Archive of Our Own

It’s late. The archives of the Magnus Institute are quiet these days, silent and still, but in many ways they feel more haunted than ever, despite less people being present. The ghosts of those lost hold a silent grip over those still alive, empty desks and unused mugs in the break room cabinet serving as painful reminders of everyone chewed up and spit out by forces beyond their control. Sasha’s favourite coffee cup, the assortment of obscene stickers plastered over Tim’s now dusty monitor. God, even the spare jumper Daisy always kept at the Institute in case of emergencies feels strange to look at now, its dirt-brown colour a grim reminder of her fate. Jon hadn’t liked her very much before the coffin- she’d always scared him, in fact- but the knowledge that her almost-death in the Buried was, at least to some degree, his own fault, made a heavy feeling settle inside his stomach.

He could blame other factors all he wanted. The Circus themselves and their lurid ritual, Elias’ manipulations and deceit, hell, Daisy and Tim didn’t have to come with him to stop the Unknowing if they didn’t want to, after all. But at the end of the day, this wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for him. If he had been more careful and less… stupid, all these people might still have been alive. And don’t even get him started on Sasha. God, Sasha. Taken, replaced, and he didn’t even notice until the twisted, hunched form of the thing that stole her was hunting him down, down into the damp tunnels that snaked below the institute. Down into the stone tomb where he’d found Gertrude’s corpse just a year prior.

Jon couldn’t blame Gertrude’s death on himself, of course. He wasn’t that full of self-hatred just yet. But everything else? Just another Jonathan Sims patented fuckup, same as always. Even those still living didn’t want to associate with him. Georgie had stopped returning his messages half the time, and when she did deign to respond it would always be with an excuse- she was working, she was out of the city, she had plans with friends, the Admiral was sick and needed taking to the vets - and well, he didn’t need to be the Archivist to Know when to take a hint. Basira was always off on ‘business’ she never let him in on, and whatever it was he could only guess. Something she felt she had to hide, which meant nothing good. He supposed he could compel her, if it came to it, but he didn’t want to do that. Not to someone he cared about- he didn’t need to burn any more bridges, after all.

But a part of him still craved the knowledge. The power over somebody else, to be the spider instead of the fly for once in his miserable, lonely little life.

Martin was a whole other can of worms, pun quite unintended. Jon had barely seen him since he woke up from his coma- it was almost as if he’d quit the institute, though of course that was impossible. No, Martin had just simply… vanished. Sometimes he’d see the taller man leave what was now Peter Lukas’ office, but Jon can’t remember a time he ever saw Martin entering. The normally kind and generous archival assistant was a ghost these days, haunting the archives so silently that people barely noticed he was there. Jon missed him, even if he wouldn’t admit to that feeling. Martin had infuriated him to no end, that much was true, but he still tried, which was aggravating, but strangely endearing. And the way he made tea was nothing to scoff at, either. Jon didn’t really like drinking anything else these days, and going without it was hard to adjust.

So, all of this is to say that Jonathan Sims was a lonely, bitter, and self-hating man. If you could call him a man at all, these days - anything related to humanity was a stretch. On late and empty nights like this, he sat in his cramped little archivist’s office with his knees pulled to his chest and tried not to think about what was going to happen in the coming weeks. Or how most of the people he cared about were either dead, hating his guts, or both. Or how his grasp on morality was slowly slipping, and he didn’t know how much longer he could stave off the urge to feed. Sometimes, Daisy would seek him out, her emaciated form slinking into the office like a starving, beaten down dog, and the two would sit there with their heads on each other’s shoulders while they forced their damaged minds to focus on something, anything that wasn’t the unspoken grief permeating the atmosphere of the room like a bad smell.

But tonight, Daisy wasn’t there. And so Jon sat alone, a statement laid out in front of him like a smug banquet, taunting him with its promises of how good it would feel to consume. To read and watch and know all the deepest terrors of some poor, foolish stranger desperate enough to come to the Magnus Institute to pour out their heart. He hated doing it. He really did. Dry old statements were a preferable alternative to directly ripping them from random passersby on the streets, of course, morally speaking, but there was still that guilt that gnawed at him, the knowledge that he was taking advantage of someone else’s misery. Getting fat on their despair.

As he sat there, silent in miserable reflection, staring at the statement on the desk like it would strike and bite him at any moment, Jon was jolted out of his solitary reverie by the dull thump of a stack of documents hitting creaky wooden floorboards.

“I… um. I didn’t mean to do that.”

He looked up at the unmistakable form of Melanie King standing in front of him, about half an inch taller yet twice as strong. She had always been proactive and confrontational in a way Jon just wasn’t, and although she hated his guts and the feeling was sometimes mutual, he had an odd respect for her, at the very least. The idea of her coming to visit was strange, especially considering what him and Basira did to her just a few months ago, but perhaps there was something she needed, something she couldn’t get from anybody else. And Jon didn’t want to be alone right now, at any rate. He didn’t trust himself.

Melanie knelt down to gather the spilled papers into a haphazard pile, lifting them back onto the top of the cabinet, and then rose, smoothing faded crimson hair off of her forehead. “I didn’t think you’d be in here so late.”

Any hopes inside Jon that he might still have someone brave and foolish enough to visit him died when she said those words- Melanie wasn’t here to see him by choice. And why would she be? He’d hurt her, traumatised her, and she probably saw his face in her dreams every time she closed her damn eyes. If he were Melanie, he’d want to avoid him too. But as it stands, she was here, and she didn’t look like she was leaving. Just stood there awkwardly, oversized bomber jacket hanging off her like a shroud, eyebrow raised expectantly like she was waiting for an explanation- a justification as to why he was in his own office, of all things. She never changed.

“Uh, well, it’s my office-“ Jon began.

“Yes, I know it’s your office,” the red-haired woman interrupted, eyes rolling in exasperation. “I mean, why are you here so late? Do you not have a place of your own to go home to?”

Her tone was blunt, and sharp, acidic in its uneasy observation, but Jon couldn’t exactly disagree. He did technically have a flat he could be staying in, a small, rundown little one-bedroom in Camden with a leaking ceiling and second-hand furniture Georgie had helped him thrift, back when they were still friends. They had spent hours scouring charity shops and flea markets alike, lost among tattered floral-print sofas and grand antique dressers. Looking at the furniture in his apartment used to be a source of comfort, reminding him of a day he cherished with a person he loved and cared for deeply. But she didn’t care about him, not like she used to. Not anymore. And a leaky apartment is still a leaky apartment, no matter how much you dress it up in someone else’s hand me downs.

“I mean- I- yes, of course I have a home, Melanie,” Jon responded at last, lips curling in a self-conscious scowl. He scrubbed a scarred hand over his tired face, shaking his head in exhaustion. “I just… I don't like being there much, if I can help it. Weirdly, I think I feel better being at the institute these days, whatever that means.”

There was no surprise on Melanie’s pointy face. Just quiet appraisal, her eyebrows knitting together in thought as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Figures.” She mutters, eyes flicking over him briefly. “You would like it here, wouldn’t you?”

Taken aback, Jon blinked a few times, mouth opening and closing like a particularly slow goldfish. “I- I don’t want to fight, Melanie. Not right now, please.”

The words sounded unfamiliar coming from Jon’s mouth, desperate and despondent, and he hated the way his voice’s pitch increased in a pleading whine. He’d never sounded like that before, had he? Has he always been so… so pathetic? It was embarrassing and shameful, and painfully humiliating, and Jon had no idea when this innate terror at conflict began. He used to be assertive, he used to be strong, he used to be… well. He used to be a lot of things. Human, for one.

Melanie tilted her head to the side, and for a split second her face was scrunched in indignation, fists clenched by her sides so tight he could see the red crescent moon indents where her sharp nails met soft flesh. A sharp intake of breath, her shadowy eyes closing for a span of five seconds, and then her muscles relaxed and her eyelids snapped open.

“No, I.. I don’t see the point in arguing either. Not anymore.”

She takes a seat on the chair opposite his cluttered desk, sweeping scraps of paper from the worn cushion to make room for herself. There’s an awkward silence, a pregnant pause where the two share a weighted look, neither wanting to be the first to speak. Jon is about to cut in, offer some kind of apology or placation like he has done every time he’s seen Melanie since they found out they were trapped, but before he can get a word out, she cuts him off.

“If you’re going to apologise again, you can stop right there.”

Well, that shut Jon right up, then. He sits back, fiddling with his fingers and gnawing at his lips. It doesn’t take long for them to start bleeding, and he instinctively winces at the pain, even though nothing this mild has really hurt him since he got out of the coma. It was only the scars on his body that really ached these days, reminders of avatars met and conquered.

“I wasn’t going to apologise,” he begins, but yet again, Melanie interrupts.

“Yes, you were,” she counters in a dry, darkly amused tone of voice. A lazy half smile tugs at the corner of Melanie’s mouth, bitter and unimpressed. “You were going to tell me how sorry you were once again, or how I don’t deserve this, or how if you could go back and change things, you would in a heartbeat.”

Jon sighs. And closes his mouth. And opens it. And sighs again. What do you even say to that? Yes, he would have told her all of those things. Because they were true. Honestly, he would’ve said the same to any of them- all of them had suffered in some way because of his actions. But with Melanie, it felt especially personal. Because he really couldn’t do anything to change what had happened. And unlike the way the others used to dance around the subject and pretend they weren’t as upset with Jon as they really were, Melanie had always made it clear she despised him.

When Jon doesn’t respond, lost in a spiral of self-loathing and red-hot shame, Melanie’s expression softens almost imperceptibly, a flicker of pity in her gaze. He almost wishes she’d stab him again.

“You.. you don’t have to keep apologising, Jon.”

The statement takes him by surprise, and Jon’s eyes almost bug out of his head in amazement that would be comical if it wasn’t so devastating. He swallows, attempting to dislodge a lump in his throat that refuses to dissipate as he thinks over her words. “I… don’t?”

“No. You don’t,” Melanie affirms, but she doesn’t exactly sound full of forgiveness. Quite the opposite, in fact. Melanie King sounds defeated; a sentence Jon never thought he’d ever say.

“It’s not going to change anything, it won’t make me feel better, and I don’t want to hear your voice.”

Jon couldn’t argue with that.

“Right, okay,” he replies, the shake in his voice betraying the mild surprise at her blunt rebuttal. Jon knew she was well within her right to respond in such a manner, and he didn’t exactly expect Melanie of all people to be full of goodwill and grace, but there was a little part of him that felt crushed at her easy rejection of any olive branch he might have offered. “So… how have you been?”

“Are you fucking joking?”

A laugh rips its way out of Melanie, harsh and sharp, and she slowly, sluggishly shakes her head in disbelief. “I didn’t think that was a question that needed asking.”

The knot in Jon’s stomach tightens, and he scrambles to salvage this rare and beautiful thing that is a real, human conversation- words sticking in his throat as he searches for a suitable response. “No, of course not. I just… it’s just common courtesy to ask, that’s all.”

Common courtesy. A human concept, one that Jon found himself unfamiliar with even before his voyeuristic rebirth. But it makes him feel better to pretend he has that mortal decency that’s always come so naturally to the rest of his fellow man. Less like a terrible monster hiding in the scarred, leathery skin that used to belong to Jonathan Sims.

Melanie raises a thin eyebrow, and the disparaging expression on her face makes him cringe.

“Common courtesy,” she repeats snidely. “Right.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“You look like shit, by the way.”

The comment is so blunt, so withering, so typically Melanie that Jon is laughing before he can stop himself, running a hand through his tangled salt-and-pepper hair to remedy that assessment.

“Yes, I suppose I do.” He muses aloud, crooked fingers working to undo the knots atop his head. “Being comatose for six months will do that to you.”

This time, it is Melanie’s turn to look cowed. She breaks eye contact, which is a relief to Jon anyway, but the genuine embarrassment in her expression catches him off guard as she mumbles an apology, which comes out muffled, spoken around the nails of her left hand that she gnaws on as she speaks. Jon wants to tell her it’s a bad habit, unhygienic, unhealthy, and just plain gross, but he probably doesn’t have the moral high ground when it comes to bad habits, not these days. He can see where her black nail polish is peeling away to reveal fingernails bitten down to the skin, skin around the beds red and raw.

“You don’t look too good either, you know.” His tone is soft, but the words themselves are firm and clear. “You look… tired.”

There’s no way Melanie can really argue with his assessment. She is tired, a bone-deep exhaustion that’s been part of her long before the institute, long before Jon, or Elias, or the time she woke up to her supposed friend and her worst enemy driving a scalpel into her leg. The last year hasn’t been easy, not at all, but part of her barely registers it when compared to everything else that’s happened over the course of her life. When you’ve spent your whole life being controlled and abused, what’s a couple more months spent trapped? Supernatural entity doing the damage or not, the product is always the same: her and her alone, staring into her reflection in the darkness of her bathroom mirror night after night as if the pale carcass of what’s left of Melanie King can be stitched back together with enough examination and scrutiny. When her eyes begin to burn and sting, she doesn’t have to wait long before Georgie appears in the doorway, placing a warm hand on Melanie’s arm and guiding her gently back to bed, her own eyes tinged with the saturnine expression of someone well versed in dealing with the cracked and shattered.

Melanie would give anything for Georgie to stop looking at her like she’s broken.

It’s only after she finally pulls herself out of this destructive thought spiral that Melanie realises she has been speaking aloud. The buzz of static in the air is deafening in its quiet, dominating presence, and Jon is staring at her with cold green eyes she could’ve sworn were brown when she entered his office. As if a switch flips, his gaze instantly flicks away and down towards his lap, dark curls hanging in front of his face like a curtain.

“I’m sorry, I - I can’t control it, it just happens-“

“Basira told me,” Melanie cuts him off with a shake of her head. “She said you’d been… well. She told me this might be a concern.”

There’s a nauseous feeling in Jon’s stomach, a dull ache of guilt and self-hatred, and he can see in the reddening of Melanie’s ears and the hunch of her shoulders that she would’ve done anything to avoid voicing those thoughts aloud. Especially to him.

“It’s been happening more often recently,” he blurts, reaching up to tug at his collar as hot shame creeps up his neck.. “I… I keep doing it. Sometimes by accident, and… well. Sometimes.”

Jon doesn’t need to finish his sentence for Melanie to understand the implication that, at some point, his role in this sick imitation of a food chain switched from passive observer to active participant in the cycle of terror. He thinks about the people he’s fed from a lot, the empty vacancy in their gaze once he’d drunk his fill. Some of them would stand there, hollow eyes fixed on nothing in particular as they processed the mental violation that had just occurred. Others would shuffle away, dazed and sluggish with traumatised fatigue. One victim, an older man so deeply touched by the Lonely that even the walls of the public library Jon found him in seemed to shrink backwards from his decrepit form, actually cried when Jon had finished taking what he needed. Stood there with his milky blue eyes blurring with tears, fat wet droplets sliding down skin as thin and pale as paper. Regret stopped being a concern for the Archivist a long time ago, but the absence of it conjures a similar sick ache within his gut - the knowledge that he should feel something when looking at the pathetic trembling of the elder’s lower lip as he mutters and mumbles unintelligible declarations of grief, but he just… doesn’t. Jon wishes he could remember the man’s name.

He wishes he could remember any of their names.

“Sometimes.” Melanie repeats through a tight-lipped grimace, a hint of disgust present in the way her pencil-rimmed eyes narrow at Jon. “And… Do you enjoy it? Compelling, I mean. Just now, when you ‘beheld’ me, or whatever it is you call it. Did it feel good?”

“It didn’t feel good,” Jon starts, and he really does mean that. He didn’t like that he was able to just pull all of that from someone out of nowhere, that it came so naturally and easily. On the other hand, he did feel better now he’d done it. Like sucking in air after nearly drowning underwater, or cool ointment applied to a searing burn wound, something about it felt.. “But it did feel right.” he finishes quietly, as if a gentler tone will soften the blow of that admission.

He expects Melanie to recoil at this statement, can almost imagine the revolted repulsion on her face as she rants and raves about how awful he is, how awful he’s always been. And, confirming Jon’s assumption, she does indeed look quite upset, but instead of making any attempt to strike him, be it verbally or physically, Melanie swallows, and then swallows again as if something is stuck in her throat.

“I… that doesn’t surprise me.”

“What, did Basira tell you that too?” Jon remarks quickly, and then regrets it. He isn’t angry, not really, but he doesn’t appreciate having his private business aired out to everyone without his permission. Yes, Jon had already heard the tape of Basira and Melanie discussing his love life last year- which was quite unprofessional, if he might add- but that paled in comparison to them sharing all the dirty laundry regarding his… ‘eating habits’.

“No, actually.” Melanie responds, looking down at her feet as she scuffs the toe of her worn-out combat boot against the wooden floorboard. “I just… know how you might be feeling, I guess. Not that I’ve ever done that to someone”- she shoots him a pointed look- “But I know how it feels to have something bad feel so right.”

The shorter man doesn’t say anything, but he watches her silently, giving her a nod he hopes looks encouraging and not patronising. With him, it’s usually the latter.

“When I had the - the bullet in me,” Melanie begins, “I was… freer than I’d ever been, in a sense. Able to act on all the awful thoughts I’d ever had.”

She stands suddenly, stalking up and down the small office, as if whatever she’s about to say requires a physical change of pace to match the metaphorical one this revelation is offering.

“I’ve always been angry, Jon, I told you that a few months ago, and I meant it. There’s never been a time in my life where I didn’t feel that… that rage, that desire to punch in the teeth and kick in the shins of everyone who’s ever disrespected me, or belittled me, or made me feel small, or… well. You get the picture.”

Jon can tell by how Melanie’s gaze seems to sweep over him after that sentence, bitter and dour, that he is presumably one of the people she’s including in this revenge fantasy. Not that he blames her, of course. At this point, he’d probably welcome a good beating. Atonement and all that.

Melanie pivots on her heel, striding backwards and forwards a little faster now, teeth clenched and fists balled. “But I never acted on it. You have to understand that. Sure, the craving was there, but I could never trust myself to ever go beyond just fantasy. Because I didn’t know if I’d be able to stop once I started.”

Her breathing becomes sharper and faster, and she comes back over to lean against the chair, fingers gripping the head so hard her knuckles stand out a near-translucent white against the forest-green fabric. “And then I got shot. By a ghost. And you know the story from there.”

The woman in front of him juts out her chin and puffs her chest, and it takes Jon a moment before he realises she is inviting him to challenge her, to try and interrupt with a snide comment or a biting remark. Or maybe she’s just letting you ask questions, the small voice of rationality in his head counters. Not everything has to be so sinister. Either way, Jon doesn’t have a real interjection to offer Melanie. So he nods shakily, chapped lips pulled back and upwards in what could just about pass for an encouraging smile. “Um, yes - yes, I do know what happened after that. Quite hard to forget.”

“Well, quite,” Melanie agrees, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyway. I had the bullet lodged pretty fucking deep within me, and it wasn’t coming out any time soon, and I guess after the initial shock wore off, I just got used to it being there. Started to feel… right, as you put it.” She rubs at her temples, massaging the pale flesh there with her dry, cracked hands. “I’d been angry for so long- furious, even- and suddenly, all my inhibitions were gone. There was nothing stopping me from finally taking back some control, from finally feeling powerful for a change.”

There’s a wobble in Melanie’s voice, but whether it comes from excitement or terrified hindsight Jon cannot decode, and he’d bet good money that Melanie isn’t sure either. Such is the order of things when it comes to emotion around here these days.

“And I hurt people, Jon. And some of them deserved it. I won’t lie and say they didn’t, because the truth is that they did - you deserved it. I’d rush Elias with that knife a thousand times over if I was given the chance, bullet or no bullet, and if I woke up to you scalpel-deep in my leg once again, I’d stab you in the same damn shoulder I did the first time and feel no guilt whatsoever.” It’s a blunt statement, one that feels just as threatening for Jon as Melanie probably wanted it to, but he doesn’t mind. Not really.

He watches as her gaze lowers and she glances upwards, as if the cobwebs knitted over the peeling plaster might offer some aid in explaining where she’s going with all this. Melanie doesn’t look at him as she opens her mouth to speak again, only watches the way the spider-silk dangles from the ceiling in a strange sort of dance. “Except that anger, that fire burning deep within my core, it didn’t stop at the people who deserved it. No, I… I was just angry at everybody. Everything. This awful, horrible resentment festered within me like a rotten wound, and after a while, I couldn’t control who it began to infect.”

She sniffs, lip trembling. “I hurt Georgie, Jon. She tried so hard to help me- she was the only one who did- and I snapped at her, and I kept snapping, and all I did was push her away and she still wouldn’t go.” Melanie’s tone rises in volume, and Jon would tell her to lower her voice, to have some order in the Archives of all places, but what’s the point? Nobody’s around to hear them these days. God, she could probably torch the place if she wanted to, which she probably did, and unless Jon intervened, nobody would know anything until the paramedics found the charred corpses of the two of them lifeless on the floor of the burned-out husk that used to be the Magnus Institute.

With the way things were going at the moment, it wasn’t the worst scenario to imagine.

He’s brought back to the present by Melanie’s ragged, uneven breathing. “Even the one person who tried to help me became a target, Jon. Not to mention all the random people I lost it on for minor offenses I can barely even remember, looking back.” She forces a laugh, but it’s breathy and pitchy and doesn’t sound like any noise a person should be making. “I couldn’t even control myself when a stranger so much as looked at me the wrong way. I wanted to hurt them, hurt them all, because I was sick and tired of feeling small and the magic artifact lodged in my left leg told me that I should. That all the indignation and the outrage and the hot, blazing antipathy I carried with me for 26 fucking years of my life deserved to be let out. That it was all I was. That to unleash it and let it burn, untethered and unbridled, was the only logical conclusion to all the suffering I’d endured.”

A pause. A long, achingly still pause, in which the only audible noises were the grinding of Melanie’s jaw and the steady breathing of Jonathan Sims.

“And it felt right,” she admits quietly. “It felt really bloody right.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He had no idea- no, actually, he had some idea. But still. He didn’t know what it had been like for her. He had watched as her rage consumed her, yes, but he’d never really thought about what it had been like to be on the giving end rather than being the one to receive her wrath. Except, now that he’d heard her describe it, he realised he did kind of know how it felt, at least to some extent. Slaughter, Beholding, magical ghost bullet or death and rebirth, the manner in which avatarhood chose you didn’t matter. Neither did the entity that found you an appealing host. All that really mattered, when it came down to it, was the fact that you were chosen. That you had something in you that made you fit to host a fragment of an eldritch deity.

And, what you did with your newfound power. That mattered too, obviously.

Melanie and Jon had both given into it. Had listened to their patron as it whispered words of praise and sweet, soothing affirmation into their ears, and let its promises of unbound revenge and limitless knowledge sweep through them like morphine into the veins of a dying patient. You should hurt them back, the Slaughter had told Melanie. They deserve to bleed. Don’t you want to Know? The Eye had asked Jon, tender in its enticing darkness. Don’t you want to See?

And the answer was yes. Melanie wanted revenge, and Jon wanted to know, and those desires had consumed them - or been consumed by their entities, or however this symbiotic codependency functioned. Mother bird spitting up regurgitated rodent into its child’s mouth, filling them up with all things horrible and nauseating and necessary to ensure survival. The taste of the fear you steal is awful, but the fullness it brings with it is an indescribable ecstasy. Satiated, satisfied, sated. You are whole and you are beautiful in the terror you inflict. Let the bones of your victim crush between your teeth, let the blood spurt from mangled remains like a terrible crimson shower of gore down your parched and desperate throat. Bite down to their core, really get inside their soul, and take in everything you find, everything that speaks to you. After all, there is nothing else left for you to do but eat. To take what your patron tells you to, and feel grateful for whatever scraps of sustainment you are offered. It could always be worse, that voice in the back of your head reminds you as you mindlessly chew down on what might once have been nightmares belonging to your fellow man, but is now nothing more than a twisted, pulverised carcass picked clean and plucked dry by the glorious animal you have become. It could always be you instead.

Jon nods at Melanie, her angular face pinched in concern and understanding as his foot taps against the floor in agitation. “It… it does feel right.” He acquiesces meekly, words spilling from his dry lips in a tentative whisper, like it’s the first time he’s ever been able to admit that awful truth, even to himself.

“But it shouldn’t, Melanie. It shouldn’t feel like that at all.”

A grim expression passes across Melanie’s already sour visage, and she presses her lips together until they disappear into thin, garishly red lines that stand out like twin scars on pale flesh. “And yet, it does. Or, did for me. I’m… I’m out of that now, thankfully. For the most part.”

A beat.

“But you aren’t free yet, are you, Jon?”

She looks at Jon with the same pitying expression from earlier, from when she first blustered her way into the office and caught him right at a particularly egregious moment of vulnerability, but this time he’s almost grateful for it. Because it doesn’t feel belittling or patronising anymore, like he’d initially thought any show of positive emotion towards him from Melanie King must automatically be. Instead, there is an almost quiet comfort in the unspoken camaraderie that has formed between them. They aren't friends- Jon isn’t foolish enough to think that this has done anything to change the long-simmering animosity between the pair, not when they wouldn’t even be having this conversation if they weren’t hostages in the same inescapable hell, but they’re not quite enemies anymore either.

Coughing awkwardly, Jon tugs at his sleeves, pulling them down to cover where he’s been picking at his skin, opening new wounds over old scars. It’s another bad habit, but not a new one by any means. “No, I… I’m not free. And I don’t think I’m ever going to be. Not at this point. Not with all that’s happened.”

Melanie combs a hand through her tangled, damaged hair, and can do nothing but grimace, because she can’t tell Jon things are going to go any differently, and she’s never been one for false comfort even at the best of times. Not when she could actually be doing things instead of sitting around twiddling her thumbs and feeling sorry for herself. But there’s nothing she can do in this situation, and even if she could help anything right now, it probably won’t matter in the long run. None of this will.

“Yeah, I don’t think you’re getting out of this with some good old-fashioned impromptu surgery.”

“Probably not.” Jon concedes, and the two sit there in quiet contemplation. After a moment, his hunched shoulders sag in resignation.

“Thank you, at least,” he mumbles, bowing his head. “For not… for… for being kind, I guess. And not jamming the nearest sharp object into whatever bit of exposed flesh you can find.”

They share a dark laugh- the two of them always did have the same morbid sense of humour- and Melanie grins in spite of herself, a sardonic smirk that makes him feel like they’re in on some private joke nobody else knows about. The joke being Jon’s own impending doom, of course, but still.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Jon,” she quips grimly. “I could always change my mind and decide to go all slasher-movie mode on your scrawny arse.”

“What’s the point?” Jon responds in a faux-light tone, raising a bushy eyebrow. “I’ll probably be dead before long, anyway.”

Turns out, reminding your almost-but-not-quite friend of the expiration date of your fragile mortality isn’t quite the endearing joke most people would assume it to be.

Then again, Melanie King isn’t known for her normal reactions to things. So she chuckles in response, DIY tongue piercing clicking against her teeth as she does so. It occurs to Jon, as she laughs at his stupid, self-pitying comment, that this might be the first time he’s ever seen Melanie smile. Not even in the old Ghost Hunt UK videos Georgie used to have on while he was staying with her did he notice the short, leather-clad punk ever really wear an expression on her face that wasn’t practiced nonchalance, or, later, when she’d joined the Institute and had her life fed bit by bit into the eldritch meat grinder that was this desolate place, cold and bitter rage. But the smile on her face right now, however small and brief, is something worth celebrating, Jon thinks. It suits her more than the permanent scowl etched onto her features most of the time, anyway. He thinks about what a friendship between them might look like momentarily- one where both of them are smiling all of the time. Would they watch films together, or play old video games, or eat shitty junk food sprawled out on Jon’s cracked and peeling leather sofa? Would Melanie even like junk food? Maybe she prefers healthier options, like salad and protein bowls, and so they’d go to this vegan cafe Georgie introduced him to in Highgate, and he’d order his favourite tomato and red pepper soup, and Melanie might get a Greek salad or a veggie burger topped with halloumi and spinach, and they’d sit there and eat their mediocre overpriced health food and talk about everything they’d never gotten to speak about when they were forced into enmity by the circumstances their fates dictated. Really, where to even begin? What did Melanie enjoy, for example? She seemed like the sort of person to be pretentious in her lack of class, to have an affinity for trashy low-budget slasher films from the 1980s and off-key punk music from bands that never made it out of the stifling suburbs they loved to wail about in their songs, but maybe she had hidden depths. Maybe she liked the silent horror movies and fantastical sci-fi epics he’d grown up on, or perhps something really out of character, like romcoms and Taylor Swift. The image of Melanie King in her ripped-up tights and frayed floral babydoll dresses, all back-combed dyed hair and garishly heavy makeup listening to something like radio-friendly pop makes Jon smile to himself, an ironic half-quirk of his mouth threatening to split his face into a genuine grin.

“Melanie, do you ever think about what it would’ve been like if we were -”

“Friends?” The redhead interjects, folding her arms defensively. “Yeah, I do. Or, I did. I… I don’t know if you remember, but I did actually try to be your friend, back before I left for India.”

“You did?” Jon asks, genuinely confused. “I don’t remember- I didn’t realise-”

Melanie sighs deeply, exhaling in gentle frustration. “Yes, you idiot. I… I didn’t really have anyone else. All my other friends had fucked right off by this point, and it’s not like I’ve ever gotten along with what remains of my family, so.. I thought I’d try and give you another chance, at least, but you were just as pompous and insufferable as ever, and, well. You seemed pretty out of it, if I’m honest. I realise now you weren’t exactly wrong to be so paranoid, so stubborn, but… I was feeling pretty shit too, so. Damage was done.”

Jon fiddles with the hem of his cardigan, knowing what comes next in their timeline. “And next time we saw each other, you were…”

“Working for the Magnus Institute,” Melanie finishes grimly. “Stuck here and miserable, with you constantly taking Elias’ side over mine.”

“I didn’ t- it wasn’t like that,” Jon protests. “You know it wasn’t as simple as picking sides, Melanie, so don’t try and make me out to be some kind of co-conspirator. If I could’ve done something, I would’ve.”

“Maybe,” she mutters, gritting her teeth. “But it still bloody well hurt, Jon. I still felt pretty fucking isolated.”

He exhales, rubbing his eyes in fatigue, pressing his fingers into the balls until he feels the squishy sclera buckle beneath the pressure. “It would’ve been nice, though,” he offers in a weak-sounding whisper. “If we could’ve been friends, in spite of everything.”

Melanie doesn’t make eye contact, suddenly very interested in picking at the chipped nail polish crusting her fingers. But Jon can see her shoulders shaking. “Yeah. It might’ve been,” she eventually agrees, flicking black flakes onto the floor. “But we can’t, Jon. Not ever. You know that, right?”

She shoves her hands into the pockets of her beaten-up jacket and retakes her seat, leaning back against the soft cushions of the chair. “Too much has happened at this point, and even if I wanted to be your friend, I still feel angry when I look at you, slaughter bullet or no slaughter bullet. You make me feel… bad.”

It’s a blunt and childish way of phrasing things, but it gets the point across just fine. Jon rubs the back of his neck, wincing as his fingers catch in a tangled knot of curly hair. He usually had Georgie cut it for him, but they don’t speak anymore, and he doesn’t really like the thought of anyone else touching his head. Perhaps he can ask Daisy, next time he sees her- she’ll probably do it easy enough, though it won’t quite be the same. Probably best not to bother Melanie with the request, though. He isn’t sure if he trusts her with scissors.

“For what it’s worth,” Melanie startles him out of his funk, “I do wish things could’ve been different. If you were a little less of a dick, and this place was a little less genuinely evil, we could’ve been… not-enemies, at least.” She shrugs, tilting her head to the side. “And besides: Georgie sees something in you - or used to, anyway. And if someone as good as her can like even a pretentious arsewipe like you, then… then there’s still some hope for you yet.”

She smiles wryly, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Then again, she likes me, and I’ve been told I’m something of a piece of work too, so… there’s no accounting for taste.”

Another thing they have in common, then. The two share an uneasy, strained giggle, and then eye each other awkwardly. It’s funny, realising how much of yourself you can see in someone you swore you hated. Too much alike to ever truly get along, not with their shared penchant for self-loathing, but too much understanding between them to truly despise each other either. Jon knows now that they really won’t ever be friends. They’ll never watch movies and eat cheap Chinese food in his leaky, moldy apartment. He’ll never take Melanie to the Highgate vegan cafe, and she’ll never get to make fun of him for preferring their quinoa to their sweet potato fries. Jon won’t ever find out what music Melanie likes, if she prefers science-fiction or slasher horror, or if she secretly has the script to 10 Things I Hate about You memorised instead, and thinks Bella should’ve ended up with Jacob instead of Edward. She won’t cut his hair for him over the floral-engraved sink in the private Institute bathrooms that nobody really cares if they use anymore, trimming the curtain bangs Georgie always said made him look like a Shetland pony, and he’ll never get to tell her that he thinks her toothy smile is brighter than all the burning strength of the Lightless Flame, or more infectious than anything John Amherst could have wrought on that god-forsaken military hospital he read about all those months ago.

Jon and Melanie won’t ever get along. Not like they should, not like they could. He can’t give her back the time this place has stolen. He can’t un-gouge out a chunk of her leg. She can’t un-stab him, or take back the time he found her throwing up into the breakroom sink out of pure anger and despair last August, and she told him it was his fault everything bad was happening, that everything bad had ever happened. They can’t undo the damage that has been done. Jon cannot undo the damage that’s been done.

But he wants to give her back something. He’s not stupid- he knows time is running out for him, for all of them. The Institute is caught at the centre of something much bigger than anybody, and Jon doesn’t believe even for a second that just because Elias is behind bars doesn’t mean he’s not still scheming, or that Peter Lukas’ ambitions don’t have the potential to be even darker. The archival staff of the Magnus Institute, London, are, to put it lightly, absolutely fucked.

There is a way out, though. That tape left by Gertrude, Eric Delano’s fate. A cruel and gruesome manner of making an exit from the Beholding’s watchful gaze, but a permanent severance nonetheless. Jon won’t take it himself. Maybe if Martin had agreed to do it with him, it would be different, but as it stands, Martin is far too deep into the Forsaken to consider anything else right now, and when Jon thinks about it, he isn’t entirely sure he’s exactly taken with the idea of gouging out his own eyes either. Not just because he’s always been a rather squeamish individual, but because a small, poisoned little part of him wants to see this through to the end. He’s come this far - been touched by the Eye this heavily - and so he might as well find out how this is going to end. He’s always liked finding out, after all.

Jon won’t gouge his eyes out, Martin is too busy attached to Lukas’ hip to consider the gory notion, and Basira and Daisy have their own issues to worry about right now, but someone should have that chance. That opportunity to get away and forge whatever new happiness they can salvage from the mangled wreckage of what’s left of their life. And, if it can’t be him, then…

“Melanie, what if I told you there was a way to leave the institute?”