āI need a place to stay.ā
āI need a place to stay.ā
Those were the first words Michael had uttered in hours. He had been sitting near-comatose in the corner of Jon's office ever since they'd both stumbled free from the Distortion's Halls, unmoving and unresponsive until now. Jon started in surprise, completely unprepared to hear those words come from Michael's mouth, sounding so hollow and tired. He completely understood the feeling.
"Right," he sighed in agreement, before he paused awkwardly. "I, ah...may also be short on...accommodations. I was, I was in hiding before the Circus kidnapped me, and now...I don't know."
Michael laughed, short and sharp and nothing like how he had sounded before. "Great," he groaned, shoving his tangled hair back and rubbing at his forehead with both hands. "That's great." He had a headache, Jon knew- Knew, a headache he'd been suffering from ever since he'd stepped through the Distortion's door so many years ago. Jon could almost feel it in his own head, aching and heavy, and cracked his neck to try to alleviate it. He was...quite stiff, he realized, and quickly pushed that thought from his mind.
"There's a cot in Document Storage," he offered weakly, and Michael stopped massaging his head to squint up at him irritably.
"I won't fit on that," he snapped sullenly. "I...fuck." He winced suddenly, flinching quite violently. "I shouldn't know that," Michael muttered to himself. "I shouldn't know- I think the Distortion has been spying on you."
"That...makes sense," Jon conceded. Who knew what else had eyes in the Archives watching him. The flash of horribly familiar paranoia made his stomach turn and skin crawl, sparking a desperate urge to be out of the Institute before he did something drastic. "I'm booking us a hotel room," he decided firmly. "And I'm expensing it to the Institute."
"That'll show them," Michael encouraged half-heartedly. Jon busied himself with making the arrangements, while also thinking about what other arrangements he needed to make. Michael had nothing but the clothes on his back and the trauma that his twisted counterpart had inflicted on him. Was he still tied to the Institute, after what had happened? God, was he now another Assistant Jon now had to look out for? He'd already gone through hell and been betrayed by one Archivist, how could he stand to work with Jon, if that was even what he wanted? Had he just gone from one torturous hell prison to another?
Jon couldn't fathom what he could do about that.
A round of calls and an awkward ride share later, Jon realized he'd been a bit too hasty in booking a room. "What do you mean, there's only one bed?" he demanded. The tired and harried-looking desk manager just gave him a blank look.
"That's all that's available tonight, I'm sorry," she said, completely insincerely. "You can try somewhere else, but at this time of night they'll probably all be booked."
"It's fine, Jon," Michael spoke up, hunched over the counter and head hanging low, hair spilling messily around his face. "Just take the room." Jon was so put off that he almost didn't notice that Michael had called him by name for the first time, because he sounded so profoundly and plainly miserable. He swallowed down his reservations and confirmed their reservation for the room instead.
The room was, as expected, small, and did contain only one bed. Michael sat on it listlessly, eyes unfocused and drifting away. "I, uh, I'd like to use the shower first," Jon said lamely, and received only a nod of acknowledgement. Michael's behavior, or lack thereof, was concerning, but so were so many other things, like the Unknowing, and finding answers to his millions of questions, and the heavy layer of lotion all over him.
Jon fought to remain calm as he showered, he really did. He should be enjoying the feeling of warm water running over him, cleaning his skin, but the layered-on oils were difficult to wash off, even with the tiny bar of soap the hotel provided. Choking back the noises trying to claw out of his throat, Jon scrubbed harder, making his skin burn and chafe, his muscles protesting the harsh movements. But it was working, his skin was free of that awful heavy sensation, and it almost felt good, after so much cooling softness. God, he never wanted to feel the touch of lotion against his skin ever again.
"Michael?" he called as he left the bathroom, shivering in the cold air, shoulders exposed by the towel he had wrapped around his chest. "Shower's free, if you'd like-"
He stopped when he found that the room seemed alarmingly empty. Jon's knees nearly gave out in surprise, stumbling into the doorframe as his eyes flew around the room. He breath caught in relief when he caught sight of Michael, crammed in the small space between the wall and the single bed, limbs sticking out jarringly, face hidden in a pillow clutched in his arms.
"Michael?" Jon asked as gently as he could. "Are you...what's wrong?"
"Walls," Michael gasped, muffled by the pillows. "They're too- it was...I don't know where- I can't, I can't, it's too big, there's nowhere I can, I can't-"
He sounded so panicked, so desperate and terrified. Jon hesitated, then stepped forward and crouched next to him, careful of the drape of the towel around his body. Bracing himself and pushing down his own awkwardness, he reached out and took one of Michael's dangling hands in his own uninjured one. It didn't feel the way it had before, or the way that...that Sasha had described it in her statement. It was a perfectly ordinary hand, slightly cold and a bit thin, but utterly normal and human. Just like the rest of Michael.
Michael had tensed sharply when he took his hand, but quickly deflated, turning his head free of the pillow to look towards Jon with red-rimmed eyes. "Your hands-" he stopped to swallow thickly. "They're not...they didn't lotion those?"
"No," Jon confirmed, nearly choking on a very inappropriate chuckle. "No, they didn't, I don't think they were going to...use them." God, that was awful, it was absurd, but he couldn't stop the strained laughter that kept breaking loose from his chest, unstoppable and inappropriate. A single tear slipped down his cheek before he roughly swiped it away with his free hand. He shouldn't be laughing, he shouldn't be caught up in his own horror when Michael had gone through far worse than him, and for much longer. But he couldn't stop.
Michael was watching him with eyes that were unfathomably deep, like they could swallow him whole. Jon wondered, near hysterically, if one could get lost in the eyes of the former Distortion, or whatever Michael was now. But he was not a threat, he reminded himself as Michael unfurled from his tight crouch and crept closer to him. All of that rage and betrayal was nowhere to be seen, for now. He wondered where it had gone.
Keeping hold of his hand, Michael stretched his other arm out and slung it over Jon's shoulders, pulling him in until they were both crumpled together, like two fallen walls of a demolished building. He sighed, and it stirred in the drying strands of Jon's hair. "What are we going to do now, Archivist?" he asked, hollow and empty again. His abrupt turn of terrified energy seemed to have dissipated for now, gone along with Jon's own panic. Which was the intention of his pathetic attempt at comfort, just not quite like this.
"You can call me Jon," Jon answered, unable to stop himself from leaning into Michael's side. Michael was leaning just as heavily on him, his long tangled curls draping over his bare shoulder, and he didn't hate it. "Please don't call me Archivist anymore."
Michael sighed again, harsh and painful. "I'll try," he whispered. "Its still in my head, it still wants to-" he cut himself off, which Jon was grateful for. "No. No. You're Jon. You've done me no wrong. You heard my story. You...you know now."
"I do." Like Martin, like...like Sasha, he knew Michael now, Knew him, had his statement on tape and seared into his mind and heart. He didn't understand what that meant, not yet, not fully, but it meant...something. "I...I'm sorry. About everything."
"Yeah." Michael's hand flexed in his, then settled. "So am I, Archi- Jon. Jon. I'm sorry."
They were such small words, but meant so much. They could be lies, but after hearing his statement, after seeing him fall apart, Jon didn't believe they were. Michael was no longer the Distortion, he had no reason to lie. Jon had to learn to trust, somehow, and who better to start with than someone who had been so betrayed? Michael pressed his head down, resting his cheek on top of Jon's head, and Jon closed his eyes, leaning into Michael's warmth. What else was there to do?
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