute, Martin wasn't as up to date with gossip as he had been in the Library – that Jon, Tim and Sasha were rather close. Tim and Sasha were noticeably friends, exchanging banter and gossip constantly, and they were as close friends as one could get with Jonathan Sims. 

It wasn't surprising, either. They'd worked together in Research for a while, and Jon had personally requested them down there. Martin had known, from the very beginning, that he was a foreigner. 

Jon was always much more patient with the other two, tolerating them far more than he did Martin. But in his defence, they had also, notably, not let a dog inside the Archives on their first day, which Martin could totally understand putting Jon against him. They also hadn't faked their credentials, and knew how to format a report in the right way, and were also less awkward and certainly not filled with a gentle, loving mould. 

But it was fine. Martin was fine with it. 

He didn't like getting yelled at, but he also couldn't lose his job, and the ups mostly made it up for the downs, so he was fine. He just had to shut it and make tea, then learn how to do the work he was supposed to be qualified for. Tim and Sasha were nice enough, but he was always careful not to let them get too close, and he was certain they did the same. 

They must have sensed something unlike them, other , within him. 

Today, though- The difference was noticeable. 

The three came into work together, for one. In the recent months – namely, those during which there had been a forced cohabitation – Tim and Jon had come in together almost every day, save for the ones Jon had decided he needed to come in early to finish work. Though, those had seemed to become less and less frequent, but that was of a whole other matter. Probably Tim who managed to talk some sense into him. Sometimes, Sasha was there too, but it mostly seemed like a coincidence, like they had been two coming into work and then had catched up with Sasha in the lobby. 

This time, Martin could see they'd done a good chunk – if not all – of the way together, entrenched deep into one of those conversations that was supposed to be about something completely different but somehow drifted too far. He couldn't quite make out what they were talking about though, and they abruptly stopped when he came into their view. 

There was a beat of silence, broken by Martin declaring an awkward "Hi," not wanting it to stretch further. That seemed at least to break the other three out of their stupor, and they all greeted him back, by a wave and a friendly smile from Tim and Sasha, and by a stiff nod by Jon. 

The shorter man looked around, a frown slowly deepening on his face, and asked. "Hm, Martin, you didn't- You haven't seen Elias, have you ?" 

"I don't... think so ? Why ?" 

"He sent me a message yesterday. Apparently, he wanted to have a meeting with us four." His face scrunched up into an expression of disgust. "About something that apparently couldn't be an email." 

"O-Oh. Well, I- I didn't see him. Sorry." 

"It's fine, Martin." 

Tim sat down at his desk, Sasha doing the same. Jon turned around, about to head to his office, when, of course, a set of footsteps approaching interrupted. 

It was funny, how Martin could sometimes recognise people just from the sound of their footfalls. In the Library, he had small, thin strands of mould nestled in the floorboards, acting as a network, perceiving everyone there and telling him whenever it was safe to uncover his arms to let his family breathe. 

He hadn't repeated the process when he was transferred to the Archives, for some reason. The mould had told him he would be intruding. He had trusted it. His family knew better than him, sometimes. 

But he'd retained the uncanny ability to know a person just from the way their feet moved on the ground. And that included Elias Bouchard's very particular way of walking. 

The man had a pleasant smile on his face. Always the same, exactly like his three piece light grey suit and his fashionable green cravat. How on earth the Head of a non-profit organisation could afford such things while the rest of the Institute was on a tight budget was a mystery. Or it was tax fraud. But tax fraud was a crime, and everybody knew it wasn't a crime if you didn't get caught, which Elias apparently never was. 

Everyone tensed at the new arrival, but for some reason, Jon seemed even more on edge than usual, tense like a live wire. Tim and Sasha were nowhere near as nervous, but Martin could see how their shoulders locked in place, like in a fight or flight situation. Had they done something to get them in trouble ? Or was it somehow about Jane ? 

Elias gave them all a curt nod, his steel gaze betraying no emotion. Martin couldn't shake the feeling that they were lingering on him, somehow knowing of his family and calculating how to dispose of him. But that was ridiculous, right ? He'd been so careful, avoiding cameras and coworkers. Elias couldn't know, right ? 

Martin had to fight very hard not to physically sigh in relief as his boss' gaze left him. 

"Hello. Welcome back, I suppose." 

God, Martin hated meetings. Just go straight in and stop taking and wasting up my time !  

As if he had read Martin's mind, Elias did just that. "I'm aware that the... tragic event that occurred two weeks ago-" Martin was certain he heard Tim snicker and whisper something to Sasha "-has put a rather heavy toll on the morale here. I wanted to apologise for ignoring all of your concerns, and assure you that I'll take every necessary measure to ensure such a thing never happens again." 

As if he could have done anything. Granted, that would have been nice to take Tim seriously, but c'mon, Elias would probably have been even more lost than the three others. Martin should have done something. He didn't. 

He pushed the thought away. 

"That said, I hope the last two weeks were enough time for you all to recover. I expect you to go back to full productivity before the end of the week."

Aaaaand there it was. Work. It always came back to that. Fuck employee security, better them work than actually feel safe enough to be able to. Unfortunately, Elias didn't stop.

"On a different note, I need you all to know two more things. 

"For one, exploration of the tunnels by the police had led to the conclusion that they are part of a rather large network under London. The holes in the wall have been sealed, but an entrance to them through a hidden trapdoor has been found further into the Archives. The police asked for a lock to be put there, and I am in possession of the only key to unlock it. 

"And as of two, to conclude this meeting, I have to inform you that the police's search down there has led to a... quite tragic and gruesome discovery. Gertrude Robinson, the former Head Archivist, who had disappeared for over a year then, is dead. She was found, shot three times in the chest. Due to this, shall we say, evolution of her case, the police might turn up in the next few days to interrogate you all. 

"I just thought you might want to know." 

While they were all too shocked to answer, he nodded to them, wishing them a good day in a very insincere manner and turning on his heels, exiting the room without a glance behind. 

"I'm sorry, she's been shot ?!"  

Chapter Text

August 15th 2016

—

The rest of the workday was noticeably more tense after Elias' little speech. 

Sasha couldn't fathom how on earth the man had thought it was a good idea to drop that nuclear bomb of an information on the three of them, then walk out without another word. 

She bit the nail of her thumb a bit. It was a nasty habit she'd taken in middle school and hadn't been able to get rid of since. Very bad for every time she tried to maintain a correct manucure, but an unmatched stress relief in certain situations. Just like this one was. 

Who had killed Gertrude ?  

It wasn't her, for starters. She had no interest in killing her, and she didn't do it. And even if she did, she wouldn't have used a pistol. Her Darkness was largely enough to swallow an old lady, especially somewhere like the tunnels. 

It wasn't Tim either. He would have used his claws or teeth or whatever, but not a gun. The Chase within him probably wouldn't reward him as much if he used a gun. And Jon could burn her to a crisp, she was sure. So it wasn't any of them. Maybe if she wasn't in the midst of everything, she would have paused at the irony, the monsters’ innocence while the culprit was most certainly a human. But she didn't have time to pause, so she kept up with her suspects list. 

Martin ? The man seemed too jittery and nervous to hold a weapon, but she'd seen how composed he could be under certain stressful circumstances – would murdering someone in cold blood count as stressful ? Or was everything she knew about the man a lie, a cover for a ruthless killer ?

Elias ? Maybe he'd gotten fed up with the state of the Archives. 

Oh, God. Am I seriously using my friends and my boss as suspects of a murder ?  

No, she needed to stop. She really couldn't afford another downward spiral. Michael had been bad enough, and she'd almost lost all of her trust in Jon because of them. No, this time she had to trust people. 

Tim was her friend. Apart from that fleeting moment in Document Storage, she never doubted that. Jon, too, was her friend. And it was time she accepted that. 

Looking back, he had really, truly been her friend for longer than she thought. The last two weeks had left her plenty of time to reflect on how this 'new' Jon was, and truth be told, he really wasn't that different from the one she always knew. 

During the time Sasha had worked with Jonathan Sims – five years now, how time flies – she'd found him... reclusive. Bitter, sometimes to the point of being downright antagonistic of others. But even then, it had taken her less than a month to draw conclusions that time continued to prove right. 

He was pushing people away constantly, almost having made an art of it. Didn't seem like someone completely alone though, more like a person possessing few friends, but keeping each of them close. This had been why she'd talked to him, at first. It was a period of her life during which she'd been incredibly lonely. Right after her transfer out of Artefact Storage, dealing with a new curse and having fallen out of touch with most of her uni friends. She'd been too scared to talk to the other, more senior researchers, too afraid they'd notice the differences between before and after the Darkness. 

Jon, being new and apparently enough of a recluse that she wouldn't have to worry about him spreading gossip, had been perfect. It wasn't great, that what was now a deep and genuine friendship had started with so many second thoughts. She tried not to dwell on it. In the end, it had worked out swimmingly. 

Jon in Research had been a nice man. A bit of an arsehole, a chronic workaholic, but not someone that went out of his way to harm others. He had difficulties relating to others – and God, why did the revelation that he was cursed as a child explain so much things about him – and kept walls around him for this exact reason. Lower them a bit, and he was a good friend. 

If he completely abandoned them – as he had done for the past few days – Jon was truly a kind person. It wasn't a complete change. Jon was still Jon. But she didn't have the impression that he would clam up and shut down if she said the wrong thing. 

It had happened, actually, in only two instances. 

The first was when Tim had started in Research. According to him, he hadn't been cursed at the time, but became soon after. Tim, then, had been- nice. But also very closed off. He had walls, though different from the ones he had maintained later. There was something in his gaze. Something raw, hurt. He'd lost something. Someone. 

Sasha knew the feeling. And perhaps that was why he'd came to her and Jon. 

When she was a kid, she'd lost her mother. It had hurt. She was still living with her family back then, of course, without the Atlantic separating her from the grave that still held her remains. She was ten, then. Still living with her brothers in Marie-Galante. She missed home, sometimes. 

When her mum had died, she had hated it. She had hated everyone. She was sick of hearing their platitudes, empty condolences. She was hurt. And they weren't. 

Maybe, when Tim had joined Research, he was hurt in the same way. Maybe it was why he had been drawn to her and Jon. He had had that raw look of grief nestled inside the brown of his eyes, and it was clear he was sick of hearing sorrys. Sasha didn't offer any. She knew he wouldn't want them. Jon didn't either, although it probably was more because he didn't know how to react to those situations. But Tim had joined them. It was no longer just her and Jon being friends. 

And Jon had clammed up, for the first time. 

She hadn't understood why. It had hurt her. She had become angry. Jon had become sad. He avoided her, didn't answer to her banter in the same way. During those times, he always seemed a second away from saying something, throwing in some good rhetoric or a joke that would make her crack up and laugh. But every time, before he did, he stopped, and closed his mouth, face going slack. 

It had taken her two weeks to confront him about it. She was ashamed she let it go on for that long. 

"W- Well, you got Tim now, right ? You don't have to try so hard to stay friends with me. I don't know why you still put up with me, honestly, is this a sense of misguided loyalty ? You don't owe me anything, Sasha, you don't have to worry about hurting my feelings or something. It's fine. You can stop trying."  

That talk alone had helped her understand so much about Jon as a person, it was almost like she hadn't known him for the past two years. 

His childhood. His time in uni. His roommate and his cat, the Admiral, the only real friends he felt he had. He hadn't gone into much details, but it had been largely enough for Sasha to recognise the underlying trust and attachment issues there. 

In exchange, she'd told him about her family, an ocean away, who had estranged her because of something as stupid as their church mattering more than their daughter. Of her brothers, who wouldn't recognise her. Of her old friends, who wouldn't either. 

He was less ashamed to be friends with her, after. Or rather, he felt less like he intruded. The same happened with Tim, later, as well. 

By the end, they'd become quite close friends. 

Until Jon did his thing again, and clammed up on himself. 

They all knew Jon taking the promotion had been a bad idea. They did. Even Jon did, really, to a certain degree, although he kept from sharing any of his own insecurities with anyone, save perhaps Georgie. 

But of course, he took it, and nothing good had emerged. 

He'd become stiff. Rude. 'Professional', whatever that meant. Dammit, they'd shared stories about their shitty childhoods, they were well past the point of any professionalism or distance like that ! But of course, rational facts and thought through reasoning didn't deter him, and nothing got up to soften up. It didn't help either that Martin integrated the team, and that Jon, already not big on change, took it as an aggression. A foreigner, sent here by Elias to question and mock his own incompetence – which Sasha knew he was very well aware of. 

For that to stop, it had taken a year, two months, and an attack on their workplace forcing each of them to reveal their deepest secret. Wasn't that wonderful. 

Jon was finally Jon again, despite all that had taken. A bit more open, certainly. Smiling a tinge wider, but with no less sincerity. His humour was the same, acerbic and dry, but not attacking anyone in particular. He still frowned way too much, and struggled as he always did with his grasp on social cues, but it was the same Jon. 

He went out now, sometimes, though Tim had to get Georgie's help to coax him out of his work – and how he still managed to have as much to do even though they were on a two weeks break was a mystery she was almost afraid to uncover. 

Getting her friend back, it was like she could finally breathe again. 

Jon was a good man, if cursed and thus inherently a little bit evil, but it would be hypocritical to throw him the stone. And she shouldn't accuse him of murder. 

Why would she do that ? Because that was the thing, wasn't it ? Why would she accuse him, or Tim, of murdering Gertrude in the first place, even ignoring the glaring fact that they had no mobile and solid alibis. 

Truth be told, she was afraid. Gertrude had been killed; by who ? And if she'd been murdered with a gun, it meant the culprit had ressources, plenty of them even ! 

And why kill Gertrude, doddering old lady and notoriously bad archivist to begin with ? She had no family, nothing to give to inheritance, nothing that made sense ! 

Was it because of that job ? Someone jealous, who wanted the promotion and decided to get rid of her ? That possibility was so much worse. Because it meant that whoever killed the old hag may go after them next. May go after Jon.  

And that was unacceptable. 

—

Five in the afternoon. Finally. 

Martin packed up as soon as the clock ticked, unable to stomach the silence and the tension anymore. Sasha was still typing furiously, occasionally stopping to chew on her pen cap. Tim was out doing a follow up with a Statement giver that had been kind enough to answer his calls without immediately insulting him and the Institute. 

Martin inhaled. "You... You aren't leaving ?" 

Sasha snapped out of her typing. "Hm ? Oh ! No. I'll probably stay late. I'm a bit behind on the Statements I have to transcribe." 

"Oh. I was hoping- Well, since we go the same way, I was kind of hoping we'd go home together." It wouldn't be the first time they'd do this. Sometimes, they just appreciated walking to the tube station together. Exchange some gossip – Martin had become her primary source of information since she came to the Archives. He still talked to Rosie regularly enough to be aware of everything going on. 

Sasha grimaced. "I'm sorry, I really need to finish that. Tomorrow maybe ?" 

"Okay." 

"Cool ! Goodbye then." 

He sighed. "Goodbye." So much for trying. Why was it that today, everyone felt as if they were avoiding him ? Why were they so tense around him, whispering to each other from time to time but never with him ? 

He let his hand creep up to the collar of his turtleneck and tugged a bit. He searched for any signs that his mould had spread beyond the bounds he'd fixed it, but didn't feel any of the soft black fuzz where it shouldn't be. It hadn't disobeyed him. It never did. He resisted the urge to scratch his cheek to let it in the open air. Not now. Later.  

He was almost out of the building, waving to Rosie, when Elias stopped him in his tracks. 

"Ah," began the man, and Martin winced internally. "Martin. I was looking for you. I know it's a bit late, but would you mind coming to talk in my office ? It won't take long." 

It was formulated as a question, but the coldness in the Head's eyes told Martin there would be consequences for his job if he refused. And he really couldn't afford getting fired. He plastered his best customer service smile on his face. "Sure !" 

The pleading look he shot at Rosie confirmed to her how much he did not want to follow Elias. Everyone knew a surprise performance review with the boss wasn't good news. She didn't know about Martin's faked credentials, but she still responded with a compassionate smile. 

The door to the lift closing felt like a death sentence. As they rode to the third floor, Martin couldn't help but squirm under his boss' eyes. He just had one of those gazes that made him super anxious. He always had the feeling they knew about what he was. Jon was the same, sometimes. 

It was fine. He couldn't know. 

Actually, the door to the lift closing was just a prison sentence. The death sentence was the door to Elias' office. 

Elias' smile never faltered as he sat behind his massive carved mahogany desk, gesturing to Martin to sit on one of the horrendously uncomfortable chairs in front of it. He remembered thinking, years ago during his interview, if the chairs had somehow been messed with to make them as stiff and painful to sit on as possible. Like one of those stupid interview techniques to throw the candidate off he'd read about on the Internet – and hadn't those helped his anxiety. 

Martin squirmed. "So, why, err... was there a particular reason you wanted to see me, Mr Bouchard ? 

The silver of his eyes drilled holes into him. "Yes, actually." 

Martin paused, waiting for Elias to continue. He did not. He could already feel his arse going numb on the chair. "Sooooooo... what is it, then ?" 

"I'm sure you're aware of the... attack, a few weeks prior, on Institute premises." 

"Yes ? I don't... I don't see how that's relevant, though." Had he done something wrong ? Shit, he didn't know what that could have been. Was Elias letting him lead the conversation in hopes that he would dig his own grave and admit to more faults than he did ? "I- I'm sorry Mr Bouchard, but I don't really... see how that's relevant ? Have I done something wrong ?" That was bullshit 101, appearing helpless and lost. threw the opponent off every time. 

Not this one, apparently, because Elias' smile widened. It wasn't a good thing. "Of course not, Martin. Just, tell me, were you acquainted with the deceased ?" 

His mouth was dry. If he still had blood, it would be frozen cold in his veins. "The- the deceased ? Do you mean Gertrude Robinson ? I'm sorry, shouldn't I be answering those questions to the police ?" 

"No, Martin, of course not. I'm talking about the only victim of the attack. Jane Prentiss."

"I- I don't-" 

"Don't lie to me, Martin." His voice was steel. A blade that tore through Martin's flimsy lies. "Were you, or were you not, acquainted with Jane Prentiss ?" 

"Yes," he breathed. "B-But that was before she- she became infested- before-" 

"Do not. Lie. To me, Martin." 

His breath seized in his lungs. He knew. How, why, what, Martin didn't know. But Elias did, and no amount of lies and false truths would change that. 

"Yes. Yes, I knew her. She was my friend. I was the first to find her after her hive did, alone and confused but loved. I helped her." 

Elias' face relaxed once again, dropping the steely anger it held moments ago. "Interesting. and why did you help her, Martin ?" 

Elias already knew that answer to that, of course. He just wanted to see if Martin would try to lie to him again. Or perhaps he just wanted Martin to say it, dig his own grave and admit the extent of his inhumanity. 

"I'm like her. Different Hive, but of the same Song."

Finally, a smile. A pleased one, this time. "Wonderful, Martin." He opened a drawer, a satisfied air on his face. Like a predator that had just secured a prey, and perhaps he was exactly that. After all, he'd just gotten Martin to admit his deepest, darkest – no, not darkest, it was a wonderful predicament – secret. One he shared only with his family and those alike – no one anymore, since Jane died. 

He'd shared it with John, too, before the man disappeared a year prior. John didn't have a Hive, not like Martin and Jane, but he shared the song all the same. The family under his skin was smaller, one of bacteria and disease rather than insect and fungus, but the flies following him where he went had been nice. A fellow companion of the song, one he had appreciated the company of. He was probably dead now, but he had been really old to begin with. 

Elias took a running tape recorder out of his drawer and popped out the cassette. Martin paled. 

"Now, Martin, this entire exchange, including your confession about your... nature, shall we say, has been recorded." His tone had been neutral, but he'd still managed to spit the word like it gave him the urge to wash his mouth. "Do you know why ?" 

"Blackmail. You want me to do something for you." 

"Exactly." 

"What, then ?" 

Elias took on a thoughtful expression, as if he wasn't sure what to do with Martin now. As if he'd just blackmailed him for the sake of it, for the sport, and now he wondered what favours he could obtain from the man. 

But Elias should probably learn not to bullshit a bullshitter, because Martin was one, and he could see Elias knew exactly what to ask of him. He'd used this technique himself a thousand times, to make people feel like he was just asking something innocent. The blackmail part made it of course much more threatening than his demands to repay 'favours' ever seemed. 

"Martin, are you familiar with the nature of what you are ?" 

Right. He knew what to ask of Martin, certainly, but he was trying to gauge how much he knew, just to be sure to let out the bare minimum of information possible. Damn. He always hated having to compete with other manipulators like this. Maybe he shouldn't have heeded his mould's warnings and spread it to this office as well. Bugging it should have at least given him some form of leverage. 

"I know it's different from the nature of what you are." 

That was a bit of a gamble, making a bold declaration about Elias himself when he knew very little, but it might help him throw his opponent off. That was just Bullshit 101, revealing as little as possible all the while sounding vaguely threatening. If he could look like he had some dirt on Elias too, that would limitate the damages. 

The other man snorted. "I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, Martin. You don't exactly have any proper 'dirt' on me, while I have a tape with a confession that can end your entire world." 

Martin froze. Shit, he thought. Was Elias a mind reader ? He didn't know enough ! 

The man smirked at his internal panic, so that was probably a yes. That meant he was screwed. 

"What do you want, then ?" 

"Hm." All simulacre of thoughtfulness was abandoned, leaving only the predatory smile that leaked with the satisfaction of a secured prey. Maybe Martin was too good with making metaphors in very dangerous and kind of inappropriate situations, but this one was going in the notebook. "I'd like you to spread your network into the Archives." 

Martin's eyebrows shot to his hairline. Elias continued on. "Nothing must be too visible, of course. But I want it to be enough to sense it, barely there. 

So enough to drive the others up the wall with their presence, but not enough that they can find out about what is causing this. Figured. 

"Why ?" 

"Because I think a collaboration of both our patrons might be beneficial." 

Martin almost laughed. "Nope ! Try again. My stuff is hardly something I would call beneficial." He might love his family, but he wasn't delusional. Or at least he liked to think that. " And," he added, emphasising for effect, "it doesn't like you or your patron, whatever it is. There was a reason why Jane wanted the place to rot on its foundations." 

For a split second, so brief Martin could have missed it, there was annoyance on Elias' face. It disappeared before Martin could fully register it, but he was sure it was there. "Of course. You're more clever than I gave you credit for." 

Martin snorted, leaning back a bit in his chair. "I'm really not. But if you've been reading my mind this entire time, you already know that. So. try again. Why ?" 

Elias huffed. "Fine. There's no point denying it anyway. I want you to Mark Jon." 

"What ?" 

"To Mark him. To make him fear, deep in his bones, what you and your God represent." 

Martin should protest. He should say it was wrong. He should say no, and damn the consequences. He doesn't. 

The prospect of Jon's fear is too endearing. The blackmail is just the perfect excuse. He won't let his mould consume him, he can't. Elias probably wouldn't let that happen. But to taste it, just a bit... Oh, Martin yearned for that. With Elias at his throat, he had no choice, he could say. But he knew the mould to be already buzzing under his skin, hungry for it. He was as hungry as it was. 

"Fine." 

His voice was probably firmer than it should be. If this was a film, and Martin was a better person, he would have protested, until Elias' threat grew and finally, he had to whisper a 'fine' torn out of his lips. But life wasn't a film, and Martin would probably be the 'kind of nice but secretly hated by everyone' guy if it was. As it was, he was lucky he didn't sound downright eager to hurt another person. 

"Good," smiled Elias. "You can go, now." 

Martin got up fast, grabbing his bag at his feet and standing up in the same motion. He stopped midway through closing the door, looking back one last time. 

"Elias ? Just one more thing. What's my God's name ?" 

Elias smiled. "The Corruption." 

Figured. He never felt like a corrupted being, but any human knowing him would take a look at Jane, John or himself and think that. If they didn't run screaming first. Maybe Elias was corrupted, too, in his own way with his own God. 

"Right. And what's yours ?" 

"Don't push it, Martin," calmly replied the other man, already back to sorting files on his desk. "And close the door on your way out." 

Martin didn't, just to be petty.