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DAISY JONES & THE SIX Episode 4: I Saw the Light
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Illicio 17/?
Part 16
CW for: -self harm -mentions (implications) of police brutality -whatever the hell kind of self hatred Tim has going on
"Daisy, you're dying."
"I know. I've known for a while." Daisy's too-bony hand comes to rest against Basira's cheek, and she almost flinches at how cold it feels. "I thought you knew too."
"I'm- I was looking for a way to stop it. I thought you wanted to stop it!" It takes everything in her to not shake Daisy up, because this sounds like- "I didn't know you'd just given up."
"I haven't. I win, like this. I die as myself." Daisy gives her a weak smile. -everything in her looks weak, and Basira wants to scream.
Getting Daisy back was already not a part of the plan, but losing her again is- "Dying is not winning, Daisy."
XVII
"That was a nasty one," Gerry says, running a hand through his hair a couple times. An understandable reaction, given that the floorboards of the attic they were trying to bust open to reach the Corruption book ended up collapsing on him in a shower of termites.
Still, Melanie rolls her eyes, and her lips curl into a smirk as she comes to bump his arm with her shoulder. "No creepy crawlies, you're still pretty."
"Well, obviously." Gerry flips his hair back into place, and Melanie tugs on it, when a couple locks whip -on purpose, she's sure- against her face. "Whose turn is it to pick dinner?"
"You don't even need to eat!" Melanie groans, which is a pretty solid response to his question.
"It's about the bonding, firecracker." Gerry's voice is a slow, conciliatory tone carefully designed to rile her up, she knows from his teasing grin. "The human experience."
Melanie blinks. He blinks back.
"You're not hum-"
"What's that food your girlfriend loves and you hate?" He speaks over her, and she laughs. Definitely not her standard response to men interrupting her, but she'll let this one slip, she decides. "Hungarian? Yes. That's what I'm craving."
"You're an asshole, did you know that?"
They don't get Hungarian, in the end.
Instead, they stop by an ice-cream shop, which Melanie thinks is oddly fitting. It's what they got the first time they went out together; it only makes sense it's what they get on their last.
"You're quiet." Gerry sits next to her as she digs into her pint of caramel. She barely even gives him a glance, scrolling through pictures of herself and Georgie in her phone. "Are you okay?"
"I talked to Georgie," Melanie blurts out, because tact has never been her strong suit.
"...Oh." Gerry's heavy hand comes to rest at her shoulder, and Melanie reflects for a second on how casually he touches her, and how comfortable she is with it. "Uh- everything alright?"
She scoops another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. It's- as alright as it's ever going to get, she supposes. Georgie didn't like it, but she understood. She even offered to do it, but Melanie didn't want that to be something she associated with her.
Gerry's hand squeezes her shoulder, and she turns to look at him. He looks... incredibly dumb, looking at her with concern in his eyes and his mouth stained red, his cheek still stained with soot from the book they just burned.
This is- it's the face of a friend. One she made herself, all her own.
"You look like an extra in a cheap vampire movie." She smiles. It feels a bit weaker than she meant it, but... but she's maybe feeling a bit smaller than she planned. And maybe that's not a bad thing, to ask for help. To let herself be helped. "It'll be alright."
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Basira's not blind to how Hunt-like her connection to the Eye is. She doesn't like it, but it's fitting, she thinks grimly as the trail before her lights up in a warm yellow hue that reminds her of her favorite hijab, of the smell of freshly baked bread, of the soft sandy hue of Daisy's hair.
Daisy's been hiding a lot lately, but it's of no use; Basira could find her at the end of the world if needed, even without- she hesitates calling them 'powers', because that feels like giving in, like accepting this metamorphosis that has been thrust upon her without so much as a by your leave. Still, they are there and they are hers, and she can follow the trail down into the tunnels, and around a couple bends.
It leads straight into a dead end, where Daisy sits balled up against a corner, like a sickly dog that crawled down here to die. She looks... small. Emaciated even, Basira's old t-shirt hanging loosely off of shoulders that used to be tight with well-marked muscle.
Basira stiffens when the Knowledge slams into her, clenching her fists by her sides. She won't be scared, she won't give it the satisfaction.
"You're dying." The truth slips easily past her lips, and Basira hates it, hates it like the world that gave her Daisy only to tear them apart again and again.
It takes a moment, but Daisy stirs and sits up to look at her with bloodshot eyes. "I have been for a while already. It's alright."
"It's not." Basira steps forward, coming to crouch before her. "I thought signing the contract had helped?"
"It slowed it down." Daisy leans back on the wall, her head dropping against her shoulder like her neck isn't strong enough to hold it. "But it would never have stopped it, I'm- I'm not you, or Jon. Beholding was never for me."
Basira crouches before her, and her shoulders feel even thinner than they looked, when she lays her hands on them. "Then you have to hunt."
Daisy's warm brown eyes fix on her, and Basira can read her next words in the slight furrow of her brow.
"I don't want to."
"Daisy, you're dying."
"I know. I've known for a while." Daisy's too-bony hand comes to rest against Basira's cheek, and she almost flinches at how cold it feels. "I thought you knew too."
"I'm- I was looking for a way to stop it. I thought you wanted to stop it!" It takes everything in her to not shake Daisy up, because this sounds like- "I didn't know you'd just given up."
"I haven't. I win, like this. I die as myself." Daisy gives her a weak smile. -everything in her looks weak, and Basira wants to scream.
Getting Daisy back was already not a part of the plan, but losing her again is- "Dying is not winning, Daisy."
"Isn't it what I deserve, though?"
"What?"
"You know," Daisy says, and Basira isn't sure whether or not she means it as Capital 'K' know, but she knows perfectly well what she's referring to.
"That wasn't yo-"
"Don't say that. Don't- don't try to make me a victim, Basira I- I hurt people. I wanted to. The Hunt only gave me the tools, but-"
"Well, I knew." Basira snaps. "I knew all that time, and I didn't do anything. Doesn't that mean I'm just as bad?!"
Daisy's warm, brown eyes pin her in place, full of love and resignation in equal measure. "Well... yes."
And maybe she's right, Basira thinks. Maybe this is penance, for all the bad they've done. Maybe they're just lucky it took so long to catch up to them.
"I'm- no. Fuck that." She grits her teeth. "You- you can spend the rest of your life paying for it, but you can't die. How is this justice? How-"
"It's not meant to be fair, I think." Daisy grunts a little as she sits up straighter. "But I get to die as myself. Not- not the thing I chose to be, the thing I let hurt so many people. I get to die choosing not to hurt anyon-"
"Well- hunt monsters then! Pay it back stopping them, don't-" Basira stops abruptly, when she feels her throat tighten. If she keeps talking, her voice will break, and she doesn't want-
She'd been so angry at Jon for feeding, but here she is begging Daisy to do the same like a hypocrite. Isn't that what has always boiled down to? Her morals unshakeable, until they come to this woman?
"Basira." Daisy pulls her down delicately, and Basira comes. "I want it this way."
"Don't hide from me," Basira whispers into her hair, holding her close to her chest.
"I didn't want you to see me like this."
"I will find you. Always."
"I know." Daisy chuckles. Basira is aware this is the slightest bit selfish. Daisy won't die in her arms, so maybe as long as she never lets go... "I'm sorry."
"Don't." Basira squeezes her harder. "I'm- I get it. But I don't have to like it."
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"Are you sure you want this?" Gerry asks for what feels like the umpteenth time, and he's more than aware that he's doing it only to buy himself more time.
The entire scene is almost too relaxed; the two of them sitting on the floor next to Melanie's cot -a monstrosity of pillows and quilt that Gerry's willing to bet hosts at least one or two knives-, a tub of half-demolished caramel ice cream between them. Just two friends having a chat.
Gerry's life has never been that simple, sadly. The awl sits deceptively light on his hand, belying the weight of the request.
"I do. It's- I want out. Of the Institute, at least." Melanie's knuckles whiten as her fists clench over the dark fabric of her jeans. "If I'm going to keep helping, then I want it to be my choice."
"If you do this, I'd much rather you stay out of this for good." Gerry's voice is dry, because if he lets any emotion in it, it will probably be despair.
"That's nice, but you don't tell me what to do." Melanie shakes her head with a roll of her eyes. "Besides, you're going to need someone who's free of all this, if the Eye won't let us look into your boyfriend's marks."
"Melanie-"
Her grim smile is determined, and Gerry feels a fierce rush of protectiveness burn in his chest. For a moment he misses the dull pain of his existence in the skin book, because at least back then that was all he could feel.
It was a stupid oversight on his part, to think he would ever get to have something normal. Something for him, untainted by the world he was born in.
"Well... alright, then."
There's disbelief and gratefulness in Melanie's eyes, like she recognizes the hesitation was for himself, and not a way to try and change her mind.
"You'll do it?"
"What are friends for?" Gerry's smile feels stiff and foreign in his face. "Gouge your eyes out, call you an ambulance right after."
"Your typical sleepover." The edges of Melanie's grin are strained. For the briefest of moments, he thinks she might hug him. She doesn't, and he's both relieved and disappointed. Is their friendship even theirs, if it was born out of hatred for these things that took their will away? "Should I lay down?"
"...I guess so, yes." He sighs. "Don't you want to finish the ice cream?"
"Not really." Determination or not, Melanie's starting to look a bit green. "I'm... okay, let's do it."
She turns around so her back is facing him, before laying down so her head rests on his crossed calves. It's... Gerry had never considered her eyes, but now it's all he can pay attention to. Almond-shaped and perfectly contoured with eyeliner, her irises a darker brown than Jon's, so deep it's almost black.
They're good eyes; they've kept watch for him during their hunts, caught sight of monsters just on the nick of time. They watched over him while Jon was in the Buried. The eyes of a friend.
She deserves this, the choice, the freedom; he won't keep them from her, not even for his own peace of mind.
How does one go about destroying someone's eyes permanently? Just jam it in and swirl it around, try to cause as much damage as possible? The Beholding is of course not volunteering any tips; instead showing him in excruciating clarity the agony it will provoke.
He sees it like a movie, like a nightmare; Melanie screaming, her blood dripping down his hands. Is this how his father felt, did he try to fight the Watcher with thoughts of his infant son?
'No,' the Eye whispers in his mind. 'This is what your mother saw, when your father laid to sleep for the last time. Trusting, loving. Like her.'
The awl drops from his shaky hands, missing her face by mere inches as Gerry throws himself back.
"Melanie, I can't."
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"Been a while since I've been here" Tim mumbles, giving a look around the office.
It becomes clear to Jon then that he's not the only one that's nervous, although he can't for the life of him figure out why Tim would be.
Why is he nervous, even? Does he fear Tim's barbed jabs or the dull ache of guilt? Or is it just that Tim is a loose cannon, an open flame in the Archives that- oh. Of course.
"The Eye doesn't want you here." Jon smiles tiredly as he says it, and to both his surprise and relief, Tim mirrors the gesture.
"That's just mean. It was so adamant on not letting me go before..." Tim taps his fingers in the desk, leaving little scorched marks on the wood after every touch. "Well, it's going to have to suck it up."
Jon nods. "A pity. I suppose there is a reason you're here, though."
"You know? It used to make me mad, when you did that." Tim shrugs. "Well, everything you did made me mad, but that most of all."
"The..." Jon lets the word hang in the air, arching an eyebrow.
Tim scoffs. A puff of white vapor erupts from his lips and dissipates towards the ceiling.
"The whole 'not asking questions' thing." He doesn't look at Jon as he says it, and Jon tries to focus on something that is not him, because if Tim wants to tell him this, he deserves not having it revealed beforehand. He ends up Knowing the names of every single carpenter that worked on making his desk, but at least it takes long enough for Tim to gather his thoughts. "It felt- it was a reminder of what you had become. What we were all becoming."
Jon frowns, confused. "You weren't an avatar of the Desolation back-"
"Are we sure of that? I'm- I had been- I wanted destruction since long before the Unknowing. Elias', the Archives'-" Tim's eyes meet his, and it's only then that Jon realizes how long it's been since that has happened. They're their usual dark brown, no dangerous orange glow, thankfully. Jon has- he's missed them. "Yours."
"Ah." Jon sighs. This is how it is now, isn't it? How it's always going to be.
"Yeah."
Silence falls over them again, heavy like a wet towel. Jon doesn't ask why Tim is here again; he's aware enough to recognize the diverting from before, and where it brought them.
"I'm- thank you for-" Jon starts, stops, clears his throat. "You know. Gerry. The hunters. Watching out for him when Melanie's not around."
Tim looks about as uncomfortable as Jon feels, so at least they're on equal -if uneven- footing.
"It's- Martin wanted me to." Tim crosses his arms over his chest, averting his gaze. "What- is that a thing? Those two?"
Jon sighs. "Martin is this close to becoming a Lonely avatar, Tim." Who said Tim was the only one who knew how to divert from uncomfortable lines of questioning?
Tim's face whips back to him at that, scowling fiercely. "He is, isn't he? Why is that? Why the fuck didn't you stop that when it started happening, Jon?"
"I tried my best, but I was in a comma," Jon says dryly, his words followed by a tense, thick silence.
The snort that escapes Tim's lips surprises Jon as much as it does Tim himself, apparently. "Nice to know I did fuck you up."
"For a while, yes." Jon shakes his head a little, the corner of his lips curling up in a resigned smile. "I'm- I suppose Martin hasn't told you, then."
"I suppose not," Tim repeats in an affected mockery of his voice. It's something he used to do before, Jon realizes with a start. "About what?"
And really, it feels like a pity to weigh down the first civil conversation they've had in two years by bringing it up, but it's- Tim has a right to know. He deserves it.
"About the Extinction."
"Hm. Was that meant to sound as ominous as it did?" Tim arches an eyebrow, and Jon shrugs.
"I mean, it is called the Extinction; I doubt there's any way to give that title any levity." Jon sighs. This too feels like before, and it hurts just as much as the hostility. Maybe more. "Peter Lukas believes it's a fifteenth entity in the process of forming. The fear of humanity towards eradication at our own hands, towards dying out as a species, rather than individuals. The realization that we have brought on our own demise, and it's too late to change it now."
"And is it?"
"...Excuse me?" Jon frowns.
"Well, yes. If anyone could know, wouldn't that be you?" Tim asks again.
Oh. Right, of course.
Jon sighs. "It has been brought to my attention recently that there are some things the Beholder won't tell me about."
"Like your marks?"
"I'm- how do you know about that?" Jon frowns. Just how many people know about this thing the Eye is so adamant on not letting him see?
"I asked Martin about your safeword when he asked me to stick with your boyfriend." Tim shrugs. "Then I just did a quick head count. You're just missing one, aren't you?"
"The Lonely, yes."
"How convenient isn't it? Martin's sudden promotion." Tim mutters to himself, and Jon purses his lips.
"I'm well aware it's my fault, Tim, thank you."
Tim neither confirms nor denies it. He fidgets with his hands a little, squeezing his pinky finger flat between the pointer and thumb of his free hand, then rolling it back into shape.
"So he's trying to get information?" He asks quietly after a couple minutes.
"I- at first." Jon sighs. Isn't this the truth he's been trying to ignore for the past months, even though he Knows it's irrefutable? "It has him now, though. He- he just needs to choose."
"I hope you're right."
"Hm?" Jon looks up, but Tim's still not looking at him, instead focused on the scorch marks on the desk.
"If he can choose, he will choose you." When Tim's eyes raise to him, there's the slightest spark of orange in their depths.
"I'm- Tim, I don't know if that's an option anymore." The thought has been on his mind for weeks now, since Martin turned him away.
"He always finds a way to choose you, anyways."
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"That's- that's something." Melanie exhales softly through her parted lips. They're back to leaning on her cot, and she's pressed tight to Gerry's side; not holding him by any means, but close enough that she can feel it when his breathing finally starts slowing down. "I didn't know."
It rains on her then just how painfully little she knows about him. They know each other like penitent ghosts, no past and no future, just a present, and a sum of festering wounds far too painful to look at.
Gerry's startled cackle is dry and pained, and it draws Melanie out of her contemplations. "I think that's the point."
"I-"
"I'm sorry I couldn't do it." He lets his head fall back against the cot, groaning. "I'm not being very useful lately."
It's a very stupid thought, but it does sound like something Gerry would believe of himself. Lives his entire life trying to save people from the entities, gets right back into it as soon as he's raised from the dead. Melanie sort of knew already that he measured his value on how much he could help others, but this is a very clear indicator.
Melanie sighs. "Don't. It's- I just wanted it to be you because- I trust you, I guess." She turns her head, even though Gerry's not looking at her.
"I- thank you, firecracker." It's such a dumb nickname, but it feels so different from stupid, stupid Mel. "Should- I can call Helen, if you want?"
"It's alright. I don't think she liked that I'm quitting; she seemed a bit sad when I told her. I'll- I'll do it myself." The awl feels foreign in her shaky hand, but she grips it firmly. "You should get out, probably."
He lets out a long exhale, almost sagging against her side. "I'm- I'll stay," he says in the end.
"Are you sure? I'll- you can just go outside and call the ambulance after."
"No." Gerry brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "No, I- I prefer to stay. In case you need help."
"Yeah, that's- I might." Melanie takes a deep, wet breath to calm her speeding heart. He doesn't respond. When she looks at him out the corner of her eye, he's staring straight ahead, his lips pressed white in a thin line and a muscle twitching at his jaw. "Thank you."
A large, warm hand comes to wrap itself around her free one, and Melanie squeezes back as hard as she can. She's as afraid of the pain as she is of the prospect of freedom, but this at least is her choice, not Elias' trickery, not something feeding on her to turn her into something else. She won't be anyone's pawn anymore.
She thinks of the Admiral's orange fur. The bright yellow of Helen's door. Gerry's stupid lovesick faces. The curve of Georgie's lips when she smiles, and the dimple on her right cheek.
Melanie strikes.
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Truth is, Tim should've left a while ago, after he got the confirmation he was looking for. That Martin isn't just another victim, that his efforts to bring him back haven't worked not because Tim himself isn't enough, but because Martin has a reason and a purpose to stay Lonely.
That said purpose isn't just the undeserving idiot before him.
It's- the familiarity's the worst part, in his opinion. Tim's stomach still burns whenever he looks at Jon and he's able to tell what he's thinking of just by the furrowing of his brow.
It reminds him of stolen glances and hugs that lingered for just a second too long. Of dragging his new boss out of the Archives for a drink, just like he dragged him out of Research every Friday. Of reluctant smiles and bitten off chuckles after Tim's jokes. Of being asked to check on a statement and knowing immediately that Jon was nervous, and that he would do whatever it took to assuage it.
"Jon?" He asks, and the way the name rolls out of his mouth leaves behind an aftertastes of bitter ashes. "Could I have found Oliver Banks?"
The green glow starts slowly, just a spark of neon in the depths of Jon's dark eyes, burning brighter and brighter until it's taken over his gaze completely.
"I- no. There- there were a lot of threads pulling you away from any real information about him." Jon sighs. He closes his eyes and rests his elbows on the desk, rubbing at his temples. "It makes sense, I suppose."
It does. Tim doesn't hold any love in his heart for the Desolation, but the fact that it has loosened the Spider's grip on him is most definitely something to be thankful for. It's ridiculous, that they live the kind of lives in which they have to be thankful for an entity at least being upfront about consuming their very being.
He... he often wonders if it might have been different, had he managed to find him. If they would've at least had a chance with some more information before everything went to shit. If maybe he's not as much to blame as-
"You aren't." Jon's voice pours over him like cold water over a fire, so abrupt that Tim flinches before looking back at him, and finding the green eyes fixed to his face with almost eerie focus.
It takes him a moment to figure out just what the hell he's walking about, and when he finally does Tim knows he should be enraged at the violation, but all he can bring himself to feel is exhaustion.
"I didn't know you could do that," he says, and every word bears the weight of the past four years.
"I'm sorry," Jon responds. Tim believes him. It doesn't matter. It hasn't mattered for a while.
The Desolation feeds on sorrow and loss as much as it does on rage, and there's plenty of both to go around in this office.
"I- Jon?" Tim frowns. Jon's warm brown skin has gone ashen, the scars in stark contrast to it. His eyes are still green and focused on something Tim can't see, and his entire frame shakes, his knuckles white around the edge of the desk. "Jon what-"
"Melanie, it's- she's-" Jon flinches and curls into himself, his face contorted into a rictus of pain that has Tim's stomach churning. "You have to go-" Jon's voice is strained now, like every word is being ripped out of him.
"Jon-" Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The lights in the office are flickering and Tim feels watched by a hundred thousand eyes, here in this place that despises him for coming back after he served his purpose. Static sings in the air around them, and Tim may not have the Sight for these things, but he can recognize an avatar about to lose control. What's- what's that shit he and Daisy tell each other? What- "Jon, the- listen to the quiet, listen to-"
A lightning-sharp pain pierces into his brain-
Danny's on the armchair- no, not him- was there ever really a Danny? And if so, isn't this him? Why are you so scared, Tim? It's just your little brother, aren't you just thrilled to see him?! Look at how well his skin fits him!
Look at how wide he's smiling -don't try to count his teeth-, he's just so happy to have you back! Why didn't you go see his performance at the theater? He was so excited to introduce you to all of his new friends, to show you just how it felt when his skin burst open at the seams-
Jon's eyes are lit up like searchlights now, no pupil and no sclera, just green fire at their depths, and the depths of all the other eyes boiling open like blisters along his arms, his neck, his cheeks.
"What are you doing? Cut it out!"
Jon opens his mouth, but it's the Archivist's voice that comes out.
"Isn't she beautiful? You've thought so from the time you first laid eyes on her. Her smiling lips, her knowing eyes, her face that fits just well on her skull. Her long, long, long fingers on your scalp as you tell her of all that makes you afraid, all that makes you Tim.
You love her in any and all ways she'll let you, what does she look like? What does she sound like? It surely doesn't matter as much as the fact that she loves you back, doesn't it? She lets you stay by her side, she listens to your woes, your suspicions. You mention the circus and she nods in understanding, but in her mind she's laughing, laughing, laughing. Do you hear it? Do you feel the caress of too long fingers as you lay your head on her chest? She was thinking of taking your skin nex-"
The door flies open, and Tim throws himself over the desk to keep Jon's eyes -all of them- on him when Basira appears at the threshold.
"What the hell is going on?! I- he's in my hea-"
"Get out!" Tim shouts "Find Melanie! Make sure she's done!" Basira whips around immediately, disappearing down the corridor. "Jon, calm down!"
He orders you to look- you're so angry, you hate him with the same fierce devotion you had for him. His face is an anchor amongst the chaos around you, you recognize those eyes, that nose, those furrowed brows and that mouth twisting around a plea.
This is his fault. He brought you here, he pushed you away when you needed him, when your fear burned like a furnace in your chest and you didn't know what you were becoming. Now he's here, and he has the gall to demand even more from you. What else could he take? Is there anything left of you? The worst part, you think, is that his face is his in a way hers and Danny's weren't. This is him -you can count the teeth if you want- and you were doomed to die here surrounded in boiling wax, from the moment you first laid eyes on this calamity of a man.
"Stop it!" he screams. His whole skin hurts, every inch alight in a flare of pain As it's torn from his body, and he can't- he can't remember his name, he- what does he look like? It hurts, everything- there's fire licking at his skin -his skin is not there- and he knows that shouldn't hurt anymore but it does and he can't remember his name. "Jon, snap out of it!"
Manuela Dominguez burns, and you were the one to set her aflame. You feel her pain, you revel on it, the taste of her terror finer than a five course meal. This is what you are now. You're destruction, you're pain, you're nothing but the fear you can cause. She would be disgusted at what you have become, and Danny would too. How could you ever think you could save Martin, when all you can do is hurt? Look at yourself -whoever that is, without your skin, without your name-, what have you got to offer? What-
"Jon!" he clings tightly to the monster -the man- thrashing so wildly in his grip that they both topple to the floor. The Beholding still spears at his mind, and he doesn't- what should he do?! Will they be able to get him back, if Jon loses control?
You do not care about that. All you are is pain, all you are is hatred, all-
"Come back, you idiot!" Tim shakes him. His hands are smoking, and so is the wooden floor around them, and Jon's skin boils with eyes and blisters in equal measure. "I will burn the place down! I will kill us both again!"
He can't- he can't let him go, he- Sasha's gone, and Martin's leaving, and- Tim can't be the last one standing, he just can't.
"Don't-" Tim From Before could've reached Jon, he has no doubt. The Tim that wasn't just pain, that loved, that laughed, that wanted to comfort rather than hurt; but that Tim is gone forever, and he can't reach him. "Jon please-"
"...Tim?" The quiet voice is barely audible over the roaring of the flames, and Tim flinches back like his name had been a blow. Jon's irises are dark again, and the dozens of eyes that opened along every inch of exposed skin are slowly, reluctantly closing. "Tim, what-"
He doesn't hear much more, as he rushes out if the office and slams the door shut behind him.
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Melanie looks almost impossibly tiny as the paramedics wheel her away from Gerry and Basira, and up into the ambulance. Even from this far up, watching from the safety of his- of Peter's- of Elias' office, Martin can see two things.
The first is the carnage that's all that's left of her eyes, the blood strikingly bright where it's splashed across her face like a mask.
The second is the pained smile in her face, and Martin feels a stir of envy at his chest. She's free. There was still enough human left in her to walk away from this nightmare, from all of them.
Martin feels the Lonely before he hears the static of Peter stepping out of it. The fog curls around his ankles like a cat looking for attention, and isn't that funny, the Lonely wanting to be noticed?
It probably isn't.
"Looking a bit grim there, aren't you?" Peter asks. Martin merely inclines his head in acknowledgement, because he knows the man will only become more insistent if he doesn't answer. "Did you feel any of that?"
"Her leaving?" Martin asks
"And the Archivist losing control. He was trying to reign her back in, to heal her eyes before she could destroy them enough." Peter's gaze is heavy on his face, and he seems pleased that he can't find what he's looking for. "Your friend Timothy got quite reckless at the Archives, but in the end he managed to calm him down."
"Hm." What else is he supposed to say? Of course Tim was able to anchor Jon. They've always been close, even when they don't trust each other. Tim can pretend to despise Jon all he wants, but Martin knows him far too well. Both of them, actually. "Did you need anything?"
He feels Peter's smile more than he sees it, the man's smugness coming off of him in waves. "I was only curious as to whether or not you'd been affected, I suppose."
Martin shrugs. "I wasn't. I was recording a statement, the one with the mirror house." The tape recorder is still on his desk, the tape whirring softly inside.
"That's wonderful news, actually. It means we're ready."
He does turn to Peter at that. "Already?"
"Correct. We just need- I'm getting a map made for us right as we speak." Again, Peter's smug smile is palpable in his voice. "The tunnels are a bit of a mess, aren't they?"
"There's nothing in the tunnels. Jon searched them all." Martin arches an eyebrow, but Peter merely smiles wider.
"He didn't know much back then, did he?" He asks. "The device we need is at the center of the maze. You can't reach it unless you know where you're going."
"And you do?"
"I will. And you will too."
"...Will I be coming back?" Martin asks, almost as an afterthought. Down at the street Gerry has taken a seat on the Institute's front steps, and he too looks almost tiny in his exhaustion, his head hanging low and his shoulders hunched.
"Does it matter?"
Basira hesitates by his side for a moment, before she too sits down, and Gerry's head tilts a little towards her.
"I guess it doesn't."
"Excellent."
Martin waits until Peter has stepped back into the Lonely, until he can no longer feel his presence even when he reaches in with a tendril of fog.
The last statement of Adelard Dekker -a part of him aches in sympathy at the fact that Gertrude never got to say goodbye properly- looks almost innocuous when he pulls it out of the locked drawer and folds it carefully under the tape recorder.
He stares at the device for a couple seconds, trying to figure out what would be a good end to a story. To his story.
"Goodbye."
Click.
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