Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The gag was chafing his jaw. There were more pressing matters at the moment, of course, but Jon was currently enjoying - as best as he could - one of the few moments he had without Nikola and her abominations poking, and prodding, and scrubbing-

He shuddered, pushing the memory back as best as he could.

The point was, he was alone. And, being alone, he was free to focus instead on the more mundane aches and pains of this newly inflicted daily horror.

His mouth hurt. The fabric of his gag rubbed and pulled at the sensitive skin in the corners of his mouth. His joints were stiff and aching from being forced into the same awkward position day after day after day. His legs ached with a numb discomfort born from… days? Weeks? Months? Of sitting on the creaking wooden chair he’d been tied to. He’d already rubbed his wrists raw on the ropes that tied his hands behind the back of the chair. He’d been scolded, punished for it, like a particularly rebellious child, and not a hostage. Nikola had promised to inflict pain beyond his belief upon him for the outrage, but he consoled himself in knowing that it had likely bought him a few more days, knowing that Nikola wouldn’t want to wear a damaged skin for her ritual.

It was the little things, he supposed wryly. Small blessings.

He wondered what the others were doing. He still debated on whether or not to hope for a rescue. On the one hand, none of them except for maybe Martin really cared what happened to him, Daisy herself had already tried to-

He shuddered, the fear of it still gripping him even here, in the unsafe clutches of a different horror that wanted him dead.

So, on the one hand, the others weren’t likely to be particularly motivated to find him. On the other hand, Elias seemed rather insistent that he was needed to stop the Unknowing and, other than Melanie, the rest of the Archives staff was motivated to stop that. The question was really, would they listen to Elias?

Jon leaned his head back, laughing hopelessly through the gag. God, his rescue was dependent on the others listening to Elias .

He was going to die here.

Jon left his head tilted, resting against the stiff corner of the chair back. He gazed listlessly at the ceiling, letting his mind drift - as it so often did these days - to better times. He thought of his days in Research, the early days of his friendship with Tim. Back when they were both workaholics, scouring through pages upon pages of side projects for answers they would never find during their lunch breaks, before returning to the actual research they had been assigned.

He’d almost forgotten how Tim had been, back in the early days, back when he’d first started at the institute. Truly, he’d been almost as bad as Jon. Jon wasn’t entirely sure what had changed, only that gradually, over time, Tim had seemed less determined, and more beaten down by his searching. That Tim had moved from working silently around Jon, to attempting small talk with him. Jon hadn’t been exactly… social, back in the early days. But Tim had launched into his attempts to befriend him with the same relentless energy that he had started his research with, and Jon had gradually found himself looking forward to talking to him - had even been convinced to start taking those lunch breaks as actual breaks.

Perhaps, Jon realised, he’d served as a distraction for the truth Tim had discovered - that looking for answers was a futile endeavour.

If only Jon had realised the same thing, he might not be stuck where he was now.

He missed Tim. He missed the easy friendship they’d had, back before Jon had ruined everything.

The bone-chilling creak of the trap door opening tore him out of his reminiscence, and Jon squinted, heart-hammering, at the light illuminating the stilted descent of Nikola and her entourage into his musty basement prison.

Faintly, he recognized the click and whirr of the tape recording coming to life behind him. He didn’t dare look back to check, eyes glued to the wicked, painted grin staining the skin Nikola wore as a mask.

“Archivist!” She announced, chipper as always. Her voice sent an involuntary shiver through him, and he could feel part of him scrambling through the fog of panic that was quickly descending upon his mind, desperate to escape what his body could not.

The trap door swung shut, cutting off the only small sliver of natural sunlight Jon was granted during his stay.

He let his eyes drift from Nikola’s face to her companions. More importantly, what they held. He tried not to focus on their appearances, lest he fully lose his mind.

He could see the usual sponges, soaps, and tubs of water that denoted he was about to be plunged into the terror and humiliation that had almost become routine to him now. But that wasn’t all, and when he registered what he was looking at, he froze - icy terror snapping him out of the protective fog that had briefly overtaken his mind.

Scalpels, fishing hooks, wire.

Every muscle in his body seized with a terrified tension, before a full body tremble took him over. Senselessly, he began to struggle, writhe, against his bindings. He had to get free, he had to get out

Nikola cackled, gleeful. “You’ve figured it out!”

He had, and he had no escape. He fell limp, despairing, against the ropes keeping him bound.

They’d come to kill him. This was the last day of his life.

His chest shook as he groaned out a frantic, breathless, gasping sound against his gag. He didn’t know if it was a laugh or a sob, and it didn’t matter, wouldn’t matter in what would be - hopefully - just a short hour.

Unless Nikola made good on her promises and dragged it out. Unless - he began to hyperventilate remembering Sebastian Skinner’s statement, the swivelling eyes in the severed head - the pain, the awareness didn’t end upon death.

Unless, this wasn’t really a death.

He knew then, that whatever happened now, would only be the end of his life, not the end of him . He would remain, a voiceless, bodiless, witness to the destruction Nikola would bring about. Unable to move, unable to change anything. Unable to even scream.

Unable to do anything but watch. Watch, as Nikola used what was once him to bring about the end of the world.

Distantly, he registered the gag being removed.

He couldn’t stop the stuttering in his breathing as he looked up, slowly, to meet the dull plastic of what would have been Nikola’s gaze. She smiled placidly down at him, holding the gag limply in one hand, as the other came to grip his jaw. He shuddered at the sensation, trying in vain to pull back as he felt the firm, cold press of her plastic fingers slipping under the morbid glove of someone else’s skin.

“Any last words?” She asked sweetly, in her over-practised enunciation “You’ve been awfully good, I might even let you slip in a question!”

“Please-” His voice broke “please don’t do this, please just kill me.”

She laughed, the loose skin of her face pulling oddly as it mimicked the sound.

“What can I do to stop you from killing me?” He asked, desperate, feeling the pull of static behind his lips.

“Hmmm…” Nikola tilted her head in a pantomime of consideration. “I suppose… if you could get free of your bindings. Well… you couldn’t get very far. This place is absolutely crawling with my friends. But there’s always a chance you could get to the coffin before one of us grabs you.”

Jon’s heart sank to his stomach. The coffin. He could trade one prison, one pseudo-death for another. That was it.

There was no escape.

“Of course,” Nikola continued, a harsh bite to her tone “that would make me very angry. And you wouldn’t want that, would you, Archivist?”
Jon levelled her with a flat look.

“Because,” She explained with poisonous patience, drawing out the second syllable “it wouldn’t stop me. It would just be really, really, annoying. And I would still need to find a new frock. And I would be in quite a sour mood, so I don’t think you would like who I pick.”

An icy chill travelled down his sternum at that, freezing him in place. Tim, Martin, Melanie. God, even Daisy or Basira could be in danger.

“Don’t.” He responded faintly. “Don’t. I’ll- I’m not, I’m not exactly going anywhere.”

The corners of her mouth pulled in the motion of a smile.

“No,” she said, looking down at him. “I suppose you aren’t.”

She turned to face her companions, and Jon’s blood froze as he saw them preparing their basins.

“Prepare him, and be careful!” Nikola called to her ensemble, stepping back to let them do their work.

Jon leaned his head back against the chair, grit his teeth, and stared at the ceiling as he tried not to focus on the familiar routine of clothes being torn off, of plastic flesh-covered imitations of hands poking and prodding and pulling and scrubbing-

He was snapped momentarily out of his daze, as he always was, when they dumped the final basin of cold water over him - sweeping away the soap suds all in one go. He gasped for breath, as usual, as the rivulets of water streamed down his face. His teeth chattered and his body shook, he would never know if it was from the cold or the fear.

Then came the towels, patting his quaking body dry. A part of him was, against his will, grateful for their soft warmth as they took away the bite of the air on his wet skin.

They were soft, and compared to the horror of the past - however long it had been - they felt almost like a caress.

It occurred to him that this act, being towelled off by taxidermy and mannequins wearing human skin, was the closest thing to gentleness that he would experience before his death.

He took a shuddering breath, one that caught in his throat before he carefully let it go.

Gentleness, maybe. But not kindness.

He closed his eyes as the cruel imitations of people around him began to lather their hands in lotion. He pretended not to feel their hands pressing and passing over his skin. He thought back, trying to remember what the last act of kindness he must have experienced actually was. Trying to find something to hold onto, before the end.

Georgie, letting him stay maybe? Her refusal to let him cut himself off, her casual willingness to lie to the police for him, to be in danger just by being near him because she didn’t want him to be alone.

She really had always been too good for him. And he’d never thanked her properly.

He thought of her, and of The Admiral, before he found his mind drifting again, trying to find any other kind memory to distract him.

Martin came to mind, suddenly. His joy at seeing Jon return, and his awkward, stumbling attempts to make conversation during Jon’s brief visits back to the archives.

Jon thought about Martin, and his sincere efforts to help Jon with his paranoia in the aftermath of Prentiss. He thought of Martin’s hesitant inquiries into Jon’s newly acquired injuries once he’d returned to the Institute after Leitner’s murder, of his insistence that Jon either go to A&E, or let Martin take care of the wounds on his neck and hand.

God, he’d been so awful to Martin at the beginning, and Martin had always been so kind. He’d never get the chance to return the favour.

There was a lot he would never get to do, now. He would never thank Georgie. He would never apologise, sincerely, to Tim. And he would never see Martin again.

He took a shuddering breath, realising abruptly that the sick skincare routine had ended.

Nikola stood over him. Instead of a scalpel she was, bizarrely, holding a marker. She tilted her head back and forth as she considered him. Unable to do anything, Jon simply blinked up at her.

Then, she leant over and began to lightly brush the marker over his skin in short, repetitive motions. Jon blinked in confusion, watching as she drew a dotted line around his shoulders, before it occurred to him what she was doing.

She was making a sewing pattern.

A laugh, hysterical and despairing, tore its way from his throat. She lifted his arm, marker at the ready, and he wondered giddily if she would combine his forearm with his upper arm in a sleeve, or leave it attached to his hand as one long glove.

The fit of madness remained until she finished with his arms, and moved to his neck. She drew a line around his neck, about an inch above his shoulders, and he knew somehow that she would sever his head from just below that line, after removing the skin of his torso, in order to better preserve the skin of his neck. His head had to be removed, of course, it would be too difficult to remove the skin without properly being able to manoeuvre it.

An involuntary shudder ran through his body at the chilling press of ink against his neck, as she lovingly marked up along his vertebrae. She pinched his scalp for that, avoiding bruising any visible skin.

By the time she’d began to lovingly part his hair to denote where along his scalp to cut, Jon had begun once again to drift away into kinder memories.

He thought about Martin giving him Prentiss’s ashes. He thought about Tim back in Research. He thought about Sasha, helping organise a surprise party for him even though things had been awkward between them since his promotion.

He frowned at that last memory. Unable to remember the real Sasha, the one who he’d actually grown close to. He knew some specifics, assumed that the core events of his memories were true even if the details were not. He had to believe that, at least, he couldn’t believe their entire history had been erased.

She’d been his first friend. Even before Tim had joined the institute, he’d had Sasha. Not that they’d been particularly close, before Tim had joined them, but they’d been… twin spirits, in a sense. Sasha’s curiosity had been endless, and she’d had a mischievousness to her that had reminded Jon of when he was a boy, sneaking into all sorts of places he wasn’t meant to be.

Ultimately, they’d bonded over being the only two researchers driven enough and curious enough to commit casual acts of breaking and entering in the pursuit of answers.

He missed her. He didn’t know her anymore, but he missed her like he would miss a lung.

It made sense, in a way, that their lives would be claimed by the same entity. They were two sides of a coin, tossed in the same horrible well.

“I’ve thought of my question.” Jon announced softly, somehow finding the will to speak.

Nikola paused in her marking, tilting her sagging face up towards him. “Oh?”

“You said I could ask one, earlier. I’ve co-operated, let me ask another.” Jon said evenly.

Nikola hummed, considering. “Alright, Archivist. It’ll be a gift, because I’m such a nice friend.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed unthinkingly. “Thank you.”

She reached up to pat his cheek. He made sure not to flinch away.

“Go ahead.” She said, sitting back on her heels. “Ask.”

Jon thought it over, trying to find the phrasing. ”When I-Don’t-Know-You replaces someone… are they dead and existing, or do they cease to exist?”

Nikola’s face pulled into a grin, and Jon had the sense that if she had eyes they would light up.

“What a fascinating question!” She chimed, before thinking it over. “Hm… neither!”

Jon’s heart pounded, some strange mixture of hope and regret rising in his chest. “Wh- But-”

“Ah!” Nikola exclaimed, clamping a cold, dry hand over his mouth. “No, you’ve had your questions. Two, even, because I’m just so nice!”

She squeezed his face under her hand. Not enough to bruise, but enough to hurt.

“Besides!” She exclaimed, releasing his mouth and pulling herself to her full height. “It’s time to start!”

Terror, freezing hot, burst to prickling life across his skin. His heart stabbed frantically against his chest.

He tried to shout, to break his bonds, to escape. But the mannequins were upon him, pulling his head back, holding him tight.

There were just too many of them, he couldn’t move no matter how desperately he tried.

Nikola approached him, scalpel in hand. The skin covering her plastic face morphed into a cruel mask of excitement. He watched in horror as she placed a hand on his shoulder, scalpel slowly approaching his upper arm.

“No,” he begged, choking on fear. “No, no, no, please, please n-”

The scalpel cut in, and his pleas transformed into a guttural scream, ripping his pain from his chest, through his mouth as he writhed - attempted to writhe - in the circus’s grip.

“Stop that!” Nikola chided. “You’ll ruin the cut.”

He didn’t know much after that, nothing but blinding, heart-stopping pain. When he could speak, he begged for her to kill him. When he couldn’t, he begged his mind to drop him into unconsciousness, to let him sleep until the end.

Neither his mind nor his captors complied, and when he next became aware of himself Nikola was removing a large flap of the skin of his outer arm from just below the shoulder, to just above the elbow. She placed it lovingly to the side, upon an oddly sterile white cloth, as Jon gasped for breath.

Slowly, Jon glanced towards his arm, staring at it in a detached sort of horror.

Surely, that couldn’t be his arm? It seemed alien to him, with the neat rectangle of skin carved away from flesh, like a door frame cut neatly into a wall. He watched the vibrant blood trickle down his arm, dripping onto the floorboards below.

God, even the air hurt, pulling and pressing against the fresh wound.

“Good job!” Nikola cheered, returning with the scalpel. She pressed it now, against the skin of his inner arm, already drawing blood.

“Please,” Jon begged weakly. “Please.”

He wasn’t sure if he could survive it again. He was terrified that he would.

“Don’t worry,” Nikola soothed sweetly. “I’ll use it well.”

Jon had just braced himself for the renewed onslaught of pain, when the trapdoor opened.

The heads of his captors turned, in breakneck unison, towards the light pouring from above.

“What?” Nikola snapped, impatience cracking her consonants.

“Scuse us, boss.” A cockney voice called down.

“Something you might want to see.” Its partner joined.

“Can it wait?” Nikola asked poisonously.

“Not sure,” The first replied

“Probably not.” The second continued.

Nikola mimicked a long, frustrated exhale. She placed the scalpel daintily on the ground.

“Well.” She said, looking down at Jon. “I suppose you’ve earned a break.”

She looked at her companions. “He’s not going anywhere, let’s see what they need.”

Slowly, the hands grasping him released him. He cried out as they tied his arms back behind the chair, pulling awkwardly at his fresh wound.

It occurred to him then that, if he was lucky, he might bleed out before they returned. He watched dully as they ascended the steps back up into the main shop. Leaving him alone once again with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

His thoughts, and a huge, bleeding wound.

He closed his eyes, breathing heavily as if he might be able to will himself into unconsciousness. Faintly, he could still hear the whirr of the recorder.

“Is this enough for you?” He asked, hating the scratchy breaking of his over-used voice. “Are you enjoying this?”

The recorder, of course, didn’t reply.

“I suppose…” He continued, taking a deep breath “I suppose it isn’t enough just to hear, I bet- I bet you’d like to see too.”

He laughed, bitterly, clenching his jaw when it broke off into a sob.

A door creaked. He snapped his head up, tensing every muscle in his body as he stared in horror at the trapdoor, waiting for his tormentors to return, to send him back to a world of nothing but blinding, mind-numbing pain.

But they didn’t. The trapdoor remained, curiously, closed.

Then he heard the laughter.

Or rather, the single laugh. Grating and melodic, a cacophony of echoes bouncing off the walls of his skull.

“Oh, Archivist!” Exclaimed a, regretfully, familiar voice. “What have you done now?”

Lethargically, Jon turned his head to face his newest nuisance.

“Michael.” He greeted it disdainfully.

Michael stood framed in the nauseating yellow of the closed door behind him, staring at Jon with an almost predatory grin upon his face. “It’s almost sad to see you like this.”

Jon snorted in disbelief.

“Almost.” Michael repeated, approaching Jon and slicing through his bonds with ease.

Jon slumped forward, cradling his injured arm against his chest.

“I’ve come to a decision, Archivist.” Michael announced. “I’m going to kill you.”

“For fucks sake.” Jon breathed.

Michael laughed again, a shocked but delighted dissonance. “Well, it is earlier than I would have hoped! I’d hoped you would stop the Circus first, but instead you are here, and may bring about the Unknowing quite soon.”

Michael sighed, looking at Jon with what could almost be mistaken for pity. “Ah, but before I kill you… ask your questions, Archivist, I want you to understand. To know why you’re dying. Even if it does go against my nature.”

Jon paused, thinking over his options. There was no point asking Michael not to kill him. He would die soon anyways, his options were either death by the Circus or death by the Distortion. He was caught between slow and painful, or possibly less slow and painful. At the very least, Michael probably wouldn’t kill him in a way that ended the world.

Small mercies, small blessings.

“Killing me… will it stop the Unknowing?”

Michael laughed again, “Heavens, no! No, but it will… slow it down. Maybe give time for those assistants of yours to figure out a way to stop it.”

That would have to be enough. But it didn’t seem like the question Michael wanted him to ask.

“You…” He searched for the words. “You aren’t going to help me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You did with Prentiss.” Jon pointed out. “You even sought out S- sought out one of my assistants, to give her a way to fight.”

“Yes,” Michael said, stretching out the word. “I suppose I did.”

He looked down at Jon, seeming to consider his words, before elaborating. “I simply did not want the Crawling Rot to win, just as I do not want the Circus to win.”

“But this time, instead of saving me, you’re killing me.”

“I was never saving you, Archivist.” Michael replied.. “But someone had to kill Prentiss.”

“Yes… and my assistants were there, that time.” Jon mused, something slowly dawning on him. “Michael, you used to be an assistant too.”

Something flashed in Michael’s twisting expression. Something like rage, something like grief.

“No,” He said slowly. “Michael was an assistant. I was not always Michael.”

“I - What?” Jon groaned.

Michael grinned, seeming part amused and part possessed. “Ask your question Archivist.”

Jon almost did. He opened his mouth, ready to ask Michael what the hell that meant, what any of what he did meant, when something occurred to him.

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon muttered, head falling back against the chair.

“What.” It was Michael’s turn to be taken aback. Despite the fact Jon wasn’t facing him any longer, he could almost sense Michael’s confused expression.

“It doesn’t matter. You aren’t Michael or you are Michael. You were an assistant or you weren’t.” Jon told the ceiling, feeling a cold, trembling acceptance settle in his stomach. “You could tell me, but you’re just going to kill me afterwards. None of this matters, it doesn’t help with anything.”

Michael didn’t reply. It let out a short, disbelieving laugh, sounding almost nervous.

Jon let it stew for a moment, before lifting his head to meet it’s gaze. “You remember Sasha. The real one.”

“I- Yes?” Michael tilted its head, its own figure stuttering to follow its movements.

“Then here’s my question,” Jon decided. “Is she alive?”

Michael narrowed his eyes, dizzying gaze searching Jon’s. “Define… alive.”

“Not dead but still extant.” Jon answered quickly. “And sentient.”

Michael blinked slowly, eyelids passing over still staring eyes. “Yes.”

Jon snapped up to a straight posture, staring at Michael frantically. His heart hammered against his chest, his breath caught in his throat.

“Are you-” He licked his lips, hardly daring to ask. “Are you lying to me?”

Michael’s expression turned quizzical. “No.”

Jon let out a shocked breath, sucking it back in on a stuttering sob. His hand shot forward without a thought and he grabbed Michael’s arm desperately, pulling at his wound. The bones in Michael’s arm were… wrong, jagged and sharp and all corners, but he didn’t care. He gripped what passed as Michael’s arm as if it were a lifeline, blood dripping onto the floor between them, and put everything he could into his next question.

“ Can you save her?”

Michael stared, eyes wide with shock, as the compulsion pulled the truth from its distorted lips. “It may be possible. Nothing can hide from me, I am the essence of falsehoods themselves, and the Stranger has reduced her very existence into falsehood.”

Jon laughed, breathless and relieved. He felt suddenly, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He leaned forwards, resting his forehead against Michael’s harsh shoulder, and let his body shake with joy and grief.

“I could find her.” Michael mused. “But it would take someone else to bring her out.”

Jon took a deep breath, pulling himself up straight. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Michael asked, looking - for all that he was the embodiment of bafflement - very much like he’d never been so confused in his life.

“I’ll go with you.” Jon said, letting go of Michael and gripping the back of his chair to painfully drag himself into a standing position, groaning as he did so. “I’ll let you kill me.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

“On one condition.” Jon told him, levelling him with a serious look. “Once I’m… once you have me, you… you tell Tim, or- or any of the others. You tell them- you tell them how to bring Sasha back.”

Michael tilted its head, seeming puzzled and amused. “And if I say no?”

“I start screaming.” Jon gripped the back of the chair, clenching his teeth. “I bring the Circus here, you and them do whatever you want to each other, and Nikola finishes what she started.”

He lifted his chin in a challenge to Michael, voice steady as steel. “It doesn’t matter for me, either way I’m dead. But you’ve already said you don’t want the Circus to win. And if you let them get me, they win.”

Michael blinked. Then, its face split apart in a grin. It threw its head back and cackled, its glee reverberating off the walls, in Jon’s very bones. Jon grit his teeth and glared, trying his best to look threatening. Considering how his head was starting to spin from the blood loss, he wasn’t sure that he was doing a very good job.

“Oh, Archivist!” Michael exclaimed, miming wiping a tear from its eye. “I’m impressed!”

“Any second now,” Jon bluffed. “Nikola will be back soon, you don’t have much time to decide.”

“Yes I do.” Michael laughed. “I’m the one who pulled her away.”

“Wh-” Jon started, before Michael cut in.

“It doesn’t matter.” Michael pulled itself to its full height. “I accept your offer!”

That took Jon aback. “Y- you do?”

“Of course!” Michael replied, its expression falling to something more serious. “Ask me if you need too.”

Jon blinked at it, not sure if he could believe this. This was almost… too good? Surely, it had to be lying. “What do you intend to do?”

It grinned. “I intend to accept your bargain. All you have to do is open my door, enter my halls willingly, and then I’ll find your ‘Tim’, and I’ll tell him exactly how to find Sasha, I’ll even do my best to bring her back!”

Jon stared, disbelieving. It was- it really was too good to be true. He could- he could help bring Sasha back. He was doomed either way, but at least this way- at least if he did this, his death would be helpful. He could save someone, at least.

Michael smiled sympathetically. “I promise, the death you will find with me will be much kinder than what the Stranger has in store for you.”

Jon nodded mechanically. “Okay.”

He reached down to the floor, grabbing his discarded clothes. If he was going to die today, he’d at least like to not die naked. His arm screamed in pain as he pulled his shirt on over the wound, but it was worth it for the small sense of control it granted him.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and turned his gaze towards the door. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Archivist!” Michael exclaimed, delighted. “It’s almost a shame to kill you, you really have surprised me.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I just open the door, right? That’s it?”

“That’s right!”

“And then- and then I die.” He breathed, the words feeling unreal, and pulling a strange weightless feeling from his chest.

“And then you die.” Michael confirmed. “And sweet Sasha might get to live.”

“Right,” Jon agreed. He took a deep breath, then met Michael’s gaze one last time. “Thank you.”

The expression Michael met him with was one of pure, puzzled amusement. It let out a soft, looping laugh, and shook its head. It stepped away from Jon to circle the chair, bending over to pick up the tape recorder discarded upon the floor. It gave it a quizzical look, then with a decisive motion, stopped the recording. It looked up at him, smiling.

“Are you ready?” It asked.

“No,” Jon answered honestly, body shaking as he approached the door, placing his hand upon the door knob. “I’m not.”

He opened the door anyway.

Chapter Text

There was a door in Tim’s flat.

That statement didn’t mean too much on its own. Flats generally had doors. But not this door. Tim knew this door, and it shouldn’t be there.

It was a pale, nauseating yellow. The colour of faded caution tape and ambulances. It stood against the exterior wall, where Tim knew there never was and never would be an adjoining room.

The sight of it had trapped him, paralyzed Tim in his own sitting room. He stood, right hand still holding a cup of now-cooling tea, watching the door as memories of hallways and laughter and searching, searching, endless searching for a way out filled his mind.

What was it doing here? His heart pounded as his hand twitched towards his cell phone on the coffee table. He had to call someone, to let them know-

Let them know what? That a door that shouldn’t exist, and wouldn’t exist and had never existed was waiting on his wall? Tell Martin that Michael had decided to make good on the threats he’d made back in February? It wouldn’t do anything. It wouldn’t stop what was about to happen.

But it might give Martin a chance to escape. If the door was here to kill him, Martin could be next. The best Tim could do at this point was give him a running chance.

Mind made up, Tim summoned the willpower to move, snatching his phone. He dropped his tea, ignoring the dull crack his mug made against the carpet, and unlocked his phone quickly with shaking hands.

A piercing creak stopped him in his tracks.

He looked up in alarm, watching as the door slowly swung up. He waited, breath held, for his grinning death to lunge, laughing, from the now open doorway. He hoped it would be quick. He prayed he could warn Martin before it happened.

Nothing happened. The door remained, half open, and nothing emerged.

Tim let out a shaking breath, eyes flicking back to his phone screen, then up to the door again.

Nothing happened. He quickly opened his contacts, and began scrolling to find Martin’s name.

A shuffling noise came from the doorway before he could continue. He snapped his head up in time to see long, curling fingers retreat back into the darkness.

A tape recorder sat on his floor, a foot away from the empty doorway. The sight of it sent such a sharp flash of irritation through him, that he nearly threw his phone at the door.

What was this? Some kind of test? A trap?

He glared at the tape recorder, as if it could answer his unspoken questions. It probably could, if he played the tape he already knew was inside. But that would require getting closer to the door that he knew hid a monster.

“Fuck that.” Tim muttered.

If the thing wanted to draw him closer, maybe that meant it was waiting on his next move. Maybe, if he just left the tape alone, whatever ‘Michael’ was would leave him alone too. He turned, to where he knew the door out of his sitting room was, set on just leaving the flat and spending the night wherever he found himself until whatever this was was over.

He froze.

His door was gone.

Or, not gone. Replaced. His door had been replaced. By yet another yellow door.

Tim cursed, spinning on his heel to glare at the first of the yellow doors.

“What is this?” He snapped. “Is this some sort of sick game?”

The door didn’t respond. Neither did Michael.

The tape remained, waiting for Tim to play it.

“If you’re going to kill me just get it over with!” He demanded. “Don’t waste my time with this weird bullshit!”

No reply.

The tape was still there.

Tim glared at it. Then he glared at the door. Neither did anything, and it didn’t make him feel any better.

He sighed, frustrated. There really was only one thing to do, as if he’d ever really had a choice.

He found Martin in his contacts, and sent a quick text - one eye still on the open yellow door. He kept it simple: ‘watch out for Michael’. That dealt with, he tossed his phone back on the coffee table, and carefully approached the tape.

He moved slowly, trying to keep his footsteps light and quiet. His eyes never left the yellow door as he crept closer, convinced that the second he got near enough Michael would jump out like a bad horror movie and cut his throat with what passed as its hands.

It didn’t, though, and he reached the recorder unharmed.

Still watching the door, he bent over slowly, hand hovering over the recorder.

Nothing happened.

He snatched the recorder, quick as he could, and threw himself backwards. He scrambled as far from the door as he could, clutching the recorder close. His back hit the wall, and he watched the door - chest heaving with panicked breaths - as he waited for Michael to attack.

Still nothing.

Once his breathing had returned to what passed as normal, he turned his focus to the tape recorder. There wasn’t anything odd about it, other than where it had come from. It was just a tape recorder, an obnoxious piece of outdated technology that his stalker boss had been using to document their collective terror for oh, about two years now?

Tim considered breaking it, just to be petty. But he knew that wouldn’t end well, or even make him feel any better. So he did the only thing left that he could do.

He played the tape.

Within seconds of the tape starting, he was gripped with an old familiar terror. That voice… he’d never heard it before, but the way she spoke… he knew that voice. He knew that voice from an old nightmare, re-lived night after night.

The Circus.

The Circus was back, and they had Jon.

Tim clenched and unclenched his fist as he listened to Jon’s muffled protests, listened to the creature that held him chatter about taking his skin. Just like they had with-

Tim clenched his jaw, mind reeling. Waxworks, the woman on the tape had mentioned waxworks. He must be in some sort of wax museum then. He could call Martin, maybe even ask Basira and Daisy to help him. It was a lead, some way to find…

The tape continued on, halting that train of thought in its tracks.

The woman's voice greeted Jon, cheerful as it was in the last section. Tim listened, heart pounding, to the muffled sounds of Jon panicking - trying to figure out why he sounded so much more afraid.

He didn’t have to think about it long, seconds later the woman was asking Jon for his last words.

Tim’s heart dropped like a stone to his stomach. They were going to kill Jon. They had probably already killed Jon. Held him in some basement and skinned him just like- like…

Tim listened dizzily as Jon spoke, for the first time on the recording, only to beg to be killed. He listened as the woman threatened him, and as Jon seemed to yield under her demands. He listened through a long period where something happened that involved what sounded like a lot of water, and probably lotion.

He could do nothing but stand and listen, just as years ago he could do nothing but stand and watch.

Jon was oddly silent throughout most of it. So much so that, when he began to laugh unhappily, Tim flinched from surprise alone. Jon fell silent soon after, leaving whatever had caused the outburst a mystery.

Eventually, Jon spoke again. He sounded almost calm, conversational as he asked the woman about people being replaced. Tim found his mind wandering to Sasha. One dead friend asking about another. He should’ve stayed in that opera house.

Then the woman announced it was time to start, and Tim felt his pulse pick up rapidly. The tape would stop soon, right? Surely it had too. He couldn’t- He wouldn’t listen to Jon being killed, would he?

Still, as Jon started to panic on the tape, Tim found himself panicking right alongside him - unable to stop listening to what had already come to pass while he was too busy moping-

On the tape, Jon started to beg. On the tape, Jon started to scream.

The sound was so loud, so visceral and heart-stopping, that Tim was sure his neighbours must be able to hear. Any second, someone would call the cops, or come to see what was causing the commotion.

No one did, though. And Tim listened, frozen in terror and wishing more than anything that he could at least cover his ears, as Jon screamed himself hoarse and begged to die. Tim found himself begging alongside Jon, praying that the circus would just get it over with and let him die.

They didn’t, though. And eventually Jon’s screams faded to feeble, agonised, groans and gasps.

Tim was drained. He was ready to collapse by the time Jon’s captors were called away by familiar cockney voices. Unbidden, his mind called up his former fury with Jon, every horrible thing he’d wished on him, every nasty thing he’d said, every cruel thought he’d had.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would stop the recording, as if it would stop his thoughts. Not this, he never wanted-

“Is this enough for you?” Came Jon’s worn voice from the recorder. “Are you enjoying this?”

It couldn’t have been, but Tim felt as if it had been aimed at him. Is this enough to satisfy your anger, Tim? Are you happy now that he’s suffered more than you can imagine?

He wanted to scream.

He’d hated Jon, but he’d loved him before that. Jon had been one of his first friends after-

And now he was losing him to the same thing.

His self-pity was cut short by a very familiar creak.

His head shot up, staring at the door he’d forgotten was there (and was never there, and never would be). Nothing had changed, it was no more open or shut than before, and Tim realised the sound hadn’t come from the door in his sitting room.

It had come from the tape.

A very familiar, horrible laughter emanated from the recorder in his hand. Michael had decided to join the list of Jon’s tormentors, and was stating its own intentions to kill him.

It must have succeeded, since Tim had gotten the tape from its door. He looked up again, glaring at the door. Why had it come here? To gloat? To torment Tim with a snuff recording of his former friend? To remind him of how he would always fail, how he could never save anyone?

Then Jon asked about Sasha, and Tim’s heart stopped. Michael replied, and Tim’s mind went blank.

Sasha was alive. Sasha had been alive this entire time.

Tim wanted to throw up, he wanted to scream, he wanted to weep with joy and throw himself immediately into that doorway to find out how and when he could find her.

But he didn’t do any of those things. Because the tape was still running, and Jon was still going to die.

He listened, grief and guilt warring with ecstasy in his heart, as Jon bartered the right to kill him with ‘Michael’ in exchange for Sasha’s rescue. He listened as one of his two oldest friends agreed to die so Tim could find the other.

He listened as Jon thanked the creature that killed him.

The tape ended with an uneventful click, and Tim realised he was crying. He dropped the recorder, numb, and stumbled towards the coffee table. He half-dropped, bracing himself with one hand against the smooth wood of the table as his whole body shook and trembled. His mind was sluggish, trapped in the sludge of understanding everything he’d just heard, of trying to block it all out and forget. The air in his lungs was stuttering and stalling as he tried to breathe it in and out.

Sasha was alive. Jon was dead.

Jon was dead and Sasha was alive. Sasha could be saved because Jon was dead.

Tim found himself kneeling, head pressed against the surface of his coffee table, gasping for breath.

His phone buzzed, shocking Tim out of his spiral.

It was Martin. Tim had texted him, before, hadn’t he? Jon was dead, Martin would want to know. Martin cared about that sort of thing. Dazedly, Tim reached for the phone. He turned it on, and stared at the message.

Martin was asking if he was alright. This struck Tim as being hilarious. Of course he wasn’t alright, he’d just heard his friend die.

For Sasha. He’d heard his friend die for Sasha.

The door was still there, half open in invitation. Tim took a slow breath, mind made up.

He knew what it wanted from him. He sent Martin a quick update, then shut off the phone. He tossed it aside, standing to stare down the door.

He’d find answers in there. He’d find Jon’s killer, and the only person who could help Sasha.

He stepped, feeling very much as if he was in a dream, towards the door. He half hoped that what was in there would kill him, so he wouldn’t have to decide whether to kill it first. But if he did that, then no one would be able to help Sasha.

What a uniquely horrible situation, Tim mused as he pulled the door open fully, to have to negotiate with the killer of one friend to ask it to be the saviour of another.

The hallways were every bit as horrible as the last time he’d entered. But this time he didn’t have the consolation of Martin beside him, or the terror of Michael chasing him. All he had was cold, numb grief, and a distant, dreamlike hope.

“Assistant.” A familiar voice greeted from behind, and Tim felt a fury so all-consuming rush through him that he was sure he would faint from it.

He turned slowly, facing the horrible, grinning eyesore that waited to gloat. His body shook with a thrumming rage that pulsed in sync with his heart as it beat against his chest, desperate to launch itself towards the monster before him and rip it apart.

“You killed him.” The words fell from his lips without a thought. “You killed him.”

Michael tilted its head. “Did I?”

Fury overtook his mind, and he threw himself forwards. He didn’t know how, but he was going to kill this monster, he was going to tear it apart so it could never hurt-

It grabbed him, pinning him against the wall as he struggled against it. He grabbed, fingers scratching, desperate for any way to make it hurt.

“Careful.” It warned, eyes cold and dangerous. “Loyalty will get you killed.”

“Fuck you!” Tim spat, thrashing in its grip. “Fuck you! You killed him, you killed-”

A pressure on his throat stopped his breath, quickly silencing him.

“Do not test me, little archivist.” Michael warned. “It is not in my nature to help, be grateful that I am doing it anyways.”

Tim remembered Sasha. Remembered that as horrible as Michael was, and as desperately as Tim wanted to kill him, he was still Tim’s only chance to get Sasha back. He had to at least wait to kill it if he wanted to see her again.

Tim’s hands stilled against Michaels arm, and he tried to morph his expression into something slightly less murderous.

It must have worked, because the pressure lifted on his neck. Michael dropped him, gasping for breath, to the ground.

“Are you finished?” It asked, sounding bored.

Tim glared at it. He bit his tongue and, slowly, nodded.

“Excellent.” Michael grinned at him. “I’ve brought a gift.”

Tim was about to ask what the hell it meant, when he heard footsteps to his right.

He whipped his head around. A new hallway had opened up beside him, and stumbling through, clutching his left arm close to his chest was-

“Oh my god,” Tim whispered. “Jon?”

Jon was standing a few feet away from him, squinting against the nonsensical patterns of the hallways.

“Tim?” His voice was hoarse, but unmistakably Jon’s

Tim stumbled to his feet, lurching forwards towards him. He was hunched slightly, his hair ruffled and damp. His skin had an ashen tone, and his eyes were wild with dark shadows underneath them. He looked awful, but so much better than Tim thought he would be - he looked alive.

“Jon.” Tim choked out, and pulled him carefully into a one-armed hug.

Jon tensed for a moment under his grip. But he relaxed after a moment. He didn’t hug Tim back, because he was Jon and he was such an awkward bastard and god, Tim was so happy he was alive.

Tim pulled back, looking Jon over critically. “Are you real?”

Jon blinked owlishly up at Tim. “I- I mean, are you?”

It was such a Jon thing to say, Tim couldn’t help but grin.

“Last I checked.” He answered lightly, giddy with relief. “Shit, Jon.”

Jon gave him a somewhat confused look, before glancing behind Tim’s shoulder. He licked his lips nervously, gaze flicking back to Tim.

“Tim, listen to me.” Jon said with quiet urgency. “Sasha’s alive, you might be able to-”

“I know.” Tim cut him off. “I know, Jon.”

Jon blinked, obviously taken aback. “I… you- you know?”

“I…” Tim grimaced. “Michael filled me in.”

Michael laughed from behind him, the noise as grating as it had ever been. Tim didn’t miss the way Jon winced at the sound.

“Right.” Jon said, gaze flickering back to Michael, before returning to search Tim’s face with a determined intensity. “Once you get out of here, let Melanie know. She- She remembers the real Sasha, so she should be able to tell if it’s a trick. And, well, try to get the other’s to help you out, don’t try to do this alone.”

Tim stared at Jon, mind slowly turning over what he’d just said. He sucked in a furious breath when he realised what Jon was implying.

“Jon.” He said firmly. “I’m not doing this alone, because you’re coming with me.”

Jon looked pained. “Tim, I- I can’t. I made… I made a deal-”

“Oh I know all about your deal.” Tim bit out. “And I’m not letting Michael kill you.”

Delighted laughter reverberated from behind him, and he spun around to glare. Michael was doubled over, was throwing his head back with laughter.

“You couldn’t stop me!” It informed him gleefully. “Oh, Assistant, you have no idea how amusing you are.”

“You’re not killing him.” Tim said firmly, positioning himself between Jon and the monster. “We’ll destroy the Circus for you, and you can take me afterwards, but you’re helping Sasha and you are not killing Jon.”

“Tim!” Jon’s hand gripped the back of his arm, voice terrified as Michael’s laughter echoed once more through the hallways around them.

“You aren’t exactly in any position to bargain.” Michael informed him, voice filled with a joyous pity. “But… you’re right.”

Well, Tim hadn’t been expecting that. “I am?”

“Of course!” Michael smiled. “You’ll destroy the Circus, I’ll find your Sasha, and as a show of goodwill I won’t even kill your Archivist!”

Tim’s mind reeled, trying to understand what Michael was telling him. A minute ago, he’d been certain Jon was dead, killed by the very creature before him. Now, that same creature was cheerfully declaring its intention not only to let him live, but to help them.

What the fuck was its aim here?

“And Tim?” Jon asked urgently. “You won't harm him, right?”

Michael blinked innocently. “Why would I do that?”

He, historically, had done that. But Tim decided this was not the best time to bring that up.

“I… I don’t understand.” Jon muttered, letting go of Tim. “You said-”

“I lied, Archivist.” Michael explained slowly. “It’s what I do.”

“So is killing people.” Jon pointed out, like the self-sabotaging know-it-all he was, and now it was Tim’s turn to grab Jon’s arm in fear. If anyone could annoy a monster back into deciding to kill them, it was Jon.

“Yes,” Michael agreed, sounding thoughtful. “But I no longer desire to kill you, Archivist. You should be grateful, you know. Most who enter my hallways would love a chance at life.”

Jon said nothing. Tim glanced back at him to see his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked, almost amusingly, like he was confused about why someone wouldn’t want to kill him.

“Now what?” He asked.

“Now....” Michael deliberated. “Well, I don’t actually know how to find your friend yet. I’ll come see the two of you once I do. You know what to look for.”

Tim blinked at it. “That’s… it?”

It couldn’t possibly be that simple.

Michael stared. “If you were expecting more, I could always kill you.”

Tim gripped Jon’s arm a little tighter.

“No thanks,” He answered drily. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

Michael smiled, waving lazily. A door swung open beside Tim as he did so. Tim glanced through the door quickly, seeing his own sitting room staring back at him from the other side. He looked back to Michael, to see it smiling placidly at him.

He gave it a nod, a simple acknowledgment, before tugging Jon’s arm and pulling the two of them through the doorway into the real world.

Chapter Text

The two of them stumbled unevenly into Tim’s flat. The door swung shut behind them, one long creak before it slammed shut and once again never was in Tim’s flat to begin with.

Jon landed horribly, and he likely would have fallen flat on his face were it not for Tim’s grip on his arm. As it was, Tim only managed to keep them both upright by grabbing the arm of his sofa with his free hand, unsteadily keeping his balance as Jon’s unstable half-collapse nearly sent them both to the ground.

They stood there, breathing heavily in the silence, and not saying a word. Once Tim was confident Jon wasn’t about to keel over, he quietly let go of his arm, collapsing onto the couch with a gasping groan.

None of this felt real. He couldn’t begin to wrap his head around the events of the past hour. He hated Jon. Sasha was alive. Jon was dead. Jon was alive and in his sitting room. Just a few moments ago, Tim had been about to sit down with a cup of tea and watch mind-numbing reality television until he passed out. Now, he was sitting and staring at his former-friend current-boss who he maybe hated as he stood awkwardly in the middle of his sitting room after escaping some sort of hallway hell dimension.

At least Jon looked almost as confused about the whole thing as he felt. His eyes darted all around Tim’s flat, never once settling on any one object, as if he was afraid of even looking at what was around him.

If only he’d been so considerate after Prentiss, a familiar part of Tim sneered.

“Look familiar?” He asked drily. Maybe there was an undertone of challenge to his words, what did it matter?

Jon’s gaze snapped towards him, eyes blinking wide with shock. He opened and shut his mouth silently, licking his lips nervously. “I…”

Tim sighed, too tired to start a fight in earnest. He wasn’t even sure why he’d said that. It was habit, at this point. It was easier for him to pick a fight with Jon than it was to put on his trainers most days. He opened his mouth, to apologise or to tell Jon to forget it, when his eyes caught on Jon’s arm.

A dark stain had spread down Jon’s left sleeve, and a bead of blood dripped from Jon’s fingers onto Tim’s carpet.

“Shit!” Tim jumped up. “Shit, Jon, your arm!”

Jon startled, raising his left arm dazedly to examine the growing stain.

“Oh.” Was all he said, staring lethargically at the trickle of blood as it ran down his hand.

Jon cupped his right hand underneath, as if to prevent the blood from falling to the floor.

“Shit.” Tim repeated. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

Guilt swelled in his chest, threatening to choke him. Here he was, picking fights with Jon, completely forgetting that he’d been skinned alive less than an hour ago. He fumbled for his phone, unlocking it clumsily and swiping away the missed call notifications from Martin to frantically dial 999.

“Sit down.” He urged Jon, listening to the phone ring.

Jon hesitantly moved to the sofa, sitting tentatively on the edge of the cushion. He held his arm far out from the sofa, still trying to catch the blood in his hand like an idiot, as if Tim cared about the upholstery right now. He retreated to the kitchen, frantically scrounging around for a clean dishcloth.

He found one, and tossed it to Jon with firm instructions to hold it against the wound to stop the blood, just as the operator picked up.

“My friend needs an ambulance.” He said urgently, not even giving the operator a chance to ask which service he needed. “Something’s- I don’t know, something’s happened, he’s bleeding badly.”

He waited while they transferred his call, cursing the phone system internally.

“It’s fine.” Jon told him patiently, eyes glassy as he tentatively held the dishcloth against his upper arm.

“It’s not.” Tim snapped. “And you need to press harder than that if you actually want to stop the bleeding.”

The call handler picked up, and Tim quickly rattled off his phone number and address when asked. He watched Jon from the corner of his eye as Jon tentatively began pressing down on the injury, wincing and hissing through his teeth as he did.

“What’s happened?” Came the exhausted voice from the other end of the line. Tim would have felt for her, if he didn’t feel like he was buzzing out of his own skin. As it was, he just barely refrained from snapping at her to cut the questions and just send the damn ambulance now.

“I don’t know.” Tim lied, making eye contact with Jon. Jon grimaced at him. “He doesn’t- He just showed up at my flat, I don’t know if he remembers, he’s just- his arm is- is bleeding pretty badly.”

She asked how many people were involved, and Tim fought the irritation as he answered. He knew why they asked these questions, he just wished they would hurry it up.

When she asked for Jon’s age, gender, and medical history. Tim paused, realising he only knew the answer to one of those questions.

“Jon.” He said sharply, holding out the phone. “Age, gender, medical history.”

“O-oh.” Jon blinked up at him, before awkwardly addressing the phone. “Er, 30, male. I- I smoke? No allergies, um, some- some pain medication but I haven’t- I haven’t taken it in… a while.”

“Right, thank you.” The woman answered, typing away at the other end. “And clearly you’re conscious and breathing, which is good.”

Jon huffed a nervous laugh as Tim dragged a hand over his face in despair.

“And where is the injury?” The woman asked.

“Oh, um,” Jon gestured vaguely with the injured arm, wincing as he did so. “Arm.”

“For Christ’s- show me, Jon.” Tim demanded.

Jon carefully shuffled his left arm out of the sleeve.

“Oh Jesus!” Tim yelped “Shit, fuck!”

“Sir, remain calm.” The woman on the other end droned patiently, as Tim stared in horror.

The skin of Jon’s left bicep had been neatly sliced away, a perfect rectangle extending from the peak of his shoulder to just above his elbow, revealing the red, oozing flesh underneath. Jon winced apologetically, covering it back up with the dishcloth, letting out a short cry of pain as he did so.

“He’s- his arm.” Tim choked out. “The outer side og his left bicep. The skin’s- the skin’s gone.”

“Any serious bleeding?”

“Any- yes there’s bleeding!” Tim exclaimed. “It’s just- it’s fucking all out there!”

“Okay, remain calm.” The woman reminded him. “Is he having chest pains?”

Jon seemed to consider it, before shaking his head.

“No.” Tim informed her.

“Okay, you said he was confused, did he hit his head?”

“Did you?” Tim asked Jon. Jon, again, had to think it over before he hesitantly shook his head. “No- no probably not.”

“Okay, good. Was there an assault, is the area you are now safe?”

Wasn’t that the question of the hour. Of course it wasn’t safe. Nowhere was safe, nowhere would ever be safe again.

“There- I mean, obviously someone attacked him but not- not here.”

“Do you think they could be nearby?”

“I fucking hope not.” Tim muttered. The woman on the other end sighed.

“Okay, an ambulance has been dispatched. It should be there within fifteen minutes. Keep an eye on your friend, keep pressure on the wound. If you’re in a flat, someone should go to the entrance to direct the emergency staff to your door, okay?”

“Right,” Tim answered numbly. “Right, thank you.”

He hung up as soon as he could. Staring at Jon. Jon stared back, before nervously averting his gaze back to his arm. Then, bafflingly, he started to stand.

“It- It should be fine, Tim.” He said. “Thank you, I’ll- I’ll just head down for the ambulance.”

“You’re going to sit there and wait.” Tim replied, effectively stopping Jon in his tracks. “I’ll get my neighbour to go down for the ambulance.”

“Tim, you don’t- you don’t have to do that.” Jon stammered. “I am- I’m perfectly capable of-”

“Don’t do that.” Tim snapped. “It’s always the same-”

He stopped himself. Now wasn’t the time.

“Sit down.” Tim said firmly, and Jon obeyed.

Tim stared him down for another good few seconds, as if Jon would jump out and scale the window the second he turned his back. Not that… that was an entirely unrealistic scenario, seeing as this was Jonathan ‘you take the rest of the day off while I go monster hunting with an axe’ Sims.

“I’m getting the neighbour.” Tim informed him. “Don’t move, and don’t pass out.”

Tim turned on his heels, striding quickly towards his front door. He undid the locks as quickly as he could, and tore the door open.

“Oi, Hollis!” He shouted down the hallway, leaning out of his door. “Hollis!”

There was a series of thuds from the apartment next to him. The residents of flat 7 across from him banged their door angrily in response to his shouting. He flipped off their peephole.

“Hollis!” He shouted again. Finally, the door to flat 6 swung open, and the only neighbour he knew the name of appeared, squinting at him with irritation.

“What?!” She snapped, blearily pulling her bathrobe around her over her sleepwear. Tim could feel guilty about that later, he had more pressing issues at the moment.

“My mates been attacked, he’s bleeding badly. Can you go downstairs and direct the EMTs to my flat when the ambulance gets here?”

Hollis’s eyes widened, she stumbled through her doorway, keys in hand. “My god, is he okay?”

“No,” Tim replied, too honestly. “Just… can you tell them where to go?”

Hollis nodded, rattled, and headed towards the stairwell. “Yes, you… you just look after your friend. My god…”

“Thanks.” Tim muttered, and headed back to the apartment.

He found Jon exactly where he left him. He was breathing slowly. Pointed, pained breaths through his nose. The dishcloth was soaking red under his hand.

“Put your arm on the armrest.” Tim told him. “It’ll- raising it a bit might slow the bleeding.”

He didn’t actually know if that was true, but he felt useless doing nothing.

Jon looked uncertainly between Tim and the sofa. “Are- are you sure? Your sofa-”

“I really don’t care about the sofa, Jon.” Tim said tiredly. “Just put your arm on the armrest before you pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass out.” Jon muttered childishly, and Tim debated telling the ambulance to just turn around and give up.

Jon did put his arm on the armrest though, so Tim counted that as a win. He walked to the kitchen, and found a fresh dishcloth. He returned to the sitting room, and knelt by the arm rest.

“Lift your hand.” He told Jon. “No, not the cloth, just your hand.”

Jon did as he was told, and watched with quiet bafflement as Tim placed the new dishcloth over the old one. Tim clamped his hand down on the fabric himself, not trusting that Jon was doing it well enough.

“Ah!” Jon yelped in pain.

“Needs pressure to stop the bleeding.” Tim explained, only half feeling bad about it.

“R-right.” Jon answered. Shifting uncomfortably.

They remained that way, waiting for the EMTs to arrive. The time dragged on in heavy silence, as Tim felt the fabric under his hand slowly grow damp and warm with blood. He cursed internally, eyes flicking to the windows to try and catch the glimpse of emergency lights.

He could feel Jon’s body shaking, shivering under Tim’s hand. He could hear the way Jon’s overly controlled breaths shook on each exhale, and stuttered on each inhale. Was it shock, or fear? A medical emergency, or a mental one? Tim couldn’t tell, and he couldn’t find a single thing to say or do to fix it. He was barely able to think through the sluggish cloud of fear fogging his mind.

Jon was here. Jon was alive. They would be fine.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he heard Hollis’s panicked voice in the hallway as she led the EMTs to Tim’s flat.

“In here!” Tim called, though he needn’t have bothered. They were already beginning to file into his flat.

“Watch for the broken glass.” Jon supplied helpfully, and Tim blinked in surprise. He’d forgotten about the mug.

The emergency personnel filed in, gently herding Tim away from Jon. Tim tried to protest, an irrational panic that Jon would be snatched away clouding his mind. But he was very firmly reminded by a short woman with bags under her eyes almost as prominent as Jon’s, that the sooner he cooperated with them the sooner Jon could get the medical attention he needed.

“There’s detectives outside.” She told him, and Tim cursed because the last thing this night needed was the fucking police. “They’ll want to speak with you.”

“They can question me at A&E.” Tim replied. “I’m not leaving him.”

“That’s up to them.” She replied, already leaving him to help Jon to the ambulance.

Tim stood, clenching and unclenching his fists as he watched Jon struggle to stand, leaning heavily on the first EMT to offer him support. Outside, he could hear Hollis already being questioned, and the confused sounds of the rest of his floor neighbours opening their doors and asking what was going on.

It made his skin crawl, the thought of all these nosey bastards gawking as the EMTs lead Jon to the ambulance, when none of them had so much as lifted a finger when Tim was hollering for Hollis help in the hallway.

The woman from before jogged back from the group making their way out the door to meet Tim.

“He says you can come in the ambulance.” She said, and it occurred to Tim then that part of her attempts to separate them might have been to protect Jon from Tim.

The thought made him feel slightly sick. What made him feel worse is that, just yesterday, he wouldn’t have found it wholly unrealistic that he could have hurt Jon.

“Right.” He answered faintly.

“He’ll probably be in there for a while, grab what you need.” She told him, and then turned to rejoin Jon’s new entourage.

Tim nodded, but couldn’t think of anything to bring. He pocketed his phone and, after a moment of hesitation, decided to bring the tape recorder along with him. He pulled on a coat, hurrying into the hallway to hopefully join Jon before the ambulance left without him.

He nearly ran right into Hollis, who was harriedly trying to explain to the detective questioning her that she didn’t know anything. He tried to rush around them, glaring at the neighbours he could still see peeking through their doorways, when an officer stepped in his path.

“Excuse me sir.” The officer said. “Do you have a moment to answer some questions about what happened here?”

“Am I under arrest?” Tim asked bluntly.

The officer frowned. “Well, no. But we’re going to have to speak to you eventually, and it would help-”

“Then no.” Tim interrupted, moving to the side to pass the officer. “You can question me at the hospital, I have to accompany my friend.”

The officer moved into his path again. “Sir, I have to insist-”

Tim stopped where he stood, trying to tamp down on the irritation bubbling into rage in his chest. If this useless ass would just move then Tim could go make sure that Jon would get the help he actually needs since Jon was just going to something stupid like insist he was fine-

Fuck it. The damn cop clearly wouldn’t let him go without a hassle, and even with his neighbours as potential witnesses Tim really wasn’t keen to deal with a pushy cop. Tim wasn’t feeling charitable, and he knew one surefire way to get the guy to stop just long enough for Tim to get in the ambulance.

If this asshole didn’t want to get stuck with a Section 31, then maybe he shouldn’t have become a cop.

“Here.” Tim thrust the tape recorder at the officer. “He had this on him when he showed up in the flat.”

The officer took it, sceptically.

“I mean, we work for the Magnus Institute.” Tim elaborated, taking no small amount of pleasure in the way the officer paled as Tim hammered the final nail in. “But it was pretty weird.”

He pushed past the stunned officer, content in the fact that he’d just fucked them all over.

But there wasn’t much time for that. Tim didn’t even bother with the lift, just made a break for the stairwell and took the stairs two at a time.

He burst through the doorway, panting slightly, and clambered into the ambulance to hear the back end of Jon’s own questioning at the hands of the paramedics. Jon just shot him a surprised look as he realised Tim was joining them, his reaction far too sluggish for Tim’s taste.

His arm had been bandaged, at least. It wasn’t enough, but it would keep him alive until they got to the hospital.

Tim let out a shaking breath, feeling some of the tension leave him, and half-sat half-collapsed against the wall of the ambulance.

It would be fine.

Jon would be fine.

He passed the ride to the ambulance in a buzzing sort of semi-awareness. His whole body felt as if it was vibrating with the come down of his adrenaline and panic.

Jon didn’t look as if he was faring any better. He was shaking still, and the pallor of his lips seized Tim’s chest with a visceral fear.

They were in an ambulance. He wasn’t going to die, they were in the back of an ambulance surrounded by people dedicated to making sure he survived until the hospital.

With the immediate threat gone, and nothing for Tim to do, he found himself shaking violently. He wanted to go to the smallest hole he could find, and fold himself up until he fit inside. He wanted to hide where nothing would ever find him.

The Circus. Jon had been taken by the Circus.

And he hadn’t known.

It had been- it had been years since… since Danny. Tim had looked into everything. He’d chased up every lead. Researched every damn circus this side of the Atlantic. He could practically recite every known fact about Joseph Grimauldi and then some. He’d followed up on every statement and case even tangentially related to circuses and clowns, everything related to Robert Smirke, both officially and unofficially. He’d dedicated four years to painstakingly searching through every possible related statement and follow up, and he’d come up with nothing. Nothing but dead ends. He’d almost convinced himself that they’d up and left - found another country to terrorise.

But they hadn’t. They’d been in London.

And they’d gotten Jon.

The rest of the ride to the hospital was a blur. Tim was vaguely aware of one of the EMTs - possibly the woman from before - putting a blanket around his shoulders, and speaking to him in a calm, measured voice. He could hear a steady stream of chatter from in front of him as well, and recognized one of the voices as Jon. This, at least, served as sufficient evidence that Jon was not actively dying.

It was the opening of the doors to the ambulance that snapped him out of it. The sound, and the rush of cold, night air, quickly brought his senses back to him. Well, more or less.

He glanced over at Jon, who simply gave him a tired, tense smile with pale and trembling lips. At least he was conscious. At least he was alive.

Tim clambered out of the ambulance, out of the way. The shock of his feet meeting pavement, and the full immersion in the night air, helped sharpen his awareness.

Jon seemed quite determined to shake off the help of the EMTs as they tried to get him to Emergency Care. Which was ridiculous because he was stumbling around unsteadily like a baby foal just learning how to walk.

“For fucks sake,” The words exploded out of him before he realized what he was doing. “Just accept their help, boss. You look like a zombie.”

One of the EMTs shot him a look, but Jon stilled and accepted their help, so Tim couldn’t find it in him to care. He followed along, wishing the cool air could do more to lift the fog in his head. He felt useless, slow and sluggish, the world seemed to spin without sense around him.

The entrance to A&E did not help. The whole world was bright lights, talking, shouting, moaning, and clipped doctors tones. Tim stumbled senselessly behind Jon, collapsing in the first plastic chair the group stopped at. He vaguely registered Jon sitting beside him, and watched as the EMTs filed along to inform whoever needed to be informed about Jon’s condition. Evidently, they had decided Jon wasn’t near death enough that he needed any medical staff to stay with him.

That was… good? Or bad. One of them.

Tim glanced to the side to see how Jon was doing. He was leaning his head back against the chair, face tight with pain and skin grey. So, probably not great.

Tim opened his mouth, throat clicking as he tried to find the energy to speak. “You alright, boss?”

Jon startled, blinking over at Tim. “O-oh, yes. Quite.”

He’d nervously adjusted his posture as he answered, sitting up straight despite the visible strain. It was so stupid, so unnecessarily proper, and so fucking Jon that Tim couldn’t help it.

He burst into laughter.

It was that, or tears. So he sat, doubled over in the awful plastic chairs of A&E, and cackled like a goddamn maniac over his recently-skinned-alive boss sitting up prim and proper to say that he was “quite alright”, as if that was in any way a sensible answer.

He could hear someone hissing at him to shut up, concerned mutters from people far more lucid than he assuming that he was in A&E for a mental health crisis, and Jon’s fretting murmurs above him. He tried to stifle his laughter, giggling and hiccuping into his hands.

“Quite alright.” Tim said, sitting up and putting on his most proper posh accent. “Yes, quite alright Timothy, it’s just a bit of missing skin.”

His next peal of laughter broke off into a sob, and he clamped his jaw shut. Breathing in harshly through his nose, he watched in bafflement as Jon awkwardly reached a cautious hand out - with his good arm - to carefully pat Tim on the shoulder. His face was the picture of discomfort.

“Y- yes, well.” Jon stammered. “No sense- no sense in getting worked up about it, I suppose.”

That drained him, for some reason.

“I suppose.” He replied, lifelessly. He looked up, to see the woman from before heading quickly their way.

He straightened up quickly. Did EMTs normally do that, in A&E? Was it a good sign, or a bad one?

“Quick update.” She announced without preamble. “You’ll almost definitely need surgery for the arm. The good news is we’ve gotten you high on the priority list, the bad news is it will still be a bit of a wait until they’re ready to see you.”

“Ah,” Jon replied. “I- I see. Um, thank you.”

She just nodded, then turned to Tim. “If he passes out, starts breathing funny, or acts confused, that’s an emergency. You get help right away if that happens.”

Tim nodded, memorising the mental list and committing himself to watching Jon like a hawk until he was taken for surgery.

“Same for chest pain.” She said, facing Jon. “The second you feel anything, you get your friend here to run for help.”

“Right,” Jon nodded uncomfortably. “Right, of course.”

She nodded sharply, then turned to leave. Her work was never over, it seemed. Tim could relate.

“Wait!” Tim called, suddenly feeling as if this was the most important thing in the world.

She stopped, turning to face him and raising an eyebrow.

“Thank you.” He said earnestly.

She simply gave him a tight smile, and nodded. Then she was gone. And it was just him and Jon.

Jon, who he could no longer find the energy to hate. At least, not tonight. Not while they were here, waiting for him to get surgery to somehow put the skin back on his arm.

Jon, who was awkwardly shifting in the seat beside him.

Christ, how long was ‘a bit of a wait’.

“T-Tim…” Jon said, in the tone he took whenever he was about to ask Tim a question he really didn’t like to think about.

Tim just hummed in response.

“I- er…” Christ, could the man just not get it out already? “How… How long was I gone?”

Fuck.

Fuck, he really didn’t want to answer that. Not in the least because he didn’t know the answer. How was he supposed to look at Jon - shivering, bleeding Jon, Jon who’d just tried to sacrifice himself to bring Sasha back - and tell him that Tim didn’t know, that Tim hadn’t even noticed.

“I…” Tim started, before dread and guilt gripped his heart, stopping him.

He couldn’t do it.

“It’s… It’s June 12th.” He said, praying Jon wouldn’t notice the evasion.

Jon didn’t. Instead, his face fell. He stared at Tim, face slack and eyes wide with horror.

“June?” He asked quietly, disbelieving. And god if that didn’t tear Tim up inside. He wanted to throw up, he wanted to rip himself to pieces. “That’s- that’s…”

Jon fell quiet, staring at nothing in crestfallen horror. Then, quietly, emphatically, he whispered “Fuck.”

“That about covers it, boss.” Tim said, voice tight with emotion.

June. He’d been shocked by the month. When had the Circus taken him, then? May? April? Evidently, not June, which meant he’d been gone for at least 12 days. Likely more.

How had his mind not broken by now? Fuck, if Tim had been captive for even a week he wasn’t sure if he-

Though, that’s not entirely true, was it? He was a captive, in his own way. Beholden to the Archives, unable to leave without becoming deathly ill.

Still, at least he could go home. At least he could sleep in a bed, not surrounded by things that wanted to kill him.

At least he had all his skin.

“And…” Jon started, weakly. “The- the others? Is- everyone’s- no one’s, um…”

Jon met his gaze again, searching. “Are the other’s alright?”

“I mean, considering everything? They’re-” A realisation struck Tim, and he snapped up with horror. “Oh, shit. Shit- Martin!”

“Wh- Martin?!” Jon exclaimed. He grabbed Tim’s arm, frantic. “What’s- is he- what’s happened to Martin?!”

“He’s- he’s fine!” Tim reassured, startled by Jon’s intensity. “He’s fine, nothing’s happened! I just…”

Tim checked his phone and winced. Yup, twelve missed calls from Martin. And, weirdly, four from Melanie.

A glance up at Jon found him still staring at Tim, expression near-desperate. Christ.

“I… I told him you were dead?” Tim said weakly.

Jon stared, gobsmacked.

“You- you...” Jon’s voice was almost despairing “ why?”

“Because I thought you were dead!” Tim exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “The tape made it seem-”

“Tape?!”

“Yeah, I don’t know? Michael just… dropped the tape in my flat?” Tim tried to explain, overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of it all. “Fucking weird, just tossed it into my sitting room and waited for me to open the door.”

“You-!” Jon pursed his lips. “I can’t believe…”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing sharply. As if he had any right being the frustrated one here, last time Tim checked he wasn’t the one who made a deal with a terrifying door monster that involved letting it kill him.

“Right.” Jon said, testily. “Right, okay. But you’ve- you’ve told him I’m not dead, yes?”

Tim grimaced.

“You haven’t told him?!”

“I’ll tell him now!” Tim cried. “Look- look, sending a text right now!”

Tim typed a quick text, sending Martin his location as well for good measure.

“There, done!” He said quickly. “I’ve even sent our location.”

“Oh,” Jon grimaced awkwardly. “Well, I mean. There’s- there’s no need for that.”

Tim stared.

“He’ll worry.” Jon explained defensively. As if it was ridiculous for Martin to worry that mannequins had tried to skin Jon alive.

“Jesus Christ.” Tim muttered, staring at Jon in horror.

Martin was going to kill them both.

Chapter Text

Martin didn’t know what moved his feet forward. It couldn’t have been him. He couldn’t think, much less move. His mind was a dull grey fog, pulling him miles away from any sense of reality.

Still, he stumbled on. He had the vague sense that if he could just find someone, then they could tell him what was going on. That it- that it was all just a misunderstanding.

Yes. He just had to find someone. One of the others. And then… and then it would all make sense.

He distantly registered passing through a doorway, before his hip collided into something solid. He nearly tripped, bracing himself and the smooth, solid surface with his free hand.

It was… a table? Martin blinked, looking around. Right, he was- he was in the break room. That was good, someone would probably-

“Jesus!” Oh, Melanie was there. “You forget how to walk?”

Martin just blinked numbly at her, opening and closing his mouth. There was- there was something he had to tell her, wasn’t there?

Melanie squinted at him. “Are you crying?”

Was he? Martin lifted his free hand, swiping it along his face. It came away wet.

Huh.

Melanie’s expression shifted with discomfort. “Are you- are you okay?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn’t… he just couldn’t.

Instead of speaking, he held his phone out to her. Still unlocked, still open on his conversation with Tim.

Melanie gave him an uncertain look, before shifting closer to squint at the screen. She was holding a mug of tea against her chest with both hands, as if it would shield her.

“ ‘Jon’s dead,’ ” She read aloud. “ ‘details later’. What the fuck?!”

Hearing it outloud was different from reading it. It felt more real, once it had been spoken. Martin shuddered, dropping heavily into the chair.

“I-” Melanie was still speaking. “What the fuck does that mean? Are we in danger?”

He heard her finger tapping against the screen, presumably scrolling through his texts for context. She wouldn’t find any.

“ ‘Watch out for Michael’, who’s Michael?!”

He was wrong. This hadn’t helped.

“Martin for god’s sake!” Melanie exclaimed. “What’s going on? Who’s Michael?”

“He…” It hurt to speak. “He has… doors.”

“Doors.” Melanie repeated, staring down at him like he was an idiot.

Maybe he was. He must be, of course he was. Sitting here, useless in this archive. Fretting about work and giving statement givers spare change while Jon was- Jon was-

“Oh, god!” He exclaimed, and promptly burst into tears.

Distantly, he could hear Melanie cursing above him. He didn’t care though, couldn’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed about breaking down in front of a woman who was half stranger, and really quite rude. All he could do was bury his head in his hands as his grief tore wailing, full body sobs from him.

“Shit, shit, shit.” He heard Melanie mutter above him. The dull thunk of her mug hitting the table. “Um… there, there?”

She was patting his shoulder stiffly. “It’ll… it’ll be… okay?”

That just made him cry harder.

“Shit, fuck!” Melanie cursed. “No it won’t, stupid thing to- fuck.”

She’d stopped patting his shoulder now. Her hand was still there though, awkwardly rubbing small circles into his heaving shoulders.

When he came back to himself, no longer weeping himself breathless, the fog had returned to his mind. He couldn’t bring himself to care. It was better than the alternative. Faintly, he could hear the sounds of a phone dialling.

Something warm and smooth was being pressed against his palm. He startled, looking up.

Melanie was pushing a mug of tea into his shaking hands. Her own free hand was holding her cellphone up to her ear, a frustrated expression on her face as the line on the other end rang and rang without end.

Martin hadn’t realised how cold his hands were until he registered the heat from the mug he was clasping. He wrapped his fingers around it tighter, hunching over the small mug. He willed the heat from the tea to seep into his bones, to chase away the grief, to make everything okay again.

But it was just a small mug of tea. The best it could do was warm his palms.

“Fuck!” Melanie shouted, throwing her phone. Martin jumped as it clattered against the wall, tea sloshing over his hands. It hurt.

Melanie dropped into the chair across from him, expression defeated. “Jon’s not picking up either.”

He blinked up at her, mind slowly spinning the words around as he tried to catch up to their meaning.

“I already tried that.” He whispered, barely more than a breath. “Him and Tim… I can’t reach them.”

“Oh.” Melanie replied dully.

Her fists were on the table in front of them. She was cracking her knuckles repetitively, worrying her lip between her teeth. She looked nervous, it wasn’t an expression Martin was used to from her.

“Fuck,” she breathed, slumping in her chair. “What am I going to tell Georgie.”

Martin really didn’t care. He didn’t think she was looking for an answer from him anyways. He stared dully at her as she sat across from him.

What could they do? What could be done about any of this? The closest people he had to friends were dead. Now he was left with two murderous cops, a mother who hated him, and Melanie.

God, Melanie was the closest thing he had to a friend in this world.

There was a buzz. His phone screen lit up.

Both of their eyes snapped to the phone. A text. Someone had sent him a text.

His heart hammered, hands shaking. He couldn’t- he didn’t dare-

He didn’t need to. Melanie snatched his phone, heedless of privacy, and frantically pulled her finger along the preview message.

“ ‘False alarm.’” She read, voice raising with excitement. “Shit, there’s an attachment. Martin, your password, I can’t-”

He practically lunged across the table, whisking the phone from her clutches. He typed in his password with sweaty, shaking hands. He scarcely dared to breathe.

It was a location.

“Hospital.” He breathed out. “They’re- they’re at a hospital.”

Melanie leapt out of her chair. “Nearby?”

He tapped on the address, phone quickly pulling up directions.

“Y-yes!” He exclaimed, nearly knocking his chair over in his excitement. “Yes, just a couple tube stops away.”

“Let’s go!” Melanie exclaimed, yanking her jacket off the coat rack.

For the first time Martin could remember, they were of one mind. Martin lurched after her. The fog was clearing from his mind, leaving behind something far more dangerous.

Hope.

They passed the journey to the hospital in silence. Only broken by Martin reading directions from his phone. The tube ride had been uneventful, other than Melanie snapping at someone who’d cut her in the queue at the card readers. In other circumstances he might have judged her for that, but he could hardly blame her for being on edge right now.

As it was, he had no idea how he was staying upright. His whole body felt jittery, like he’d pulled a solid run of all-nighters in a row and downed an energy drink. His heart hammered so intensely in his throat he worried he might throw it up.

Melanie stopped following him once they actually reached the hospital. She strode on ahead of him. Rapid, determined strides without once glancing around or paying heed to her surroundings. She barely acknowledged the check in desk, barreling on ahead into the waiting room. Martin had to half-jog to keep up with her, marvelling at how someone so short could be so quick without breaking a run. He threw a half-hearted apology to the desk employee as he hurried on after Melanie.

They entered the waiting room, and it was every bit as horrible as every other waiting room Martin had been in over the past few years. He scanned the crowd frantically, looking for any sign of-

“Tim!” Melanie barked out, and Martin spotted him.

He was hunched over in a waiting room chair, hands writhing as they gripped his hair.

Or at least, he had been. At the sound of Melanie’s voice, his head whipped around so quickly Martin was shocked he didn’t hear it crack.

Melanie made a beeline straight for him, posture tight and aggressive. But Martin was frozen in place.

Tim was alone.

He couldn’t see any sign of Jon. The seats beside Tim were empty, had Jon been there before? Tim’s hands were rusted with- god, blood? Was it- was it Jon’s?

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Melanie demanded, she’d reached Tim. “ ‘Jon’s dead, details later’. Details later?! Have you lost your fucking mind?!?!”

Oh, that wasn’t… She was going to get them kicked out. Martin jogged over quickly.

“And then, you fucking ghost us.” She was fully shouting now.

“Melanie!” Martin hissed. Not because he didn’t think Tim deserved it, but because it wasn’t helping.

“And then- and then!” Melanie was on a roll. “He’s not even dead! And you couldn’t have let us know? You couldn’t have, I don’t know, picked up the phone?! Save Martin a breakdown?”

Well there was no need-

“Excuse me for not getting back to you right away.” Tim sniped, because of course he did. “I was a bit busy trying to keep Jon alive.”

“Tim!” Martin snapped, heart in his throat.

And, oops, that was a bit louder than he meant. People were staring.

It got Tim and Melanie to shut up, though.

Martin took a long, controlled breath through his nose. He had to be calm. Tim and Melanie loved conflict, and it wouldn’t help if all three of them started fighting here. They’d just get kicked out, and god knows what would happen to-

“Tim.” He said evenly. “Where is Jon.”

Tim looked up at him, expression twisting into something more shameful. All the defensive anger he’d been directing at Melanie seemed to leave him in one breath.

“Surgery.” Tim said. “You just missed him.”

Surgery. God. Martin felt weak. He stumbled slightly, catching himself on the back of a chair.

“Okay,” He said, voice small. “Right.”

“It’s…” Tim huffed out a frustrated breath. “He… he should be fine. Just, I mean.. There’s- there’s blood loss. And they- they have to…”

Tim winced, seemingly unwilling to continue. Terror gripped Martin, winding a cold coil from his heart to his throat.

“H-have to- have to what?” He asked urgently, feeling faint. “They have to what, Tim?”

Tim seemed pained. He wouldn’t meet Martin’s gaze. “They… uh, they’re giving him a skin graft. On his arm.”

Oh, god. Martin collapsed into the chair.

Hadn’t Jon been through enough? Why this? Why more?

“But he’ll-” Melanie’s voice was oddly small, uncertain. “He’ll live, right?”

Tim snorted a bitter laugh.

“Yeah.” He said, voice cruel. “He’ll live. No thanks to any of us. He’ll live, missing a chunk of skin, because none of us even noticed that he’d been kidnapped.”

“Wh- Kidnapped?!” Martin cried. God, he hadn’t even known.

Martin’s distress seemed to take the last of Tim’s anger out of him. Tim deflated, rubbing a hand down his tired face.

“Yeah,” He said despondently. “Since last month, at least. He almost didn’t believe me when I said it was June.”

Fucking hell. Martin was going to be sick. He put his head in his hands and tried to breathe evenly through his nose. It sounded a bit like a whistle, so evidently he wasn’t having much success.

“Right.” Melanie said, voice clipped. “Right, okay. When did they take him for surgery?”

Martin could feel Tim shrug beside him. “About- about ten minutes before you got here? The nurses said it’ll be between three to six hours before anyone can see him though…”

He could hear Melanie’s foot tapping on the tile.

“How big’s the injury?” She asked.

The rustling beside him indicated Tim was answering with a gesture rather than words.

“Right.” Melanie’s voice was, if possible, more tense. “That’ll be closer to the six hours, then. Especially with our luck.”

There was a beat of silence. Melanie still didn’t join them on the chairs.

“I’m going to get Georgie.” She announced. “She’ll- Someone should… tell her. And she’ll-”

Melanie growled, frustration evident in her tone. “She’ll want to hear about it. In person. God.”

Neither of them responded. Martin, frankly, didn’t care if Melanie decided to move to America to take up a career in tap dancing. Jon had been kidnapped, whatever anyone else was doing didn’t matter.

“You should… probably not stay here. The whole time.” Melanie added awkwardly.

“I’m staying.” Tim said firmly. Martin found himself agreeing.

“Right, well.” Melanie said tersely. “Do what you want. But you should probably wash that blood off. You look like you killed someone.”

With that charming goodbye, she turned on her heel and left. Martin could hear her footsteps clearly against the linoleum. No one else managed to walk as if they were actively creating a warzone in every room they entered.

Martin finally managed to pull his head out of his hands. He straightened up, and glanced over at Tim.

Tim was staring at his hands as if just now noticing the dried blood on them. Looking closer, Martin could see there were flakes of it dried into his hair and along his face as well. He’d probably been tearing his hair out earlier.

It was… a not insignificant amount of blood. The fact that it was Jon’s made Martin’s stomach drop nauseously.

Tim was frowning at his hands. His gaze flickered between the door to the men’s toilets, and the hallway where Martin presumed Jon had been taken.

“Go.” He told Tim. “Wash up. I’ll get you if there’s an update.”

Tim nodded slowly, rising to his feet as if he had just awoken from the dead. Martin watched him stagger towards the toilets, then tilted his head to the sky.

There was nothing to do but wait.

Chapter Text

Melanie’s knee bounced erratically as they waited for stupid red signal to let up, and the tube to just start moving again like it was supposed to do.

God, she hoped Georgie didn’t notice her nerves.

She was no good at this. She was the exact wrong person to be dealing with this.

Melanie wasn’t stupid. She knew she wasn’t… the nicest person. She was- she was angry. And she’d earned that anger. She’d earned that anger, and it had never failed her, never ceased to keep her safe, to keep the bastards who would just look down on her and take from her and use and use and use her until there was nothing left far, far away from her.

Well, until Elias. But she was solving that issue, whether the others agreed with her or not.

The point was. She was angry. And a bit mean. She was tough as nails and twice as sharp and god damn it she was proud of herself to be able to be that way, to keep going and to never cave to what other people wanted from her.

It was just… that also meant that she wasn’t all that good at giving people what they needed from her.

Not that it bothered her, most of the time. She wasn’t the world's damn mum. If anyone needed something from her and they weren’t a friend, quite frankly they could piss off and get it from someone else, as far as she was concerned.

But Georgie was a friend. And Georgie needed her right now.

Georgie needed her, in the exact kind of crisis that Melanie’s anger and distance from the world made her terrible at.

Georgie needed someone kind. Someone soft, and comforting. Someone who could hold her together while she worried about her freak ex-boyfriend-slash-current-friend being in the hospital.

Georgie needed someone good. Someone that Melanie, fundamentally, was not.

At least, that’s what Melanie figured Georgie needed. She was a bit out of her depth on this whole thing. Martin had been completely falling apart (and god, hadn’t that been awkward, Melanie didn’t do comfort), and Tim had been-

Well, Tim had been a bit more familiar territory. As much as it irritated her that she was the target, she recognized the impulse to start a fight when something deeply upsetting happened. That, at least, she knew how to deal with. She was good at fighting.

But Georgie…

Melanie wasn’t sure about Georgie’s reaction. She’d been shocked at first, of course, when Melanie had shown up in the early hours of morning, awkwardly stumbling through explaining that Jon was in the hospital but Tim said he should be fine so… he should be… fine? Well, alive. Shit sorry-

But after the initial shock, her reaction had melted away into something shockingly more… practical. She’d urged Melanie inside, and told her to sit and explain in more detail while Georgie prepared to head to the hospital.

Melanie had watched, a bit awestruck, as Georgie strutted through the flat, packing with the utmost efficiency, as if a sudden hospital visit before the sun came up was no more than a quick trip to the shops. She’d expected… well, she didn’t know. Tears? Panic? Those seemed like the reactions people normally had when people they cared about were hurt. Anger, too, but that didn’t seem much like Georgie. She could be firm, but she wasn’t the same kind of blistering, bubbling, rage and the need to hurt to protect that Melanie was.

That Tim was, a bit, too.

But Georgie hadn’t invited Melanie in to gawk, so Melanie quickly tried to explain as best as she could what had happened. That her and Martin had both been in the archives way past closing time. Melanie, to… well, plot Elias’s murder (at this, Georgie gave a fond shake of the head and smile. Which definitely did normal things to Melanie’s heart rate and did not make her blush like a goddamn teenager), and Martin for who knows what reason, Melanie had never cared to ask. Melanie had been taking a quick tea break from her murderous ruminations, when Martin had come stumbling in looking like a ghost. She explained the texts (“ ‘Details later’, really?” “That’s what I said!”), and the trip to A&E, and Tim’s… Timness.

That was when she hesitated. She’d shot a nervous glance at Georgie before cautiously revealing what Tim had said about Jon being kidnapped.

Georgie had frozen. Her breathing had been pointedly even, and she’d simply pursed her lips and then asked Melanie to continue. Melanie had, letting her know what Tim had said about the surgery.

And… that had been it. Melanie had been expecting tears, shakiness. Something between Tim and Martin’s reactions. Maybe even a bit more shock? But Georgie had taken everything in stride. She’d even asked if Melanie was okay, which was-

Well, it was kind of nice. But also confusing. It’s not like her and Jon were close. She couldn’t really stand him, and she’d made that no mystery to Georgie. Or Jon.

Still, it’s not like she wanted the guy dead. Or kidnapped or whatever. He could be… okay enough. Sometimes. If he felt like it. Once in a blue moon.

All in all, it was a little baffling to Melanie. She’d spent the ride over to Georgie’s mentally preparing herself, doing quick internet searches on how to support friends dealing with hospitalised family (it was the closest she could think of off the top of her head that would yield actual search results). Hell, she’d even gone so far as to scroll through the threads on reddit.

But Georgie was proving to be remarkably efficient in an emergency. Solution-oriented, even.

It was admirable. And it made Melanie feel a bit like she was floundering.

As they approached the hospital, the source of Melanie’s discomfort dawned on her.

She felt useless. Purposeless.

There was no real reason for her to be here if Georgie didn’t need her. Her and Jon were not close. In a vague way, she felt bad that he got kidnapped. But she doubted her face was one of the first ones he’d want to see after surgery.

She felt too bad to leave, but too unnecessary to be there. Sure, maybe Martin and Tim needed comfort or support or whatever. But to be honest, she didn’t like either of them enough to really try. I mean, if Martin was crying again or something she could offer her shoulder, she guessed. But she wasn’t about to hand hold either of them through their feelings.

Georgie hesitated slightly at the entrance to the waiting room. Melanie placed a hand on her shoulder.

“They’re this way.” She whispered, nodding towards Tim and Martin as she led Georgie towards them.

Martin didn’t even look up as they approached. Tim’s eyes slid over to them, and he gave a curt nod as greeting. He nudged Martin, whose head jerked up as if woken from a bad dream.

“I’m Georgie.” Georgie introduced, quick and to the point. “Any updates?”

Tim shook his head.

“Alright then.” Georgie said, and sat in the chair next to Martin.

Melanie hovered for a second, feeling awkward. She shot a quick look at Tim, who simply raised an eyebrow at her.

Oh, fuck you. She thought, and quickly sat next to Georgie.

The silence did nothing for her nerves. The background hum of other patients moaning, of other companions fretting , of general human suffering, definitely didn’t help.

God, she wanted this to be over. She hated hospitals.

Smoke inhalation. She thought, suddenly and against her will. She shuddered, trying to shove down the thought and the swell of grief it brought with it. She saw Georgie glance towards her from the corner of her eye.

“So,” She said, if only to save herself from her thoughts. “What actually happened, Tim?”

“I told you.” Tim said slowly. “Jon got kidnapped.”

“Yeah, but by who? And why?” Melanie questioned. “And how did you end up finding him anyways?”

What made him need a skin graft? Was the question buzzing in her mind. But even she wasn’t tactless enough to ask it. Yet.

Tim stared her down, as if willing her to forget the line of questioning. He looked like shit. But, she noticed, he had at least washed the blood off.

However stubborn Tim was, he had nothing on Melanie. Plus, she wasn’t even all that exhausted by whatever ordeal he’d been through. So the winner of their battle of wills was clear to her from the start.

“The Circus.” He bit out. “Mannequins, clowns. They-”

Tim’s jaw clenched. His nostrils flared as he took steady, controlled breaths. Melanie saw that his hands were shaking.

“They wanted his skin.”

“Jesus!” Melanie exclaimed. She couldn’t help it, that was grim.

Martin made a wordless noise of distress in agreement.

Georgie sucked in a breath next to her. When she spoke, her voice was deathly calm in a way that couldn’t mean anything good.

“These mannequins… none of them would be called Nikola, would they?”

Tim blinked, stunned. “How- how did you know that?”

Georgie cursed. Melanie’s heart leapt with fear. Surely not-

“She stopped by my flat a couple of months ago.” Georgie said, like it was no big deal. “Back when Jon was staying with me. I didn’t see her, of course. She was there to talk to Jon.”

What? What?!

“Threatened him, I think.” Georgie continued. “I had to change the lightbulbs.”

What the fuck, what the fuck! Melanie grabbed Georgie’s arm with urgency.

“Georgie!” She gasped. “Georgie they were at your flat?! Wha- th- they know where you live?”

“It’s fine.” Georgie said. Far too calmly, in Melanie’s opinion. “It’s not like they want my skin.”

She winced, seeming to recognise that that was tactless.

“Jesus, Georgie.” Melanie whispered, feeling very much like someone had sucker punched her in the guy.

“When was this?” Tim asked, urgently.

“About a week before he moved out.” Georgie replied. “It was pretty much why he moved out, I think. He was worried that being there put me in danger.”

Fucking good. Melanie thought viciously. First sensible decision he’d ever made.

That wasn’t being fair. She clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to banish her nerves. That wasn’t fair, but neither was Georgie getting dragged into this.

God, now she was the one dragging Georgie into this.

“Right.” Tim said. “Right.”

He hesitated for a moment, then asked. “When… when was the last time any of you saw him?”

“Two months ago.” Martin replied, despondent.

Of course he had no issue remembering the last time he saw Jon. The lovesick idiot probably counted down the days between Jon’s one second visits to the archives he allegedly ran.

Melanie, on the other hand, had to wrack her brain to try and remember.

“Uh, probably about the same.” She admitted. It wasn’t like they hung out.

“Second of May.” Georgie replied. “It was the day he moved out.”

“And no one heard from him since the second of May?” Tim asked, sounding very much like he already knew the answer and it depressed him.

Their silence answered for him.

“Great.” Tim said bitterly. “So he’s been missing since, what, the very start of last month? And none of us noticed.”

Heat rushed to Melanie’s face, prickling her skin with a panicked, uncomfortable feeling as she picked up on what Tim was implying.

“Well it’s not like he was around before.” She answered defensively.

“What, sorry, when he was framed for murder?!” Martin snapped. “Or- or in the, what, four days after that? When Elias had just hired someone who tried to kill him.”

Shame and embarrassment flooded through her.

“That’s not what I meant.” She muttered, though it was.

“He was gone to protect us.” Tim said dully. “Because that’s the kind of stupid shit he does.”

Martin shot Tim a look, opening his mouth to argue. Tim beat him to it.

“Don’t.” His tone was harsh. “Don’t try to tell me I’m wrong. Because, apparently, Jon knew the circus was after him. And he decided the best thing to do was not tell anyone and cut himself off. And now he’s in there, getting the skin sewn back onto his arm, because he was too stubborn to ask for help! ”

“It’s not like any of you would have helped him if he’d asked!” Martin snapped. “It’s not like you made your hatred of him a secret."

Melanie bristled. She might have been a bit pissed at him for leading them to Georgie’s flat, but she wouldn’t have just thrown him to the wolves.

“That’s not fair.” Georgie said quietly. “I tried to help. But he’d just come back from five days of not contacting me, so when he stopped contacting me again after he moved out I just…”

Georgie bit her lip. It occurred to Melanie that Georgie was probably blaming herself. She reached out and took Georgie’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Georgie gave her a weak smile.

“Fine.” Martin said, before glancing between Melanie and Tim. His voice was ice cold when he spoke again. “But the two of you haven’t had any issues making it know that you blame Jon for your decisions to take a job in the archives, so as far as I’m concerned neither of you has any right to complain that he wasn’t letting you in on his problems.”

Tim looked like he was beating himself up, which was probably what Martin wanted. But Melanie fumed.

That wasn’t what she was doing. She wanted to tell him, wanted to snap that she didn’t give a shit what Jon did or if Tim and Martin were blaming him or themselves for what happened. She just didn’t want them putting the blame on her too, when it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t want the prickling guilt under her skin. She wasn’t Jon’s keeper. She couldn’t be expected to keep track of every little danger in the man’s life, especially not when she had her own shit to be dealing with. And an evil, murderous boss who was watching her every move that they refused to let her kill.

An evil, murderous, all-seeing boss. Who had somehow failed to notice that his favourite, most important employee had gone missing. For a month.

Or, more likely, had failed to inform them.

Glowering in the hospital chair, a chilling realisation struck her. Cold determination filled Melanie, and she squeezed Georgie’s hand. She found herself hoping Elias was listening in on her thoughts right now, if only so he could hear how thoroughly she meant them.

She was going to kill Elias. And now, she had a chance of getting these assholes to help her with it.

Chapter Text

Considering the events of the past month, Jon really had no business feeling as nervous as he did. He’d already survived a month of captivity, murderous clown mannequins, and whatever Michael was, with - all things considered - minimal damage. And that wasn’t even taking into account the previous horrors he’d encountered since becoming the Head Archivist. Besides, he was currently in a hospital, essentially surrounded by staff whose job was, at its core, to make sure he at the very least stayed alive. It was unpleasant, but it was also the most safe he had been in months. Logically, he knew this. Logically, he was calm as could be.

Emotionally, he was being faced with both an upset looking Georgie and Martin, and was currently considering whether he had a shot of making it out the window in one piece. Probably not, they were both faster than him.

They were both standing in the doorway, making Jon feel rather uncomfortable and as if he was at a disadvantage, considering he was bed bound. He had at least managed to ask the nurse to help him into a seated position before allowing anyone to see him.

He wasn’t sure why he had said yes to visitors at all. He was feeling worn down, overwhelmed and frazzled by the night’s events in a way that exhausted him. Though, that could also be the effects of the anaesthesia. Still, he wasn’t sure he could handle Martin’s mother-henning or Georgie’s stern sort of caring without becoming unpleasant in a way he would regret.

He’d felt bad at the idea of turning them away, though. And he’d missed them. So here they were.

Martin looked awful. His eyes were red rimmed with heavy bags underneath them. His face seemed drained of colour, and his hair was a mess. His clothes were wrinkled, presumably from being worn overnight. And he looked, to Jon’s eye, distinctly unwell. He was staring at Jon with his jaw clenched.

Georgie seemed considerably more put together than Martin. Her brow was pinched in the way it always was when she was worried, and her lips were pursed. She looked tired as well, but it seemed more like an immediate rather than long term exhaustion.

In either case, Jon was sure they must both look much better than him. Well, aside from his skin, that was. What was left of it, at least.

“Er,” He said, if only to break the awkward spell keeping the three of them frozen. “Hello?”

It stopped them staring, at least. Martin pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and exhaling in steady annoyance.

“Christ, Jon.” Georgie breathed out. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks.” He replied drily, eyes following her as she moved to sit in one of the chairs by his bed. Martin lingered in the doorway for a moment before joining them.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, seeming genuinely concerned.

It was a little awkward, to be honest. Jon shrugged, wincing when it shot a spike of pain through his arm. Martin’s eyes seemed to lock in on the movement.

“I mean, alright?” He said, trying to figure out how much he could get away with. He did not want to have a conversation about his feelings of all things when he was already feeling considerably vulnerable and, literally and metaphorically, flayed alive by the events of the previous night.

“Yeah?” Georgie prompted.

“Well, they gave me some pretty good painkillers.” He tried for lightheartedness.

“Well, we’re glad you’re okay.” Martin said, sounding far more stubbornly upset than was strictly appropriate for such a sentiment. He then seemed to realise what he’d said, and grimaced, speaking quickly. “I- I mean, shit, of course you’re not okay. I mean, we’re glad you’re-”

“It’s fine, Martin.” Jon cut him off gently. “I know what you meant.”

“Right.” Martin said, still seeming embarrassed.

“Besides.” Jon said lightly. “All things considered I am okay. I mean, I still have most of my skin.”

“That’s not funny.” Martin replied, looking like he was going to be ill.

“Ah,” Jon said. “Sorry.”

There was a beat of silence. Jon picked at the blanket nervously. Oddly enough, he’d never really prepared for what he was meant to say in this sort of situation. Perhaps he could be excused for that, it wasn’t exactly a common scenario. Though he was sure that if his grandmother could see him now, she’d be clicking her tongue at whatever social faux-pas he was committing.

“So,” Georgie cut in, blessedly taking the option of how to end the silence out of Jon’s hands. “Did they tell you how long you’ll be here for?”

“Oh, uh.” Jon blinked, trying to remember. He hadn’t been lying about the painkillers. “About- about two days?”

Georgie nodded, considering.

“It’s nothing- nothing bad.” He reassured her quickly. “Just- just observation, really. They want to make sure the skin graph sticks.”

Martin’s brows drew together in a pained expression, wrinkling the skin on his forehead. The expression bothered Jon for some reason.

“You shouldn’t make that face.” Jon informed him. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

Martin stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, which was rude. Georgie snickered, which was even more rude. He shot her an offended look. She was undeterred by it.

“Well,” George said, taking a breath to steady her laughter. “It’s good they have you on something for the pain.”

Jon wrinkled his nose, trying to track her change of subject. “I suppose.”

He wasn’t actually all that much a fan of painkillers. Something about struggling with a nicotine addiction made him squirm at the thought of relying on any kind of chemical relief. However, he’d found that being skinned ranked decently high on the ‘eaten alive by worms’ scale of exceptions.

“Oh, sit down Martin.” Georgie chided, breaking Jon out of his train of thoughts. “You look like you’re going to collapse standing there.”

He did look quite grey. Jon frowned at him, tracking him with his eyes as Martin cautiously sat in the chair next to Georgie. His hair was a mess, tangled and sticking up oddly. His jumper was rumpled and wrinkled. He’d clearly not slept, and his complexion was terrible.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked.

Martin blinked up at him. “Am- am I alright?”

Jon squirmed, feeling distinctly as if he’d said something wrong. “... yes?”

Martin rolled his eyes to the ceiling, pinched his nose, and let out a frustrated huff. His voice was sharp and tense. “Yes, Jon. I’m fine.”

Georgie laid a hand on Martin’s thigh, patting it gently. Martin scrunched his face up at the gesture.

“In his defence,” Georgie said mildly. “He is high right now.”

“You’re high?!” Jon asked Martin, feeling his eyes bug out of his skull. He’d never taken Martin for the type.

Martin looked at Georgie despairingly. She, being horribly rude, laughed.

“No.” She informed Jon, smiling pleasantly at him like they were still in uni. “You are.”

“Ah,” Jon considered this information. “Yes, I- I supposed I might be.”

Georgie leaned over, and squeezed his hand. It was nice. Her hand was warm and soft, she touched him gently and released him without any harm. He found himself wanting to cry.

“You’ll have to move back in.” She said, with a false levity that always meant that he’d better not fight her on what she was saying. “The Admiral’s missed you.”

In the foggy back of his mind, Jon was aware that he should probably argue. He’d left for a reason, a keeping-people-safe reason. But he was torn between the dread that the thought of returning to his solitary, easy to break into, hotel room invoked, and the warm, pleasant lull that having Georgie and Martin with him brought up.

Mindlessly, he found himself saying; “Well, we wouldn’t want to make The Admiral sad.”

Georgie beamed. “I’m going to remind you that you said that tomorrow when you decide to argue with me.”

“I would never.” Jon told her, knowing that he would.

Georgie levelled him with a flat look, which turned into a fond eye roll.

“We should let you get some rest.” She told him, standing and stretching. “Come on, Martin.”

“Oh, uh-” Martin jumped up, looking anxiously between Georgie and Jon. “R- right!”

He hesitated for a second, looking down at Jon. There was something in his expression that caused Jon’s chest to squeeze painfully, a worried pinch to his mouth and sad widening of his big brown eyes.

“I’m… I’m really glad you’re alive, Jon.” Martin said meaningfully. His hand twitched like he might reach for Jon’s, as Georgie had. Jon found himself wishing Martin would. But instead Martin clasped his hands worriedly in front of his chest.

Jon tried to give him a reassuring smile. “Thanks, Martin.”

Georgie clasped his shoulder - the one that was intact, thankfully - and gave it a final squeeze. “See you tomorrow, Jon.”

Chapter Text

“So you’re just going to move back, alone, to your dodgy hotel room immediately after getting kidnapped?” Melanie demanded. “Christ, you piss me off.”

Jon glared at her. “I didn’t actually get kidnapped in the hotel room.”

“Not the point.” She muttered tersely, scrolling through her phone.

“Look,” he snapped. “If the circus wants to take me again-”

He paused, skin crawling at the thought. Melanie’s head shot up from her phone, eyes narrowing at him as if honing in on a weakness. He cleared his throat, not willing to cave on something so important.

“If,” He said evenly. “They want to take me again, they could do it anywhere. There’s not much we can do to stop it, and I’d rather not bring them to Georgie’s flat again. I don’t- I don’t want any of you getting involved.”

Melanie evaluated him, eyes still narrowed for a while. She pursed her lips, and the glow of her phone screen illuminating her chin disappeared as she switched it off without breaking eye contact. She let out an even breath through her nose.

Then she kicked his bed.

Jon yelped, jostled by the sudden impact.

“We’re already involved.” She said sharply. “The circus already knows where Georgie lives, we’re already looking for the circus, and from what Martin says those two cockney blokes who nabbed you have already waltzed into the archives before-”

Jon shuddered at the reminder.

“-and according to Tim that freaky mannequin already threatened us on that tape you took-”

“I didn’t.” Jon objected weakly.

“-so it’s not like you throwing yourself into danger alone is actually going to do anything to help us.”

They stared at each other for a tense moment. Jon could tell she was daring him to object.

“It’s reducing risk.” He explained slowly.

She snorted. “Piss off.”

“I’m serious, Melanie.”

“Really? Here I was thinking you were such a comedian.”

Jon rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath.

He wasn’t sure who, exactly, had decided that Melanie would be the best option to sit guard at his bedside - though he was certain it hadn’t been Melanie herself, seeing as they could barely stand each other’s company when there wasn’t the added risk of horrible violent death - but he would very much like to ask them to reconsider that decision. He would almost rather the Circus take him again.

Almost.

“Look,” Melanie said testily. “As much as I don’t like Georgie being involved in this either, it’s her decision. She’s an adult, she knows what’s going on, she can decide for herself if she wants to accept the risk.”

“I’m not saying she can’t-”

“You’re just trying to take the option from her.” Melanie cut him off.

He glared at her. “Shouldn’t I get a choice on whether or not I want anyone putting themselves at risk for me?”

Melanie gave him an evaluating look.

“Fine.” She said.

“Wh- really?” He sputtered, not expecting her to have agreed so easily. Honestly, he could tell her the sky was blue and he’d half expect her to disagree out of principle.

“Sure.” Melanie shrugged. “You’re right, you should get to decide if you want to bring Georgie in on this. You’re both involved in the decision, even if she’s already said she doesn’t mind and can handle herself, and would rather know you were safe.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. If her aim was to guilt him into staying with Georgie, it would not work.

“So here’s your choice.” Melanie announced, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward. “You can stay with Georgie, or you can stay with me.”

He can’t have heard that correctly.

“You?!” Jon exclaimed. “Wh- bu- … you?!”

“Well, you sure know how to make a girl feel special.” She muttered dryly. “Yes, me. I’m already involved, so there’s no point in moaning about guilt and responsibility-”

Jon did not appreciate the particularly dramatic flair she put on sarcastically pouting those two words.

“-and you’d better know that I can handle myself. If I can survive war ghost bullets in the leg, I can handle some plastic pricks from Primark in a shit Halloween costume.”

“I’m solidly certain the Circus pre-dates Primark, actually.” Jon said faintly, hardly believing what he was hearing. Christ, was she serious?

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Whatever, you know what I’m saying. Either you room with Georgie, or you room with me.”

He didn’t respond, waiting for her to take it back.

“Oh come on,” She grumbled, shifting in her seat. “It can’t be worse than flat-hunting.”

This was a trap. This was definitely some strange ploy she’d come up with. Reverse-psychology, that was it. She was acting like she was giving him a choice, making it seem like a legitimate option to trick him into agreeing to stay with Georgie. They’d likely come up with the scheme together, counting on his contrarian attitude when dealing with Melanie to push him towards the option they wanted him to take.

Well, he’d show them.

“Okay.” He said. “I’ll stay with you.”

Melanie raised her eyebrows, her face pure disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes,” He grit out. “Really.”

“O… kay.” She said, “Okay, fine.”

“Yes,” He agreed. “Fine.”

She nodded. “Good.”

“Indeed.” He nodded. “Good.”

A voice called from the door, making them both jump.

“Am I interrupting something?”

It was Tim. He was holding a cardboard take-away tray of drinks and looking warily between Melanie and Jon.

“Nope.” Melanie announced, popping the ‘p’. She stood up hastily, grabbing her bag from beside her chair. “Your shift now.”

Tim offered her a cup as she passed him in the doorway. She sniffed it, before shrugging and taking a sip.

“Right.” She turned to look at Jon again. “Try not to die before they discharge you. I’ll grab your stuff from Georgie’s. We’ll split the rent.”

Tim’s eyebrows flew to his hairline. “Sorry, what?”

“Thanks for the tea.” Melanie said flatly, ignoring him as she strode out.

That left Jon and Tim, alone.

Jon hadn’t seen Tim since he’d been taken into surgery. Frankly, he was surprised to see him now. Tim hadn’t made his dislike and distrust of Jon much of a secret, back when Jon still went to the archives.

Not that Jon could blame him really. He’s not sure he would have reacted better to being stalked.

“What was all that about?” Tim asked, breaking Jon out of his thoughts.

“Oh, er.” Jon stumbled. “I- well, apparently I’m going to be staying with Melanie.”

“Seriously?” Tim’s voice was disbelieving. “Mate, she’s gonna kill you.”

“I suspect that would be rather counter-productive.” Jon said wryly.

Tim made a face like he was trying not to roll his eyes. He used to make that face at Sasha, Jon recalled, when Elias was visiting the archives and had his back turned.

The memory pulled at something in his chest. Simpler times, if they’d actually happened.

Tim shifted on his feet for a moment, before striding over to Jon’s hospital bed. Jon straightened up, trying to sit properly. He felt rather small under Tim’s gaze, dressed only in his hospital gown and essentially bed bound.

“This is for you.” Tim announced, holding out one of the paper cups as if it were some sort of ward against evil.

Jon blinked at him, surprised by the gesture. Tim hadn’t been one to pretend to care for a while. “Oh, uh, thank you.”

He took the cup. Staring at it.

It was blue, from Caffe Nero. Was there one nearby? He was certain they didn’t have a location in the hospital. The cup wasn’t terribly warm either, maybe Tim had stopped by one of the locations nearer the Institute? But that would’ve had him navigating the tube with a take-away tray containing three cups of tea, which didn’t seem all that efficient.

It also seemed like a bit more effort than it was worth. Tim had hardly brought him tea back when they were actually on good terms.

“It’s not poisoned.” Tim said testily, clearly mistaking Jon’s distraction for suspicion.

“Oh, o- of course not.” Jon replied quickly, taking a sip. He made a face, tepid. “Uh, thank you.”

“Whatever.” Tim muttered. He took a seat, then took a sip of his own cup.

Jon felt only slightly vindicated when Tim made a face at the temperature as well.

They sat in silence. Jon took occasional sips of the tea partially to avoid offending Tim, and partially to have something to do.

Christ, it was uncomfortable. Tim seemed determined to stare at the floor, face set in a sort of grim sulk. He was clearly miserable. Lord only knew what Martin must have said to make Tim stop by, but Jon wished he hadn’t.

Jon’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against the now empty paper cup. It was the only sound filling the near-suffocating silence. Should he say something? What was one meant to say in a situation like this; ‘sorry I stalked you for months but thank you for entering a mysterious monstrous door to rescue me - which, by the way you should not have done, you could have gotten killed’?

Or how about ‘need tips for getting blood out of upholstery?’ Jon snorted privately at the thought.

“Something funny?” Tim asked, voice tense.

“Oh, er- no, sorry.” Jon replied quickly, moving to take a sip from the cup before remembering that it was, in fact, quite empty.

Tim had a single eyebrow raised when Jon shamefully lowered the cup to look at him. “Right.”

“Sorry,” Jon said again. “I was just- just thinking.”

“About?” Tim sounded as if every word he said was a battle against the urge to lash out. Jon wished that he would just give up. He’d prefer a shouting match to this tense pantomime.

“Er, the last two days.” Jon answered, somewhat honestly. “I’m afraid I’ve- I’ve rather made a fool of myself.”

Both eyebrows were up now, and Tim pursed his lips. For a second, Jon was certain that this was it, they could finally drop the charade.

Instead, Tim dropped his eyes. He picked at the rim of his drink for a moment, before taking a long gulp of the - doubtlessly cold by now - beverage inside.

He seemed almost like he was steeling himself.

“How’s the skin?” He asked abruptly, taking Jon completely by surprise. His brow was furrowed, like he was regretting the phrasing, but he was staring Jon down now, as if daring him to answer.

“Uh, well moisturised.” Jon replied without thinking. “Sorry is that- that’s weird.”

“Only mostly.” Tim said drily, though he shockingly seemed slightly more at ease. “You know what I meant though.”

Jon shrugged with his good shoulder. “It’s- it’s fine.”

“Does it hurt?” Tim asked quickly, then winced.

Jon stared at him, waiting to see if he’d take the question back.

He didn’t.

Jon pursed his lips. “I’ve had worse.”

Barely. But that wasn’t worth dwelling on.

“Right.” Tim nodded. He leaned back against his chair, face tilted towards the ceiling.

Jon stared at him. He probably shouldn’t, but it was so surreal.

It had been very easy, when he was in Tim’s flat, to brush aside what was happening as some delirious symptom of blood loss, pain, and whatever being in Michael’s hallways did to a person. Then he’d been a bit too loopy on pain medication to really consider the finer details of his release from the circus.

Now though, in the nauseous brightness of the fluorescent lights, with his wits more or less about him, Jon had the time to consider how truly strange this was.

Tim shouldn’t be here. There was no world where, after everything that had gone down between them in the past year, Tim sat at Jon’s bedside and brought him tea. Preventing him from actively bleeding to death was normal enough, Tim disliked him but he wasn’t heartless, but venturing into Michael’s corridors to retrieve him and then painfully attempting civil conversation in his hospital room was beyond bizarre.

And yet, that was the reality Jon found himself in.

“Why are you here?” He asked.

Tim sighed, still staring at the ceiling. “We decided to take shifts in case the circus comes back.”

The thought sent a shot of horror through Jon’s chest. He would rather die than go back to the circus, but he couldn’t bear the thought of Tim or any of the others being caught up in that.

“I- Tim-” He started frantically. Before being startled into silence by the ferocity of Tim’s glare.

“Don’t.” Tim snapped. “Just… don’t.”

He seemed to deflate then, slumping back into his seat. Jon didn’t know what to say.

“I’m still pissed at you.” Tim said, apropos of nothing. “I mean, Christ Jon, stalking me? That’s… you have to know now that that’s beyond fucked.”

Jon winced, shame curdling in his gut.

“I know.” He whispered.

Tim gave him a long, hard look. “Good.”

He straightened up then, setting his jaw before continuing. “I was scared, and I was hurt. I went through something- something no one would fucking understand. No one except you.”

Jon’s fists clenched his hospital blanket. He looked down, unable to meet Tim’s gaze.

But Tim continued on.

“You were the only person, the only person, who could understand exactly what I’d gone through. And you- you were supposed to be my friend.” His voice cracked, and Jon looked up with alarm, but Tim simply cleared his throat and continued on as if nothing had happened. “I thought… I thought, ‘well hey, this is awful, but at least I have Jon’. I figured we could… get through it together. Support each other.”

Tim took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. “But instead-”

He clenched his jaw. Jon felt his body tense, preparing for a fight. But Tim was silent. He was silent long enough that Jon thought for a moment that he was going to leave it there.

“Instead,” Tim said eventually, voice forced even with a calm sort of fury. “You cut me off, you stalked me, and you left me alone.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon whispered, the words feeling as if they’d died in his throat.

“Do you have any idea,” Tim’s voice was shaking now. “How terrifying it is, to be followed by someone, to have them take photos of your flat, to feel like nothing you do or say will ever be private- will ever be safe from them,”

Tim took a steadying breath. “And to have that person be your boss?”

Jon looked down. Shame burned his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to know the worst part?” Tim’s voice cracked, and he didn’t wait for Jon to answer before continuing. “The worst part is that you were right.”

Jon’s head shot up, alarm shooting through him. “Tim, no-”

“You were.” Tim insisted, voice hard. “You weren’t right about me, and you sure as shit shouldn’t have stalked me, but you were right. You thought one of us killed Gertrude, and was aiming to kill you.”

“But you didn’t.” Jon said softly.

“No,” Tim agreed. “I didn’t. But Elias did, and Sasha-”

Tim’s face creased in agony. Jon realised with a jolt that he was crying.

“Sasha wasn’t Sasha.” Tim said shakily. “And she tried to kill you.”

Tim leaned forward, burying his head in his hands. His voice was near a sob when he next spoke. “I lost both of you on the same day.”

“Tim-” Jon lurched towards him, grief and guilt warring with panic in his chest.

He floundered for a moment, hand outstretched as if he could comfort Tim. As if Tim would accept his comfort.

“We’ll-” Jon’s voice wavered and he swallowed back the urge to cry. “We’ll get her back, Tim. She’s- she’s still…”

Still what?

“She’s not gone.” He amended. “Not completely.”

Tim nodded, straightening up and wiping his face quickly with his hands.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “We’ll get her back.”

Jon let the silence settle around them for a moment, taking in Tim’s appearance.

His eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed, and underlined with dark circles. His clothing was uncharacteristically wrinkled, and his hair was wild. He glanced around the room with the sort of sluggish jitteriness that betrayed a lack of sleep.

In short, he looked terrible.

Tim’s eyes flickered to meet Jon’s, and they stared at each other for a moment. Tim’s gaze was searching, guilty, and Jon suspected his own was much the same.

“Tim, I-” He started, then paused. He licked his lips and took a deep breath to prepare himself. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said.” Tim murmured, but didn’t look away.

“Yes, I have but- but not well, not- not how you deserve.” Jon admitted. “I… I was-”

He broke off, frustrated, and averted his gaze. He needed to do this right, it was important that he do this right.

“I… regardless of what was going on, I should have been- I should have been there for you. I…” He took a steadying breath. “You were- you were probably afraid, after- after Prentiss. And- and you were only in that situation to begin with because I dragged you into the archives, because I had no idea what I was doing and I- I wanted… I wanted you and Sasha there with me. I wanted us… I wanted us to be a team, even if I was horrible at showing it. But instead- instead I nearly got us all killed, and then you were- I mean, with Prentiss and everything, like you said, you were scared and hurt and… instead of supporting you like- like a friend should I…”

Jon’s hands curled into fists on the hospital blanket. He looked down. “I made it worse. I let my- my fear of what could happen to me override any concern I should have felt for you. I used- I used my position as your boss to- to access private data so that I could stalk you, because I was convinced that you were trying to hurt me, when really you’ve never- you’ve never been anything but kind and- and helpful and…”

Jon sighed, finally meeting Tim’s gaze. “You were a good friend to me, Tim. You deserved better than how I treated you, after Prentiss.”

Tim sucked in a breath like he’d been struck, glancing away.

“I’m sorry.” Jon finished, forcing his voice to stay even.

Tim nodded, blinking rapidly. “I know.”

He met Jon’s eyes. “I know, and I don’t forgive you.”

That hurt. Jon forced himself to maintain Tim’s gaze, nodding jerkily. The greasy burn of shame coiled tight in his throat, and he swallowed heavily to try and force it away.

It hurt, but it made sense. He wished the past two years had never happened. He’d do anything to undo it all, to go back to when they were still happy and relatively naive. To when he still had friends and all of his skin and more or less a sense of security.

“But,” Tim sighed heavily, and Jon felt a flare of hope burst in his chest against his will. “I… I’m tired of being angry. Everything… all of this, it’s too much to do alone. For either of us.”

Jon looked down, not wanting to admit he was right.

“So…” Tim sat back. “Can we put it behind us? I’ll- I’ll try to stop resenting you, if you can try to start trusting me.”

Jon inhaled shakily. He hardly dared to speak, any sound he made might shatter this perfect illusion. It couldn’t possibly be that easy, after everything that had gone wrong.

Still.

“I’d like that.” He admitted, eyes flicking tentatively upward to meet Tim’s gaze.

For a brief moment, the corner of Tim’s mouth jerked upwards in a tired half-smile. “Good.”

Jon returned the smile as best he could.