Work Text:
Jon is not quite sure exactly which is most unsettling: that the tickling sensation on his neck could be a spider (and usually he’d be inclined to assume just that, and he would leap up from his chair and dance around like an idiot until he got the thing off and crushed it), or that he knows it is not a spider. In either case, the fact that he does not quite startle, and certainly does not do a stupid fear-dance, is surely the most unsettling part of all this.
The thing is, Jon has been plagued with a lot of strange, unusual, and (only somewhat) unwanted sensations the last few weeks. The creaking of a door that always seems to flicker into existence when he’s not looking; the choppy, echoing laughter, always two conflicting tones overlaid upon one another, making it hard to know if it is mere mischief or malice; the menacing, endless tip-tap of nails dancing across his desk; petulant huffs as the click of his recorder is followed by an immediate, vengeful click right back, and then the tape inside gets inexplicably twisted, unusable.
Sometimes the walls in his office have new wallpaper, and Jon can’t quite tell how the design is different, only that it makes his eyes swim and gives him a sense of vertigo that usually confines him to the safety of his chair for the rest of the day. Sometimes the carpet smells like a garden, rustling beneath his shoes in an unnatural way (and Jon will not admit to the temptation of removing his socks and shoes to see how the not-grass carpet feels on his bare feet.)
Today, it is a tickle at the nape of his neck as something almost-sharp creeps up into his hair. Jon tries to focus on his note-taking, staring grimly down at the paper as the nail draws back, taking his hairband with it. As his hair falls free, Jon finally sighs in defeat. “Michael.”
“Good evening, Archivist,” comes the reply. Jon turns his head just slightly. The yellow door is to his right; he can see Michael’s face peeking at him from behind the white door frame. The fingers of one hand are stretched impossibly long, utilizing as many extra joints as is required to reach Jon from his place in the wall. Jon tries not to feel distressed over the fact that such a sight has become mundane - it only creeps him out a little bit, now. “Don’t mind me. I’m just fixing.”
“Fixing? Fixing what?”
“Your hair,” Michael says, and grins sideways, his eyes upturned in glee. When Michael is like this, both in and out the door, his form becomes mere suggestion half the time. His face flickers on and off, like a radio caught between two stations. But his fingers are real as they begin to invade Jon’s hair, long nails dragging against his scalp (gently, with surprising care), parting it and drawing out sections to play with. “It’s so boring, your hair. Straight keratin, no fun.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my hair,” Jon grumbles, but doesn’t do anything to try stopping his companion. Or, intruder, rather. Stalker? Perhaps it’s best to yield to the nature of the Distortion and say it is all of those things, and also none of them.
“So boring,” Michael repeats, and has the audacity to make it sound like his own voice from two seconds ago, crackling and fuzzy, as if spouted from a recording. He giggles. “I’m fixing it for you. You’re welcome, Archivist.”
Jon says nothing. He tries to go back to his notes, but halfway through finds his cursive deteriorating. It’s already not great, but when his careful swirls become nonstop loops, swept along as he unconsciously follows the motion of Michael’s fingers as they twist strands of his hair, he lets out a frustrated sound and drops his pen. “I can’t work while you do this!”
“Tsk tsk, Archivist. A man of your station? Shouldn’t you know how to multitask?”
“Well it’s a bit impossible to do anything when all I can write are scribbles.”
“I thought they were lovely,” Michael says, and his voice is a little closer than before. The fingers have coaxed nearly half his hair into soft, gently curling waves by now. Jon realizes there are entirely too many fingers. “The ink is nice. Thick and black. Pretty. Oh! Like your hair, Archivist.”
Jon does not blush, as he simply refuses to get flustered at this point. Michael has been saying things like that for weeks. Dropping weird not-quite-compliments that leave Jon conflicted over whether he should feel flattered or threatened. So he just makes himself feel a little annoyed and huffs, trying to convey some disbelief.
Michael does a strange giggle-sigh. His hands pull back, unweaving from his hair. “You’re no fun today,” he whines, and Jon can’t tell if he’s amused or disappointed. Perhaps both.
For a minute, there’s only quiet and stillness. Jon doesn’t want to turn around, doesn’t want to see if Michael is gone - doubts it, given he didn’t hear the door creak closed. Instead of checking, Jon cautiously lifts a hand to his hair. The curls Michael achieved should have been impossible without hair products and tools, but of course, it’s Michael, so that makes sense. They aren’t ringlets like the ones Michael has, but they make his hair seem fuller and softer. Jon lets himself comb his fingers through, feinting a desire to smooth them out as he writes, silently enjoying their unusual shape.
About five minutes later, the tickle is back, this time at his temple. It’s so very gentle; just one fingernail, cautiously tracing along his ear. It tucks beneath his glasses there, finding a stray lock of hair he can never seem to keep tucked back.
Jon says nothing, makes no complaint, as the finger begins to wrap that hair around itself, twisting it in a slow, easy motion. At the peak of each rotation, that nail grazes Jon’s skin just slightly. It’s… nice. Almost relaxing. Jon’s lashes flutter as he feels a sudden wave of sleepiness fall upon him, like someone draping a blanket on his shoulders.
All too soon, the sensation fades. Jon is alert and is too late in turning when he hears the door creak; Michael has already gone.
For the rest of the day, Jon works quietly in his office. At one point, without much thought, he brought his hair back into its loose bun style. But as he reads and writes and toys with his computer mouse, often his right hand will find that curl by his ear, twisting it idly around one fingertip.