Who am I when not in your embrace?
A glitch in time, a memory that fades?
An outstretched palm, hesitant, unsure.
The only anchor between time. Space.
I’ll reach out to you.
--
A pulling and kneading of a malleable vessel, in this realm Amelia Watson is the divine’s personal human putty.
Why is this happening, one may ask? The answer to this will remain unclear, as Amelia no longer cares to find it.
What she does know is that every night, when her head lies upon her pillow after a long day of work, her consciousness travels through a wormhole and is sucked into this hellish nightmare. Over and over and over again.
All that can be done has been done.
All that's left to do is to persevere. Endure as she is molded to however the higher power sees fit.
She can only exist as her ‘body’ floats in this empty, black dreamscape, changing shape, taking different forms, flickering through several versions of ‘Amelia Watson’. A reminder of who she is, of all she’s done.
Each transformation used to feel like a burning knife quickly slicing through, a lightning striking a tree to half.
Now it is a lingering ache throughout her body, miniscule, manageable. Physically tolerable. Mentally? Not so much. The effect can be seen clearly underneath the detective's eyes, the darkening depth formed from restless ‘sleep’.
Among this agonizing pattern of monotonous torture Watson forgets one of the most important lessons that come with being a time traveller:
“Even in an endless loop of time, one must always be prepared for the unexpected.”
---
Watson ‘wakes up’ with an ear splitting headache, a ringing in her ears. Everything is out of focus, she could barely make out her surroundings to be infinitely tall stretches of white walls, fashioned with… clocks? Yeah. Clocks.
How fitting.
As she blinks the blurriness from her vision, she tries to recall how she got here.
She remembers feeling the invisible hands of the divine release her from their grasp, her stomach dropping as her hands reached into nothingness for anything to halt her descent. Those efforts were futile, clearly.
She remembers slipping into unconsciousness within unconsciousness as her body plummeted into the dark depths of the unknown.
Everything between then and now remains an unfillable blank.
Never in her repeated nights of suffering has this nightmare taken such a turn!
Watson attempts to stand up, but she stumbles for a moment. The room is spinning.
She waits for it to stop. A moment of patience as she gets her bearings.
She rolls her shoulders, stretches out her back from the harsh landing.
My buttcheeks hurt too… Owie.
Then, Watson rubs her ass as she traverses the infinite halls of time.
--
“THIS SUCKS!!!!!”
Amelia Watson yells. Only echoes reply.
And even those echoes can barely be heard over the obnoxious fucking TICKING.
IT WAS UNBEARABLE.
The detective didn’t know what else to do. She’s been here for what seemed like hours, but she couldn’t actually tell because none of the clocks had actual numbers on them. All abstract symbols, broken and scrambled. Just like her thoughts.
Every single one’s hands are in distinct positions from one another.
There is no way for her to tell time here.
This is quite literally:
a timeless room of time.
Just her luck, honestly.
Watson scoffs to herself, before running a hand through her blonde locks. She furrows her eye brows in thought. She tries to think think think. Watson is creative, that’s one thing she’s sure of. She always finds a way, even if it’s unconventional. That’s her way, the Ame way.
But damn is it demoralizing when everything she’s tried absolutely flopped!
She was sure she’d be sweating at this point, but it seems that’s the only plus side to this shithole. She was clueless and lost and in pain but hey! Atleast she isn’t moist!
Ugh.
Watson squats down. Hanging her head in defeat.
She closes her eyes for a minute. Trying to drown out the ticks and the tocks. The clicks of the clocks.
She takes deep breaths, steadies herself.
In through the nose out through the mouth.
She counts to three for each inhale and exhale.
Her head starts to clear, starts to go from a frustrated static of clashing imagery to just a soothing nothing.
That’s when she hears something, something very quiet, something very faint, hidden under layers and layers of repetitive noise .
“… a piano?”
Watson does the only other thing she can do.
She follows the sound.
—
It isn’t long before she’s reach some kind of destination.
She now stands before a column, where a small golden hour glass sits in solitude.
The piano music is very clear at this point, playing a more haunting and sorrowful tune.
She much prefers it over the clocks.
She investigates the hour glass closely . Eye like symbols were engraved into its golden base. It’s glass was tinted violet. It was filled with a kind of black powder instead of sand . All resting at the bottom, of course .
Amelia wasn’t stupid. Reckless, sure, but not stupid. She knew who all of this pointed to. She hated that she knew who all of this pointed to.
This damn archiver can’t even leave her alone in her night mares can she?
She sighs.
Then wonders if she should just flip the damn thing.
Amelia Watson quickly scans her surroundings.
No more clocks, just white walls.
Her shadow.
This pillar.
The hour glass.
“Here goes nothin’ then.” Watson says to her shadow, before grabbing the hour glass at its base and flipping it over.
Next thing you know, as the first grain of black powder falls through the hour glass, the marble floor under her dissipates .
And so do the unlucky detectives piercing screams as she falls into yet another abyss.
—
A familiar mischievous laughter gets louder and louder.
—
Watson ‘wakes up’ again. She’s in another room, this one was the opposite of the previous one.
Instead of vast and infinite, it was cramped, claustrophobic.
Mirrors of all shapes and sizes surrounded her.
It was dark, like an attic or a basement.
Instead of clocks, she is surrounded by only reflections . Only herself.
She starts to wonder if this is so different after all.
She wonders if this is some shitty symbolism, a reminder of how she lost herself to time the minute she set hand on her damn pocket watch.
A haunting reminder of what she’s since become:
A time anomaly.
She starts to chuckle hysterically .
It’s all a cruel joke, really.
What else could she possibly expect on the night of April Fools?
And of course, this elaborate prank is linked to none other than: Shiori Novella.
Somehow, this vile woman has managed to torture her more than the gods or even herself has managed to do.
Watson picks up one of the smaller mirrors, ripping it off its mount. She looks as if she was in a furious daze. With all of the strength she can muster she threw it at the biggest one. A smug expression as it shatters.
“Found you.” Watson says through heaving breaths.
The archiver stands there, behind the mirror frame as if it was some sort of door to her. She wears her usual outfit, platforms, mismatched socks, her gothic dress, her arm sleeves. Those dark rings that contrast against her pale fingers.
That golden stare.
That unsettling smile.
“What do you want, crazy? Can we end this already?”
Watson begs, voice shaking from adrenaline.
Shiori stays silent, unmoving, except for an extending of an arm, an out stretched hand.
“You want me to take your hand? Why?” Amelia questions.This is all too suspicious to her.
Shiori’s smile widens, this time revealing more of her fangs. Amelia shudders. To think this woman was ever human.
To think I was ever human.
“I’m not going with you without an explanation.” Amelia states, firmly.
Shiori, or atleast someone that appears to be her, just shrugs. As if saying ‘Suit yourself.’
The detective’s heart drops into her stomach as the archiver turns her back to her and walks away.
No.
Nonono wait. Don’t you leave me here, freak!
Amelia sprints. Her legs move before she could really think it through. And next thing you know, she’s holding her breath as she jumps through the Mirror frame.
Just like that, the time traveller chases after the archiver.
—
I’ll reach out to you.
—
Amelia didn’t expect to feel like she’s drowning.
Ink surrounds her like black goo slowly consuming her. She feels like she just deepdived into water, the pressure tingling through her nose and ears, burning through her eyes. Everything faded to charcoal black then to nothing, like pages being burnt to a crisp.
Amelia Watson wakes up gasping for air.
—
Shiori bolts out of her desk chair the minute she hears a waking gasp . She runs to its source, a freckled blonde who currently lie on a table covered in blankets. A time traveling detective she knows all too well.
“You’re finally awake.” Shiori says. The blonde is immediately boiling with anger, and lunges at the archiver, pinning her down to the ground.
Oof!
“Don’t casually quote Skyrim like you didn’t just torture me in my dreams!!!”
“Whoa, hey hey,” Shiori says, almost sincerely, it makes Ame feel uncomfortable, “Let’s settle down. You look like you had a crappy night… I’ll make you some tea?”
Amelia Watson’s eyes widen as she looks down at the girl who she has pinned down to the ground. Smiling and speaking softly to her. So calm as Ame was overflowing with emotion, seething.
Ame stands up abruptly, then walks away.
“Hey wait where are you going—“
“Back to sleep. I think my nightmare is easier to deal with than whatever is happening right now.” The shorter girl is stomping away in the wrong direction. She doesn’t know where she is, or where the exit is.
Shiori laughs softly to herself.
“You aren’t going to find an exit, Watson~”
“I’ll find a way!!!”
“You really won’t …”
Watson lets out a gremlin like screech. The archiver giggles.
“Now let’s talk this over with some Lunch, shall we?”
Shiori watches as the blonde’s eyes dart around the room, before landing on a large clock on the wall.
It’s as if she can see the gears turning in the girls head as she realizes she’s been asleep past noon.
As the girl stomps back in defeat, a wandering thought enters the Archiver’s head.
She always found it endearing how Watson wore her heart on the cuff of her sleeve.
—
The archives are huge, twisting and turning halls of endless knowledge. Paved by shelves upon shelves that reach the ceiling. Shiori wouldn’t be surprised if this overwhelmed Watson. It can be quite intimidating to new comers. Which is why Shiori doesn’t bring new comers… usually.
Which reminds Shiori of the very question she wants to ask: How did Watson get here?
Right now, the two women sit in a more kitchen/dining room area of the Archives. Across from eachother at a polished onyx colored table . Smooth, cool surface. The detective is lost in thought, running her fingers tips across it. Back and forth.
Shiori, ever the gracious host, even set the tables with table mats, folded napkins, properly positioned utensils. She’s not much of a cook, this area of the archives really is reserved for times where she is very locked in but her human vessel still needs sustenance. Most days, she eats meals with Advent, usually crafted as a team. Sometimes they get treated by Fuwawa or Nerissa, though. A fond smile comes to her lips as those names and the associated memories enter her thoughts.
“I don’t like that look on your face.” The detective breaks the silence. She stares up at the archiver while hesitantly poking at her meal with a fork, now.
The archiver almost feels guilty for how much of the detectives trust she seems to have lost. Almost. To feel guilty is to regret what she’s done and she wouldn’t trade the times she’s spent teasing Ame and messing with her so easily.
“Oh, but I like the look on your face.” Shiori replies smoothly.
Watson rolls her eyes and groans. Shiori notices she’s still hesitant to touch any of the food.
“There isn’t any poison, this time, my dear.”
Ame glares at her, before leaning down to smell her plate . The aggressive sniffing reminds her of a dog. Shiori giggles before taking a bite of her own. Shiori made an omelette for Ame (an Ame-lette), egg Sandwich for herself.
“Doesn’t smell like poison…”
“See?” Shiori says, before taking a napkin to clean a crumb off her own cheek.
Watson glares at Shiori once more, before digging in. Shiori calmly takes a sip of her own tea, watching the blonde scarf down her eggs and beverage like she hasn’t eaten in ages. It was a sight to behold with the blonde being in baggy pajama pants and her disheveled bed hair. Egg crumbs on the corners of her mouth. Shiori tries to take a mental picture, too precious of a memory to forget.
Shiori waits for her to finish, and then drops the question that’s been on her mind this whole time.
“These are my Archives, Watson. The only way to get here is by one of my ink portals, the only way to get out is the same. I’ve created this domain to be impenetrable, even to gods. I know since your departure from the company you haven’t been using your watch, either. So tell me, how did I find you passed out on the floor of my domain?”
Shiori is staring intensely at Watson. Chin against her palm. Her full attention is on her, eyes glowing with an insatiable curiosity. Shiori isn’t mad or upset, it seems. But actually excited and intrigued to know how this could have happened.
“My guess is as good as yours, Novella. I was asleep, having a wonky ass nightmare. Then, suddenly I woke up to your creepy face looming over me.” Watson answers truthfully, awkwardly trying to avoid the archiver’s gaze.
“That’s so sweet of you~” Shiori replies. “Do tell me more about this nightmare of yours. You said I was in it, correct? Torturing you?”
Watson nods, before explaining her nightmare . How it started as it usually does every night, how it took an unusual turn. How a vision of the archiver was there, reaching out her hand. Shiori listens intently, soaking up every single word that comes from the detective's lips.
—
Shiori would be lying if she said she did not enjoy the detectives company today. It’s like enrichment for her enclosure. A new mystery to unravel with one of her favorite playthings!
It is unfortunate though that it is Watson’s suffering that brings them together over and over. Her heart aches for her.
Which is why, currently, she is searching within her shelves. Scanning page upon page, inspecting book mark upon book mark. She wants to help the detective, it’s the least she can do for her after all.
Shiori finds herself deep in thought.
See, despite her behavior, the archiver has always admired the detective . The way she always operates behind the scenes, away from the spotlight. The way she works so hard and puts so much of herself in her work to prop others up. The way she always finds the most creative ways to get out of the stickiest situations. The way that even when surrounded by the most mythical beings she is always so human. So warm.
Even her stubbornness is so human like. Perhaps one of the most human things about Watson. That instinct and drive to persevere, to survive, like an adorable little cockroach.
Those days of being and feeling human are far behind Shiori, but to see it. To experience it second hand through watching the detective … it has brought yet another light and joy to her life that makes it worth living, along with Advent.
She wonders if her cherished late friend is watching down from the heavens. She wonders if she’s proud of how far Shiori’s become. How she’s not alone anymore.
Shiori doesn’t notice the tears forming until they’re already falling down her cheek.
She wipes them away with a gloved hand, tries to get herself together before continuing her search for answers.
—
“Shiori, I found—“ Watson turns into an aisle from behind a shelf, open book in hand, but drops it immediately at the sight in front of her .
Shiori is on her knees, as if she collapsed there. Her hair messy, covering here eyes like curtains. Her breathing heavy. Books and pages are scattered around her.
She picks up another book mark weakly, hand shaking, but before she can start turning herself into ink again, a hand grabs her wrist to stop her. The warmth of it shocks Shiori, she drops what she was holding and peaks at Watson through her own hair. When golden eyes meet blue she can’t stop the tease that bubbles out of her throat.
“What’s cookin good lookin’?” Shiori manages to muster out tiredly, a shit eating grin.
Watson’s face is more serious than it’s ever been. Shiori feels almost intimidated by the detective. Her grip on Shiori’s wrist does not falter.
“I think we should take a break. Now.”
“ I’m getting closer to answers, Watson,”
“No buts.” Watson says firmly. “I’m saying this as a former leader to current leader, imagine you found a member of Advent pushing themselves to the limits like this for you? Imagine if they refused you when you asked them to rest? How would that feel?”
“I..” Shiori had no arguments. Sometimes Shiori focuses so much on how different Amelia is from her, she forgets the things they do have in common. She sees herself in Amelia during this. Scolding a member of advent. It sounds so familiar. The archiver doesn’t know how to feel.
She’ll figure it out later.
When Watson notices Shiori start to stir, she gets up to help pull the now pathetic archiver up to stand with her.
Shiori wipes imaginary dirt off herself after Amelia frees her wrist. She clears her throat.
“I suppose I should make a portal for you to get home? We’ve been researching for hours. It’s getting quite late.”
Watson shakes her head.
“I’ll probably take a nap or smthn and stay here to continue my search after. Honestly I feel really close to an answer too. Maybe I’ll finally be able to sleep without these terrors once we figure this all out.” Watson’s voice is filled with a determination. It’s that human warmth again. That burning drive that Shiori envied and admired so.
“I see. You’re welcome to stay as you see fit then. You know where the food is kept; apologies the selection is quite barren.”
Watson just shrugs in response. Seems she doesn’t care much. She then takes a second to comment as they walk side by side.
“You look like shit by the way. Seems like your powers really do have a limit. Didn’t know that about you.” Watson states , concern hidden under her teasing tone . “I’ll clean that mess that you made for you later, alright?” The detective offers. Shiori feels that warmth from Ame again, without even having to touch her. “Thank you for all this, by the way. Even if I’m not so sure this isn’t all your fault in the first place .” Watson’s rambles trail off while absentmindedly fiddling with her own fingers. A nervous gesture.
Shiori could only muster a tired smile in reply.
—
Shiori admits she doesn’t feel entirely comfortable leaving the detective on her own in the archives.
The stubborn blonde though was persistent. She even refused Shiori’s offer of more pillows, a sleeping mat, literally anything that wasn’t a pile of blankets on the table she awoke on this morning. “I’ve zonked out on worse” the detective would say. Shiori wanted to pinch her.
It was a headache, truly. But Shiori pushed herself too hard today, she didn’t have any energy to argue. All she could do was step through her ink portal to Advent HQ and hope for the best as it closed behind her .
And watch as two big puppies tackle her to the ground at full force.
If she earned a nickel for everytime she was pinned to the ground today she’d have two nickels which isn’t a lot but—
“SHIORIIIII WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!” Mococo shouts in Shiori’s ear, as she furiously nuzzles her fuzzy cheek against the archiver’s. Shiori flinches at the volume.
On her other side was the fluffier one, tail wagging and ears pinned back against her head. She looks down at Shiori with a stern expression. “You missed dinner bau bau …” Fuwawa’s tone is more concerned and motherly than angry. Shiori gives her an apologetic smile. Fuwawa crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow.
Joining them is Kouseki Bijou, her dear funsized friend, her beloved rock . Her literal and metaphorical rock. So short she doesn't need to sit on the floor to be at their height, honestly. Oh how she loves Kouseki Bijou so.
“What’s up wichoo, beebs?” Shiori perks up to ask.
The three turn their attention to her as they sit up.
“I should be asking ‘what’s up wichoo’ , ya dingus !! You just up and disappear for hours to the archives after our collab stream. ‘I’ll be back for dinner’ you say and guess who’s sitting alone at the dinner table consoling two anxious puppies and our big baby of a Raven! and we can’t even go after you because there’s no way for us to access the archives without you! I was .. I was worried sick!” It pains Shiori’s heart to see her silly goofy Beebs in such a state. She immediately bolts up to her Rock and envelops her in a comforting embrace.
“I’m so sorry Beebs. I’m okay, really.” Shiori whispers soothingly to Bijou as she rubs the gem’s back. “Nothing bad happened to me. I should have came back for a second to tell you I was going to be there longer than usual. That’s on me. Seriously.”
Bijou calms down. She mumbles something about platonic dates and owing her one into her shoulder, before letting go.
She didn’t notice the doggo’s absence until now.
They return with Nerissa in good time.
The raven stands across from Shiori. There’s a heaviness in the air as Nerissa looks her up and down. Her brain seems to be processing something before she cuts through the thick silence.
“SHIWOWI!!!!” The raven cries out as she runs up to the archiver. Opening her arms but not moving, silently asking Shiori for permission to hug her. Shiori nods weakly before relaxing in the ravens embrace. “What happened to you Shiorin… you look like you got hit by a truck … who hurt you…” Shiori feels a dampness on her shoulder. “I’ll kill them…”
“Shh there there.” Shiori rubs the ravens back, brushing through the demons long locks with her fingers. “A lost puppy stumbled into my archives, so I got preoccupied for a bit.”
Fuwamoco started growling protectively at the idea of another dog hurting Shiori. The archiver momentarily stops the hair stroking to put a hand up at them. Signaling for them to settle down. Then continued stroking Rissa’s long locks. A soothing gesture for both of them, to be honest.
“That dawg got hands.” Bijou comments.
“Yeah, babygirl, you look like shit…” Rissa adds between muffled sniffles.
Shiori shrugs.
Rissa pulls away for a moment, hands remaining on Shiori’s shoulders. Not eager to cease contact with her. Likely concerned Shiori would slip away again if she does. Her poor clingy bird….
As if Shiori isn’t just as clingy with all of them.
She takes a hold of Rissa by one of her wrists pulling her hand up to her cheek. She nuzzles into Rissa’s soft hand.
It was cold, like her own. But she likes cuddling to Rissa like penguins for warmth.
A memory of how warm the detectives hand was, almost searing hot against her wrist, flashes through her mind.
Right. The detective.
“There’s more that’s happened, Reese. I’m tired, though. I pushed my powers a little too far in the archives today.” Rissa frowns, magenta eyes softening with concern. She hates when Shiori does that.
“Yeah yeah I know. I’m sorry. It was necessary this time. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow okay? Let’s get some rest.”
Shiori smiles in a way that Rissa can’t do anything except listen to their dependable leader.
“I love you.” Rissa says.
“Love you too Reese.”
“WE ALL LOVE YOU!” Mococo screams.
“I love her the most…” Fuwawa states confidently, in her soft and soothing voice.
“We all love you the most.” Bijou adds on, “let’s let Shiori rest guys, she’s had a long day.” Bijou beckons the doggos to come with her to their chambers, leaving the archiver and the demon to a moment alone.
Nerissa sniffles through the comforting silence.
“You’re dinners in the microwave … Fuwawa made it today…”
Shiori’s heart fills with love. “Oh… it probably tastes delicious… I’ll put it in the fridge.”
“It’s bussin’. For real for real.”
They both chuckle softly.
“Promise you’ll talk to me tomorrow, Shiorin?”
“Of course, Rissa.”
“Do you need me to carry you to bed?”
“I’m good, Rissa.”
“Are you sure?”
“…Yes, Rissa.”
—
When the archiver’s head falls onto the pillow and closes her eyes all she can see is a silhouette detectives face before drifting unusually quickly to sleep.
—
Who are you that inhabits this strange place?
An anathema? My saving grace?
A cacophony of colors, a deafening vision in the sun’s rays.
The golden key to the depths of these shades of gray.
I’ll look out for you.
—
Frost creeps into the archiver’s limbs. Numb. Heavy .
The archiver stands alone in a desolate room. The lightbulb needs to be replaced. The already dim lighting flickers. There is no heating. A small window reveals only miles and miles of falling snow, and a void like sky. Shiori gets up, paces, anything to keep herself warm, as she observes her surroundings.
There’s a piano. A golden pocket watch. A tall mirror.
She first walks to the Mirror. She sees her own reflection.
She sees a distorted version of herself, glitching, bugging out. It hurts her eyes to look at. The flashing shades of grey, like tv static.
It’s giving her a headache.
Shiori, decides she’s had enough of the rpg horror mirror, wanders over to the piano. She picks up the pocket watch, inspects it closely.
A detective hat, a mustache, and a monocle are engraved into its exterior. She flips it open with a click, and there’s a blue glow coming from within its moving gears.
Ame’s watch.
Not the real thing of course. Shiori is smart enough to have already realized this is a dream.
She ponders what this could all possibly mean. How it connects to Ame. It’s exciting, she’s eager to play along. Curious to see what unfolds. Who or what is pulling the strings.
She keeps the pocket watch open, rests it on the piano.
Just like the nightmare the detective described to her earlier that day, she begins to play a haunting, sorrowful song.
—
Shiori’s fingers are heavy, freezing, her teeth are chattering, so much so that she almost doesn’t notice when she hears a familiar voice call out her name.
Amelia.
Shiori stands up, a sharp pain at her knees from moving her near frozen joints too quickly. She flinches, hesitates while she lets the pain subside as much as possible. Then she approaches the mirror. The calls get louder.
“W-w-what’s up Watson.” The archiver says through chattering teeth.
“You’re here. I knew you’d be here again.”
“I-I-I don’t think it was me that first time but s-s-sure.”
Shiori can’t see what’s happening on the other side of the mirror. She can only hear Watson’s voice. She swears though, in her glitching reflection, she sees Watson. Sometimes Watson mixed with herself. But it flickers too rapidly for her to truly tell.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” Amelia’s tone is malicious. Sharp. Shiori doesn’t expect it.
“…T-T-to help..?”
“Help? HELP?? It would be more helpful if you just left me alone!”
Shiori hears a shattering of a mirror. But it isn’t hers. Panic pulses through her. She doesn’t know Watson’s plans, she doesn’t care to wait and find out too late. Watson needs her help. She punches the mirror, blood seeps through her gloves, spills onto the ground. She doesn’t care.
She jumps through the mirror frame.
The archiver chases after the time traveller.
—
I’ll look out for you.
—
A human lightning rod. That’s what Shiori feels like. There’s no time for her to think as lightning strike after lightning strike hits her . Colors flash rapidly around her . The noise is deafening. It’s as if she’s going to burst into a thousand smaller versions of herself. She shatters like a mirror. Her pieces continue to shatter and shatter until it feels like she’s dissolved into atoms. The blinding lights take her.
—
Amelia Watson watches as the sleeping archiver on her lap wakes up with a violent gasp. She has tears streaming down her face. Is she hyperventilating?
Watson hushes her , strokes her hair, it was the first time she’s seen Shiori’s glowing, usually so unsettling, yellow eyes look so afraid . So human.
She comforts Shiori in the way that her own mother used to. Everytime she would do something stupid that would get her injured.
When the time is right, Watson makes a stupid face, crossing her eyes, sticking her tongue out, stretching her mouth out with her fingers.
“Blehhhhh!!!”
The archiver’s sobs mix with laughter.
“What in good glob’s name …”
It was Amelia’s turn to join in the laughter.
“Glob??? What are you 12????” Tears form in her eyes, her tummy hurts, it’s too funny.
“Big words for someone within tickling distance.” Shiori threatens.
Watson grimaces. “Don’t you dare, Novella.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t.” Shiori doesn’t get up from Amelia’s lap. She shifts the position of her head to make herself more comfortable. Watson flinches, bracing herself for tickling, but it doesn’t come.
She’s surprised.
“Must’ve been one bad dream if you’re cuddling up to me instead of tormenting me.” The blonde comments.
“Sure was… well it was tolerable until the last part.”
Tolerable. Watson remembers the first part of her nightmare, a nightly one she learned to endure and tolerate as well. In these past 24 hours, she’s felt a lot closer with the Archiver than she’s ever been.
“Trust me, I know that feeling.” Watson sighs, before absent mindedly stroking Shiori’s hair again. The blonde’s hands always need to be doing something. She can’t help it. “How did you get here anyway? You can’t possibly just summon ink portals in your sleep, can you?”
“I couldn’t before, no. Could be a new thing. I don’t think that’s it though. I think what happened to you last night happened to me. There was a mirror. I heard you from the other side. You sounded distressed. I was concerned you would hurt yourself.”
Shiori Novella. Concerned about my well being?
“I haven’t been asleep though …” Watson answers, deep in thought, “I tried to take a nap but I couldn’t.”
“Then it wasn’t you. And that vision you saw in your own nightmare, that wasn’t me.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“Then who was it?”
“Beats me!” Shiori yawns and stretches casually, as if nothing just happened. The tear stains on her cheek are the only evidence that remains.
“I hate you.” Watson mutters softly.
Shiori only cuddles more into the detectives lap. “You’re warm.”
“Thanks? Still hate you though.”
“Guess we have to solve this mystery ASAP, then detective, or else we’ll be warping to eachother every night.” Shiori grins, a fang peeking through her smile. Watson shudders, and then feels something akin to … butterflies…? In her stomach.
Yeah. Yeah she’s ignoring that. That never happened.
“Better get started then.”
Shiori shakes her head. Watson feels the movements against her lap.
“You need to sleep, first. You’re still human after all.”
“I’m a time anomaly.”
“Even time anomaly’s need sleep. I would know!” Watson’s eyes widen at the confession.
She would know?
Or wait. No. She would know because she’s an all knowing archiver right?
…
Come on Watson. You aren’t stupid.
It makes sense doesn’t it?
But why reveal this now? To her? So casually, too?
This woman gives her a headache. A blistering, intolerable migraine .
The archiver stands up.
She reaches out her hand . The same way she did earlier when the archiver was at her limits.
Watson takes it, she wouldn’t have before, but things have changed in the past day or so. Drastically. As a time traveller she shouldn’t be surprised, she should be prepared for the unexpected.
She doesn’t know how to prepare for this type of unexpected though.
How different the Archiver looks in the lighting of the Archives, the way her pale skin glows. The way her cold hand take hers carefully. The way her expression is so … vulnerable? Unguarded. Warm in its own way.
Pretty.
She reminds Watson of the moonlight.
It’s a contrast to her usual fiery, on guard nerves. Her impulsive, chaotic life style. For the first time in a long time since becoming an affiliate, Watson feels calm.
“Let’s go home, Doggy. I’ve got a collar for you!”
“Okay…” The detective whispers as she leads her by hand through an ink portal, “Wait wha—“
The ink portal closes.
Just like that, the halls of knowledge are empty .
Because even the archives need to sleep.
—
A search for equilibrium
A leap into the unknown
The ticking of a clock’s hands,
The infinite stretch of time
The permanence of ink on a page
The knowledge within books, confined.
Two apparitions in opposition
Find they are no longer alone
In their war of existence
Against the Divine.
—