Chapter Text
Melanie was never going to ask for help there ever again.
She had slapped herself and cried and yelled into her pillow before concluding she had to do something about her feelings. And that's the decision she had come to: the Magnus Institute was a no-go for getting help, especially if her interface was going to be the Head Archivist—whose help she needed if she wanted to access the sections of their library that she needed for her research, by the way, which she had tried on her own, but only because she had no other choice. Anyway, fuck that guy.
So what if she was stuck in her research for now? She'd manage, like she always did. She'd find a way.
When the call came, she thought at first that it had to be spam. An unknown landline number? Spam. But she picked up, just in case.
She waited for the call to connect, her thumb over the block button.
"Hello?"
["Hello Miss King, this is Jonathan Sims from the Magnus Institute, please don't hang up."]
The Archivist's voice was rushed, like he expected her to end the call the moment he said his name.
To be fair, it was very tempting.
"What do you want."
["To talk," he said. "Could you come by the Institute sometime? O-Or I can come to you, if you prefer."]
He sounded somewhat anxious, but that in itself wasn't too far out of the ordinary. A lot of people were anxious about making phone calls. No, what struck Melanie was how the request itself was worded.
Or I can come to you.
If this was work-related, he wouldn't be offering to meet her away from his workplace, most likely. But if it wasn't, then why would he first request she come to the Institute? This incongruence made him sound…strangely desperate.
"What is it about," she said, fishing for more info.
At the other end of the line, the Archivist sighed.
["Two things,"] he said. ["For one, I wanted to apologise for my behaviour on our first meeting—properly. Second, I've got…an offer, I suppose, and would like to discuss it with you. In person, if possible."]
["I bet it's so you're less likely to bail on him mid-conversation,"] came a second voice, a little further from the microphone.
["Tim, please…"]
["Hah—Sorry. I'll let you have your phone call in peace. Good luck!"]
The Archivist sighed again.
["Anyway, I'd be very appreciative. If you came."]
Melanie stared at her phone screen for a moment.
"…Sure…" she said uncertainly. "I'll come. But I'm expecting like, chocolates, or a bottle of wine or something."
She'd meant it as provocation, but instead of getting upset, the Archivist just went,
"Oh—Uh, sure. Of course."
Maybe he really was sorry.
Melanie let herself feel bad for just a bit, then said,
"Good. Was there anything else?"
"Um…No, that's it, I think—"
She hung up.
So. She was going back to the Magnus Institute, apparently.
She still hated the guy, by the way. Just…Maybe a little bit less.
The Institute and its Archives were just as gloomy a place as Melanie remembered them. There was oldish dark brown and green furniture everywhere, and dust collecting on every surface, and the people there were quiet and judgy of anyone who walked in who wasn't wearing 'something proper'.
The point was, she remembered the Archivist to have been much the same: a stuck-up little man, all high and mighty and safe at the top of his ivory tower, who only had eyes for his paper files and that freaking tape recorder he insisted on using.
But that is not whom she saw sitting at the Archivist's desk.
The man who called her in had long messy hair and bags under his eyes, and his skin was speckled with small pale dots. There was, stretching across his throat, a web tattoo and, underneath, a thin red line, both of which she could have sworn were not there before. But somehow, what struck her the most were his eyes—eyes that looked at her like she had his full attention rather than in the disinterested yet scornful way he had held her gaze when she came in just a couple of months before.
"You look different," she commented brusquely.
Sims tilted his head noncommittally, and gestured for her to sit. He breathed in slowly, his eyes closed and back straight, like he was attempting to soothe himself.
"I am sorry for my behaviour the first time we met," he said. "I thought—" He sighed, taking off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. "I had this idea that somehow pretending I didn't believe you would keep me safe. It very much did not, but regardless—you came here hoping at the very least for the most basic sympathy, and I did not extend it. Intentionally. And for that, I am deeply sorry."
His shoulders fell, and he stared at her from behind the loose strands of hair that hung over his face.
For a moment, Melanie couldn't get any words out.
This was so far from what she'd been expecting out of this meeting. A half-baked apology for being mean, maybe. This though? This admission was absurd.
"You…You believed me, but then pretended that you didn't?"
"Yes," he said sheepishly.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"I'm really not," he said. "I'm…sorry that I lied."
What in the world was even wrong with this man?
Melanie couldn't stop the words from pouring out of her mouth.
"Do you realize just how terrible I felt afterwards?" she said, Sims flinching at her rising tone. "Do you realize how long the feeling of shame from trusting you with my feelings took to fade? To the point of getting actual nightmares—"
"That's the, um. That's actually the second thing I wanted to talk about," he said.
"What, the dreams I have at night? I'm not opening up to you about my life again—"
"You won't need to," he said. "I—" He breathed out slowly and put his hands together. It struck Melanie that his breathing was coming in shallow. "This place," he started. "The Institute, it…There are consequences to giving live Statements here that I was not told about when I took this job. The nightmares are part of that. Had I known, I would have suggested you write it down over in the study instead."
The was a moment of silence between them.
"Are you telling me…" said Melanie, incredulous, "that there is a supernatural reason that I should've written down my Statement instead of saying it out loud?"
Sims winced.
"Not exactly? It's more about whether I'm in the room with you while you recount it, whatever the form."
Melanie scoffed.
"Whatever. So what's the offer then?"
Sims pushed a form towards her.
"You could sign a nominal employment contract with the Institute. It should stop the dreams. I can also still help you with your research if you like, but I may not be able to mobilise as many resources as we usually do for investigations since it wouldn't be anything official." He then added, quietly, "Although I honestly think you'd be better off never chasing after the supernatural again. But I know I don't have any way of stopping you."
"Wait wait wait," said Melanie. "How exactly would a contract with you guys stop the dreams?"
The Archivist was quiet for a moment.
"…It would bind you to the patron of this place without making you beholden to it," he finally said. "We've noticed the people employed here were exempt. The dreams would go away, and you would owe nothing to the Eye beyond the non-existent duties that would be in your contract."
"…You're fucking with me."
"Please believe me when I say I am not."
A moment passed.
"…So you just get to skip out on them."
"…I'm sorry?"
"You clearly believe the supernatural is real. Something's had to have happened to you. And don't tell me you haven't told your story into one of these tape recorders of yours before. That would count as live, right?"
Sims looked very uncomfortable then.
"…Melanie," he said. "I'm in the dreams."
"Yes, you are. That's what I was saying earlier. I don't know why, but last time really messed me up—"
"No, no, Melanie," he said insistently. "I'm in them. That is me in the dreams."
Something was off with the way he said that. Melanie's blood ran cold.
"What are you saying."
The Archivist took a deep breath as he straightened, slowly.
"The dreams you've been having," he said. "I have them too. And they feel just as real to me in the moment as they do for you." His face had twisted into something like horrified grief. "I see you in them. I am there."
For a moment, Melanie felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. When her breath finally returned, she stood.
"Fuck you."
She turned and stormed out of the office. The Archivist hurried after her.
"W-Wait—!" he said. "At least sign the employment contract! I promise you won't ever have to see me again!"
Melanie spun around and thrust her finger into his chest.
"Fuck. Off."
As she turned back she nearly ran into some girl with wavy hair she'd never seen before. The latter squeaked in surprise.
"Oh, sorry," said Melanie.
"N-Not at all," said the girl, waving her hands frantically around. "I'm the one who should look where I'm going."
She stepped aside, and Melanie rushed past her and up the stairs.
She needed some space, right now.
She was halfway down the street when she picked up on the sound of shoes hitting the ground behind her.
"Wait!"
The girl from the corridor grabbed her shoulder to turn her around—admittedy gently, but who did that?—and held out something towards her.
"Wait…Take this…He said you should take this…" she gasped.
In her outstretched hand was, of all things, a cassette tape.
"…What's on it."
"No idea…Didn't…have the time…to ask…"
"…Fine," said Melanie. She didn't have the mental energy right now to think about this too hard. She grabbed the tape quickly, then turned and walked briskly away.
Behind her, she heard the girl cheer.
"She took it! Whoo!"