Chapter Text
The corridors are- difficult.
The second he walks through, for a second, maybe even less, yes it must have been for less the even a second he turns back to look through the door, and a sharp inhuman hand twists his head back forward. In his flat, Michael was light and barely substantive, but now it's palm is massive, pressing his head into his shoulders. He understands why.
A migraine is upon him in an instant.
“I said I wasn't going to kill you.” Its voice reverberates through every particle of his being.
“No offense but you did just spend half an hour telling me how much of a liar you are.”
“Hm.” He can't even begin to describe what it sounds like. Familiar and painfully new all at once. Distant and in his head. Deep and light and horrifically nauseating. There's an echo to every word from the both of them.
“Not even a laugh?”
“I could if you like. But it will shred you in an instant.” Nice to know the change in management was going to let him cut down on Advil. “Left here.” Jon didn't even realize they came to a crossroad.
“Do you actually know where we're going?” He's only been here maybe a few seconds, and he's already lost.
“Of course I do. You gave us a map. Thank you, for that, again. Would have been quite inconvenient if Michael had had his way with you. I wouldn't mind, of course, but for such a petty reason as revenge it- it would be a waste.”
So it- Distortion, Liar, Spiral, had been in charge of ordering him around, at least that day. That's nice to clear up. At least. Except- He hadn't actually had he- No- No, indeed not he couldn't have-
“A waste?” Jon stares at the ugly carpeted floor.
“Did you forget our fateful meeting so soon, Archivist?” Helen's delivery was so much dryer the Michael's he really can't tell if it's meant to be sincere or not.
“That was you then- not- not Michael?”
“Well. We did agree on things, from time to time.”
Jon stares straight ahead and doesn't talk. Helen leads him down the corridor after corridor after corridor after corridor after corridor. He's not tired surprisingly- well, not any more tired than he already was when he went through the door. Mirrors are shattering and shattering and shattering and shattering and shattering, and wallpaper is fading into different colors.
On occasion, he hears panting and rushed footsteps, and there's something even more unsettling knowing there are others here for- for whatever it does to them.
There's something like music, maybe. Jon can't bring himself to trust any of what he's experiencing right now. Something slow and high pitched far away from him. How did Helen find her way out the first time well enough to remember what any of this looked like? He's barely functioning as a person anymore. But then he isn't right? Not really?
There's a short bark of a laugh, the first he's heard from her, and he feels his bones scape against each other. He wants to turn back, to ask what that was but he can barely open his mouth from the force of it.
They're standing in front of a mirror for what must be a few seconds or minutes or hours before Jon remembers what he's supposed to do. The first kick is feeble, and Helen is silent and unamused behind him.
That's worse, somehow.
The second kick is better, and the glass splinters, thin hairline fractures turning into big jagged pieces and scattering to the floor, but not before Jon stares at the slowly developing Lichtenberg fractal. It's all refracted on itself, and he's barely capable of comprehending anything. Information is barely being processed. Something nudges him through broken glass, and Jon moves forward. It's nothing but ugly wallpaper and dirty carpet and doors and doors and doors and doors and doors.
“Archivist.” Is that him? Is that what he is? Is he even a he anymore? Not just another it?
There's a sharp pain in his shoulder that Jon doesn't register until it gets sharper and sharper and
Oh. There's a yellow door in front of him, and the massive shape of The Spiral behind him and he gasps when it's finger retracts and warm blood seeps into his dirty shirt. He puts a hand on the handle and steps through and the cool night air crashes against him.
“If it's all the same.” He starts and swallows and collapses under the weight of himself. “I'd rather not do that again.”
Helen steps out behind him, and the door is gone in an instant. Its heels look like they're stained with something.
“There's that humor of yours.” Its voice is softer now, whether that's the situation or the new body, Jon isn't sure.
He's never sure about anything, and that's just his life now.
He considers asking what it will think of him if he just lays down flat on the cold concrete but decides just to go ahead and do it. It helps him wake up from whatever haze he was in faster. The blood already dried. His sense of time has gone completely out the window.
“That was the worst experience of my life.” He says at the empty sky.
“Worse then Corruption digging its way through you?” Jon shudders at the memory. Can't help himself. “Worse then Vast flinging you around like a toy? Worse then Desolation melting you?”
“My life is a series of bad experiences at the hands of nightmares, I'm aware.” Just acknowledging it brings him to the verge of tears. He hasn't had time to process any of it at all.
“Just trying to be helpful. I feel rather helpful. I think.” It gets down low and hovers its face over him, Helen's long hair blotting out any distraction.
Jon stares up at it and sighs.
It's always back to Distortion, isn't it?
“I suppose I owe you another favor then?”
Helen smiles, and it reaches its eyes. It steps out of Jon's way, and he sits up slowly. The street is still empty, still quiet. He can't tell what time it is, only that it's night and he's sure just being here- appearing out of nothingness- gave Elias a heart attack.
It's the little victories.
“Suppose you do, Archivist.”
“Of course,” He stands up on shaky legs and scrubs his face dry with his arm. “Thanks for the lift then. Guess I'll see you around when you decide to grace me with your presence.”
“In such a hurry to be rid of me?” Jon turns to look at it, crumpled and dirty business casual, just like what Helen looked like when Jon watched her go through Michael's door months ago. God so many things have changed since then. “I want more favors, Archivist.”
“Y-you just don't usually-”
“Michael didn't usually.”
“I-” Jon nods. “I need time to adjust to the new personality.”
“Only partially new. Or maybe all new. Lots of things to consider.”
“You did say that.”
“Mm.” It's a lot like a child now, every step dangerously close to snapping an ankle it may or may not have and watching it take steps in its new body would be funnier if Jon didn't know what it was capable of.
“Did you-” He doesn't know how to phrase it without sounding skeevy, so he goes for it. Caution to the wind. New lease on life sort of thing. “Did you wear a woman before?”
“Not for a while.” If Jon had to do the mental math, that would be at least before Michael, and then when it had gotten strong enough for it's... transcendence it probably wasn't feeding as it did now.
“It's probably the heels, then.” Jon hadn't even noticed Helen's heels when she came into the office. Four inches heels on rugs in its corridors and she survived for months. He barely lasted a few minutes. Or however long that was. It tilts it's head down to stare at them with an indiscernible look and Jon wonders if it can even take the clothes its wearing off or if they're stuck to it like a second skin. Third skin? Fourth?
“Helen likes them.” Like Helen liked Jon. The only real reason he's probably not dead- well. The Liar liked him too. Maybe.
“You can barely walk in a straight line. That's not particularly menacing.” There's a short, clipped laugh on its end.
“You like menacing?” It's head tilts, and with Helen's hair spilling down the way it does, Jon remembers Georgie's obsession with bad internet stories in college.
“I-I've had my fair share of menacing. Let me take them off before you stab me by accident.”
“What a happy accident that would be.”
Jon walks over slowly and kneels so that he can get at the straps of the heel. They're expensive, he knows that much when his hands touch the leather. Helen stares down at him, hair once again curtaining off the sky. Some part of him reassures the rest that he'd never do this sort of thing if it hadn't just saved him from getting skinned alive. Some other part of him insists that it would.
The hole Michael left in his forearm stings.
His fingers a clumsy at undoing the strap but eventually it comes undone, and he cups the back of the heel. It steps out of it slowly, with hesitation or to make Jon wait, he can't be sure. The other shoe takes just as long, but he managed the buckle and Helen stands in front of him barefoot.
When he stands up with them in his hands, he realizes he's just barely taller than it now.
It makes him giddier then it should.
“Better?”
It smiles as the compulsion bleeds into it. Instead of an answer or an attack of any kind, it turns on its heels and starts walking away from him down the center of the street. Jon looks at the road, at Helen's bare feet, at the shoes in his hands, and follows after it.
“Helen sold houses.”
“Ah- yes?” Big fancy houses in expensive parts of the city with enough of a paycheck to afford what must undoubtedly be a pair of heels worth several hundred pounds. And dirty crumpled business casual that Jon is sure went for about the same.
“And you need a new house.”
“I-” Yes- they knew where he lived. Where Georgie lived. The Stranger had let itself into his home like it was nothing. He'd have to move, of course. Of course. Another inconvenience. “Elias will probably-”
“Helen sold houses.” It says again, and Jon can hear the barely hidden indignation.
His mind is still slow from the captivity, but nothing snapped him to reality quite like The Spiral does.
“You can't be serious.”
“What a convenient Wanderer, don't you think, Archivist?”
“I think it doesn't matter what I say to you.”
“Look at you. Learning.”
“So what- you're going to break into her office and forge paperwork?”
“Not quite.” It stops dead in its tracks, and Jon almost walks into it. “You're going to break into her office and forge paperwork.”
“I-” He's ready to start complaining but when has that ever gotten him anywhere.
“Can't quite do Paperwork, can I, Archivist?”
It's turned around, and it beams at him, and Jon can see all of the teeth he wants nothing to do with. It lifts one of its hands and points it at his shoulder, and Jon remembers the blood again.
“Ah-No. No, you can't.”
It smiles, and Jon is left with nothing but to follow its orders.
Again.
…
They're in the flat by five in the morning.
The keys are new, as is the lock. The countertops are marble. There's a fireplace and a second floor. And he's the legal owner with another company footing the utility bill. There's furniture- new furniture, not like his last apartment with a loaned out mattress. No stains on the wall, though he's sure they'll show up in time. There's even a balcony garden.
He can't wait to have to explain this to Elias tomorrow.
Now, though, he sets Helen's heels by the door and stares at all of the things he couldn't afford on his own.
“That's four now?” Helen is having a fun time ogling everything too. Probably.
“Four?”
“Favors?”
Jon doesn't say anything.
The sun rises through his new windows after a while, and Helen wanders around the apartment. Jon is sure it would have left by now under any other circumstance- Jon honestly has no idea what it wants. Unless it's decided to act like his protector but that sounds horrifically off base for the entire situation.
His clothes are dirty, and he hasn't eaten in a month. That's how long he's been gone, an entire month. No rescue, no contact, just Nikola, and lotion, for a month. And of course, The Beholding once again proves itself to be utterly useless.
If Jon's mouth is gagged, he's utterly useless too.
Maybe he should ask Daisy to teach him how to- how to what? Punch a doll in the face? He shakes his head and puts his face in his hands. What did Georgie think- would any of them have even told her?
No, of course not.
There's a rotary phone on the kitchen counter, and if the clock is to be believed, it's nearing six, sometimes Georgie got up at six. She was going to kill him but looking at his options it really is the best way for him to go at this point.
He dials, and it rings for a few seconds before she picks up the phone.
“Georgie?”
“...Jon?”
She yells at him before he can explain the situation, and then it sounds like she's on the verge of tears with an apology. He tells her he'll come to visit today before going to tell his good for nothing boss a few words.
He doesn't mention the house.
Helen wanders over at some point, makes a show of bending its neck at everything in the kitchen before settling for staring at him.
He gives Georgie one last apology and hangs up the phone.
“Three favors.” He says with a long drawn out sigh. “I paid you back for one already.”
Jon watches as it lifts it's hand and nudges Jon's old wrist scar.
“You did.”
“I... did.” He closes his eyes, and it's as if the weight of the past month hits him all at once. He's never been this tired in his life. “Are we just going to go back and forth trading favors?”
“It seems like a perfectly good way to exist, don't you think?”
“Rather transactional.”
“Nothing wrong with transactional, I think.” Jon nods, slowly. Sure. At this point at least it gets things done. As long as he doesn't think about it as prostituting himself to a Power for future life-threatening events to be mitigated he could probably get behind it.
“Do you want something else? I think I might fall over where I stand.” It smiles, and Jon regrets asking. He thinks he might finally be learning the differences between smiles of self-interest and smiles of malignance.
It looks like it wants to ask for something but it stops itself. A small shake of the head and it takes one more look around the room.
“Good night, Archivist.”
And then Jon is alone.
When he comes downstairs from his nap, Helen's shoes are gone from the doorway.
…
Sleepless night after sleepless night after sleepless night coupled with what feels like withdrawal symptoms and an uncomfortable hotel bed in foreign soil must finally drive him mad because Michael, very definitely dead Michael, is standing on top of his bed, staring down at Jon in his dirty boots, with his messy blonde hair and his long, dangerous fingers just like he did in his old bedroom.
“Hello, Archivist. Been a while.”
For a moment he's paralyzed by fear. And then by confusion.
“Aren't you dead? Twice? Twice dead?”
“Well. It's all relative, isn't it? Alive, dead, whatever state you're in right now.”
“But Helen-”
“I'm not Helen right now, am I, Archivist?” There's the vicious smile he's used to, all teeth and sharp angles and now what he knows is malice. “It's just you and me and your little recorder and all of the favors you owe me. Isn't that nice? Isn't that fun, Archivist?”
“I-”
“You've missed me, haven't you? I know I missed you.” It drops with a bounce on to the mattress, knees on either side of him.
“Michael- I-I don't understand? You-” Burned? Died? Extinguished, maybe?
“I'm the Liar, Archivist. Do try and keep up.” The palms of its hands press his shoulders flat into the mattress, and Jon can't run. Not like he would- or that he ever could. Teleporting doors and all.
“You tried to kill me.”
“But I didn't.”
“Not for lack of trying.”
With a sharp twist, two fingers rest on both of his cheeks, nails only a few centimeters from his eyes.
“But I didn't.” It repeats slowly. Steadily. And again, Jon feels fear deep in his gut that more then overpowers any shivering sickness that might be growing in him.
“You didn't.” He relents. There's no reason to agitate it any further than he already has. Hair trigger, it seems. “You didn't-so-”
“Archivist.” It says and lays flat against Jon again, face pressing against his own.
“M-Michael.” He says quietly.
“Open me again. I'm letting you. I trust you, Archivist.”
“You tried to-” Jon doesn't know what to say or what to do so instead he asks, with everything he can muster. “Where did you go?”
Michael shudders against him, full body tremors that almost border on a seizure. It's nauseating, but there's been no twisting laugher. Not yet at least.
“Oh, I've missed you, Archivist. My Archivist. My Archivist and nothing else's.” Jon's face burns in an instant. “Don't argue, Archivist. I know what's best.” He wasn't planning on it. He's more than content to sit here and have it. Jon isn't sure if it's the fever or the fear or-or something else but here he is- under it again. At its mercy. “Where you belong.” It says glides a hand down his bare chest.
At least he has a pair of trousers on this time.
“Michael.” It's barely a breath, and Michael's hand digs into his side. Jon grits his teeth and tries to keep the scream in. Five fingers- knives- sharp stones and nonhuman skin- stick between his ribs and Jon can't even bring himself to sit up. They scrape against his bones, and Jon feels it in his teeth. They've probably perforated his lung.
It hurts less then he thought it would. He tries to crane his neck down to look, to see crimson seeping into the sheets but Michael moves to get in the way every time.
“Shh- Archivist. Sit still.”
“Thought-” It's not that hard to breathe, should be harder- maybe it's the adrenaline- “Thought you weren't killing me-”
“Who lied to you about that?”
And finally, finally, finally, there it is.
Twisting laughter, like coming from his own mouth. He feels something warm on his neck. Jon wouldn't be surprised if it ruptured his eardrums.
Michael is so casual in his violence, so indifferent in his destruction of the Archivist that Jon is rather put off by the entire thing. Some inherent sense of wrongness- of this-is-not-what-it-is- that all of this must be-
Michael's other hand shoves through the other side of his rib cage. Jon thinks he can feel elastic leather skin against his heart. Jon's face feels wet. Blood or tears- he can't tell- he can't know what's going on-
“Mi-”
“Shh, Archivist. I've got you. You believe me, don't you?”
No.
Jon nods his head, and Michael slowly pulls its hands out of Jon's chest. His entire body sags flat on the mattress, and Michael smiles all of his teeth at him. The room goes dark- how- why- and Michael's hair hides the rest of the world from him.
Not as long as Helen's- not dark- not-
Its mouth is on him, and Jon kisses back immediately- like he's starving for it- what is he doing what is going on- and feels something sharp prick at his tongue. He doesn't even have to imagine what it is- he's just glad it's not being bit off.
Michael pulls back, and smiles and smiles and smiles and Jon stares up at him in awe. He's never had it sink in before that this is the face of a god.
“Your god.”
Of course. No one else cared for him. Even countries apart, It's still the only thing that bothers enough to check in, to come find him and care for him through his fever.
“I-”
“Mm?”
“I remember what you told me- last time.”
The smile twists beyond its ears now.
“It's true,” Michael tells him, and Jon believes it, drinks it in like its gospel. “Nothing loves you like I do.” Jon gasps when its hands cradle his face, sharp skin bisecting soft- no warmth no red no wet- “Say it.”
“N-Nothing- Nothing loves me like you do- Michael-”
“That's a good boy.” Something sharp digs into his sides even with Michael's hands on his face. He can only see familiar long black legs from the corner of his eye. “Always have been a good boy, haven't you?”
There's a door opening and closing somewhere. Knocking and closing and opening and screaming.
“Michael- what-”
“Only me. Only me and you and nothing and no one else. Right, Archivist?”
“Yeah- yeah.” And still the clattering behind him in the dark. Behind him? There's a wall behind him- the lights were on- something- “Only me.”
“And me. What am I, Archivist?”
“Liar.”
“And?”
“Distortion.”
“....And?”
“Spiral.” The room goes still- silent and empty. Michael's golden hair glows in the light of itself. “Whose are you, Archivist?”
Jon doesn't want to say the word.
“Yours.”
“What a good boy.” It leans down and kisses him again, sharp and angled. Jon feels the loving exultation of a god on his mouth. There's no reverberation in Michael's voice anymore. Was there ever any?
“Are we going to-” He trails off and Michael gives him another monstrous smile.
“Whatever you want, Archivist. Whatever you want.”
He doesn't know what he wants. Love, maybe? He's heard other avatars harp on and on and on about how much their gods loved them. Yes- love. He wants it more then he can breathe. To finally be included in a way only something powerful can include him. To finally know his meaning- no questions- no obfuscations- no pipes and guns and lies from a man who uses him like he's just a tool. His world is nothing but the Twisting Deceit now.
And Jon is perfectly fine with that.
He's glad he thought ahead enough to get naked- he wasn't he was dressed he was- so that his wonderful loving god didn't have to do any work.
What work would it have even been- his clothes would have been ribbons in seconds- how strong his god is.
The room is still, and quiet, and Michael glows and smiles and laughs, and Jon bleeds and sweats and yearns.
Its hands dig into his arms, run him through, and he's more than content to stare up where he's pinned and marvel. Its eyes are like glass and Jon is beautiful in their reflection. He's never felt like this before in all the years of his existence, and he has never felt like this before.
None of this feels real.
Michael's cock is in him almost instantly, and Jon throws his head back, not daring to take his eyes off of Michael's face for even a moment. He's hard, leaking by the time Michael's hips start moving against his, it's hands gripping tighter and tighter.
“Talk for me, Jon.”
Jon talks- compels like its as natural as talking, as blinking, as breathing, as thinking and
There is a longing in its touches, fingers grazing his chest, soft and kind and loving and
He's hot beyond measure, and there's a tightness in his gut that he hasn't felt in ages not since college and
Its face is in Jon's neck, and its body is seizing on top of him and Jon talks. He talks and spirals and lies and
What?
There is no reverb in its voice- no pain in his side- no blood anywhere on the white hotel sheets-
Does it even know his fucking name?
...
Jon wakes with a start and lurches out of bed in a desperate attempt to make it to the bathroom before he throws up all over himself.
When he's done retching, dry heaving the dinner he couldn't have eaten because he had a fever- from- what- from distance withdrawal- statement withdrawal? His mind slowly comes back to him. He stares into the mirror and feels sick all over again. He settles on washing his face and getting into the shower to get all of the sweat off instead.
The fever breaks sometime in the shower, and he can finally breathe deeply enough to actually calm down.
There are no scars- so just a nightmare then. That's all. That's all it was. No scars probably means nothing forced him to have that- other than the fever at least.
He has nightmares every day so why did this one shake him this much?
It was all a bit too involved, maybe.
The room is cold, and despite himself, he pulls the blanket off of the second bed and onto his own. Jon turns in on himself. Alone again. Something about the nightmare stays with him even if the details start blurring away.
Good to know at least some part of him is still aware that distortion could stab and kill him.
He starts shivering again, too hot and too cold all at once. The lights in the room are still on, but he's not trying to stay awake anymore. He wants to- wants to what? Relive that again?
With how bad the shaking is getting Jon doubts he'll be sleeping any time soon.
His laptop is on the table, and Jon absolutely does not have the energy to get up and get to it. The remote on the nightstand is closer and after what feels like a solid minute of inching he turns on the tv. Count of Monte Cristo- some old black and white version that Jon could stare at until he tricked himself into feeling better.
Maybe he should call Georgie- but then with the time difference.
Maybe he should call Elias and ask him what was wrong with him now.
Maybe he should yell until the Distortion comes and explains why it does anything at all.
…
After another kidnapping, after Gerard and the page he still hasn't burned, after the plastic explosives, and questions and irritations and anxiety, he doesn't even remember to ask Helen about the dream that horrified him into a week of insomnia.