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Nothing about being re-embodied was comfortable. It was a thousand little cuts, slashes on individual nerve-endings until his whole body felt open to the elements. All the old discomforts were back as well as multiplied and added on to, and no amount of painkillers could muffle the wear of never being comfortable.
But one thing his body did relish was warmth.
The monster that had worn him had never worn the clothes it had swallowed him in. Nevertheless, when the new one extracted him from the Hallways and spit him back into the world, he was wearing the clothes Robinson had instructed him to wear for their last trip. Thick, heavy layers, mittens frosted to his hands, boots encrusted with red ice. He had never been so cold, not even, he was sure, when he was actually on the island-which-wasn’t. It had taken hours for him to be able to peel out of the equipment in the small safe-room in the Archives, and it took even more hours for someone to bring him new clothes. In the meantime, waiting, he wrapped the blankets from the cot around him and tried desperately to feel anything but frozen. It wouldn’t ease up, though, for weeks.
Warm drinks helped, a little. So did the blankets, and wearing two pairs of socks. But he stayed cold. It was one of the things that kept him up nights. The discomfort, yes, but also the fear. He might not have been a monster anymore, but he still wasn’t human. Was a little less than that now. Eaten up by what should have killed him, but hadn’t found enough of him left to bother.
What helped the most, Michael found, was the sun. It took him some time to realize it, since, at first, the only time he left the Institute was when he was trying to escape. He was always too agitated to notice how the sun felt on his cold face. After he realized the Institute had reasserted its hold over him, and that, even if it hadn’t, he had nowhere to go where anyone else knew him, he resigned himself to the little safe-room. For now, he thought to ease his nerves. Just for now.
Then he found he missed the sun.
The Institute still allowed its servants short times away from its influence, so as soon as he had comfortable shoes, he snuck out every day, just to walk, as long as his body would let him. Whenever the sun was out, he pushed up his sleeves and let the light fall on him, even when its warmth was meager. Anything, anything, anything to thaw the rods of ice that had replaced his bones.
The Institute served the Watcher, but, while he was outside of its walls if not its influence, Michael did some watching, too. He picked a park an easy distance to walk even on his worst days, picked a selection of three benches to rotate between - the Hallways had despised a pattern, so he made sure to create them wherever he could - and, his headphones safely over his ears, he people-watched.
Sometimes he brought a book to pretend to read, sometimes he didn’t. He could never focus on the pages, anyway, not when the thick, buttery blanket of the summer sun brought colors out of the world he had forgotten existed, colors the Hallways never touched on, always filtered through itself and made unnatural. Even when the skies were grey, he found new things to remember: how many shades of green a tree could be, how tempting a toddler could make a rain puddle look. Butterflies, beetles, thready legs and parchment wings fluttering on his chilly skin as they landed and took off a breath later. More than once the wind startled him, as strong and solid as a hand as it skimmed across his face and tousled his hair, but it wasn’t so unpleasant after a while. Almost nice. Comforting.
This had been his world once. He’d been warm and, if not happy, at least comfortable. He’d had plans to be happy one day. He’d get away from his old home, make a life elsewhere, and find out how to be happy.
He wasn’t sure if that was ever going to be an option for him now. Usually, he doubted it. But he was usually in the Archives, trapped in with the others who’d been taken by the Watcher and their various other demons. When he took his walks, though, and sat in the warmth long enough for his skin to burn and itch by the time he was back at the Institute, there were always a few seconds - a heartbeat or two - where he could imagine it. When the brightness of the sun blinded him with a blanket of heat and yellow-white light, he could just start to see the possibility.