Chapter Text
Michael almost rips the curtains off the rod in the process of closing them. The yellow fabric spills down and covers the window to his apartment, but it’s not enough to make the tears feel safe. They slip from his cheeks onto the dark wood floor, and the way they taste on his lips makes him feel like he’s drowning. But wiping them away doesn’t bring back the air. It just smears them further, staining them on his sleeve as he mutters words that don’t quite make sense.
“I can’t believe he…he did, didn’t. I couldn’t…” He kicks the wall with no small amount of force. It hurts, but that hardly matters as he throws himself backwards onto his couch. The cushions give way underneath him, and the softness pulls around his body in a sad mimic of a hug. But it feels warm. Almost safe.
He just wishes he could forget that Jon had anything to do with helping him get it.
It had been two weeks since he woke up with Martin by his cot, and he was already tired of The Institute's safe room. It was colder than most of the building, just close enough to the lobby to be loud, and most annoyingly, forced him to stay too close to the others.
Right in their line of sight.
When he got restless “You can’t lift a pen without shaking! I know you have your reservations about all of this, but I don’t think it would be good for you to be alone right now.” was Jon’s big commentary. Apparently he thought the small cot and thin blankets were a five-star luxury that Michael would tolerate for the rest of his days.
He seemed genuinely surprised as he asked “Where will you go?” and “Are you sure you’ll be fine by yourself right now?” with a sincerity that walked a tightrope between genuine and a craving. Michael recognized it immediately. The hunger. The curiosity that’s so hard not to chase.
Maybe that familiarity was why he took Jon up on the offer to help him get a place. Better that than admitting that after a decade of living as a concept, he had nothing left but the clothes on his back.
The idea of having to build anew was its own kind of horror. The terror burrowed deep enough under his skin that he didn’t resist when Jon gave him a card for an apartment showing on a fairly decent side of town.
As much as he hates to admit it, he has to give it to Jon. It’s a nice place. Next to a little cafe and a lot quieter than most apartments. That probably has something to do with why when Jon walked up to his desk and muttered, “Basira says she’s getting a new couch. If you are still looking for seating you might want to ask her if she has plans for the old one,” he did what he said and walked out with a new couch for it.
At the time he was glad for the small mercies that made things easier.
Now they’re just a reminder of today.
He would flop onto the floor dramatically to really show his anguish, but then he’d be reminded that Jon helped him get the rug too, and the coffee table. And all the gifts he doesn’t want to think about after his moment of hesitation.
One second. Just one second, but more than enough to make Michael doubt. The words “I thought if you came with me, it might jog your memory,” replay on a loop like a rewound tape. The smallest hint of a bitter smile crosses his face at the irony that he really couldn’t have said anything worse. The logical side of Michael’s brain knows that Jon prioritizing his need to know isn’t exactly new. It’s possible that he didn’t mean anything by it all. It could be as simple as he finds more value in Michael's memory than his fear.
But then he catches a glimpse of his hands, and remembers that now his eyes are a pale green that look yellow in the light instead of the blue they were before. He wraps his arms around himself in the vain hope to fend off the biting cold that’s been etched on his skin since the boat ride. Yet the chill doesn’t pass, and with it his weariness lingers. Trusting Jon’s intentions isn’t something he can do.
But then what can he do?
As beautiful and satisfying as it would be, the answer isn’t to let the world end. That would only end with him being The Stranger’s play thing, suffering in whatever domain they made for him.
Maybe they would force him to wake up every day with a stranger by his cot, holding a cup of peppermint tea in their large hands.
Maybe he and Tim would get stuck together in an office working for a shady figure that doesn’t seem to have a face or name.
Maybe they’d put mirrors on all sides of him, then crack his bones until his limbs are just as disjointed as they were in The Distortion.
His lip trembles. A fresh string of tears slips down his face.
He’s not gentle when he wipes them away. His skin stretches under his palm, snapping back to its correct place when he drops his hands to his side. It adds to the frustration already bubbling in his chest as he grabs a throw pillow to toss against the wall. It bounces backwards in a satisfying motion, and Michael does his best to not think about when Jon brought it to his desk with a proud smile.
“I was just going through my things, and I found a few pillows from my college days. Since I know you’re still furnishing, I thought you could get more use out of them than me,” Jon held them out with a nervous swoop, shifting his gaze from the wall to Michael’s face. He was clearly seeking approval from his reaction, as was common in the early days when the guilt was still getting to him.
Michael didn’t let it show, well, at least not fully, that with only one glance he could tell they weren't really his style. The dark brown and green hues were far more plain looking than the bright colors he prefers, even after the kaleidoscope nightmare that was The Distortion’s existence. But they were his. And they stopped him from needing to go to the store at a time in his life when he would turn left then end up going right. That made them enough. At least then.
It didn’t suddenly make him and Jon best friends, of course. Michael still has his hangups about the whole “violently ripped from his body,” situation, and Jon isn’t cunning enough to hide how noticeably unsure he is whenever they’re in the same room. But before today there was a ground there that’s now been ripped out from under his feet. It was a shaky ground made of shifting rocks, sure, but at least it was there.
And now it’s gone.
The choked noise that sneaks from his lips is disgusting. He grimaces at the sound as he throws his legs over the top of the couch, then flips upside down, where his head points towards the floor.
Something about looking at the world upside down feels much safer than right side up. It makes his chest feel warm, like when he was a child and his Mother would tuck him to bed with one hand and give him his favorite stuffed animal with another. He closes his eyes and savors the rush of blood to his brain, allowing himself to embrace how easy it is to pretend he’s back in the hallways. There he would be lying on a mattress that doesn’t exist, not sleeping yet having endless dreams. In a few hours he’d be up seeking a meal, a victim, and it would all be so simple.
He wouldn’t be worried about being a pawn on Jon’s board if he still had his madness to give him strength, and he wouldn’t be concerned about a mannequin apocalypse outside the idea of his domain not being the one in control. There would be nothing but his nonexistence. The feelings of fear, joy, remorse, all swallowed by The Distortion’s inability to be anything at all.
Only the anger remained. Why he was able to feel THAT is something he still doesn’t have an answer for, but that feeling has always been a part of him. As a human, hidden under his skin, tucked away in memories of Ryan and his failure to find an explanation for his disappearance. Then as a monster, all he was. Now…
Well, it hasn’t really gotten any better. If anything it’s somehow managed to be the one consistent in his broken jigsaw puzzle of a life. The only thing new is the exhaustion. That sets burrowed under his bones, making his limbs feel heavy and his thoughts murky as his tears start to slow against his skin.
He feels like he’s being weighed down by an anchor. With a blanket right at his feet it’s tempting to pull it over himself and call the day a bust.
But beneath that weariness something restless whispers. It says that not going with Jon hardly matters if the world ends. The demented little voice isn’t wrong, but if he goes with Jon, and he gets the upper hand…well, fool him once, shame on Gertrude. Fool him twice, shame on whatever is wrong with his brain to make him consider exposing his back like that.
He shakes his head, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips as the motion makes his head swim. From his upside-down position he reaches for the coffee table and lays his hand on the wood. He imagines what it would be like to hold the world the same way Jon and Gertrude do. He’s sure that if she were in his shoes she’d be coming up with some crafty plan, which is unfortunate.
As cunning as he can be, deception comes easier than knowing the path through. In this case, he doesn’t see how lying helps. Jon has seen too much of him to fail to read between the lines. He’s not going to buy Michael suddenly playing dumb or trying to maneuver his way into getting more answers about the trip. He’ll know something’s up if he doesn’t just…see it. And it’s not like he knew any of Gertrude’s acquaintances to track them down and trick them into handing over the skin.
The only real option is trusting himself.
If he were still The Distortion, he could just use his door to slip in and out places tied to the fears until he stumbled upon a lead. The circus, Hilltop Road, Anabelle’s den, all of those places could probably turn up something tangible. The problem is that now he’s made of skin and blood. The consequences of getting caught are more unpleasant when you have eyes that can be gouged out and a tongue that can be removed. So that leaves his only option: Investigating places that aren’t likely to kill him.
His strained eyes glance toward the glass pane of his window. Outside from his view on the second floor rests a sidewalk that’s only a twenty minute walk towards The Institute, towards the one place that doesn’t seem like a terrible option. It doesn’t seem completely illogical to think Gertrude might have hid something there. Either for her own convenience, or for a future Archivist to find if she was as cunning as he knows she is. It’s possible that she hid the skin there. Or at least left a hint to the location that she didn’t have time to move before she showed up dead.
He wipes his face, letting his thoughts take the one track they’re desperate to travel. If he could find the skin, he could avoid any conundrum with Jon’s trip while also stopping The Stranger’s from getting their teeth into him.
If he could find the skin, he could avoid any conundrum with Jon’s trip while also stopping The Stranger’s from getting their teeth into him.
His tears start to slow as the thought digs into his brain like a clamp. He rolls off the couch onto the floor before clumsily climbing too his feet.
He knows where he’s going.