Chapter Text
"Michael?"
No answer.
"Michael."
Still no answer. He'll try one more time, then give up. It was a bad idea anyway.
"Michael, I want to ask you a favour."
No answer.
Jon sighed and got up, resigned, when he heard the creak of a door. It came from a door next to his own, sickly yellow and old wood. Michael stepped out, a very curious look on his face. As far as Michael would have guessed, the Archivist would have done everything in his power to not let him into his home. He hadn't been there in a long while, chosing the safety of the Institute over the small apartment that was collecting dust by the second.
He seemed to be in the Archivist's bedroom. It was clean, plain and untouched for weeks, except for the bed covers where Jon had been sitting while waiting. It was evening, the sky outside the window going darker and darker shades.
"Hello, Archivist!" Michael said, deeply curious of what was happening.
"Yes, uh, hello..." Jon said. He didn't really expect Michael to answer. Michael loved to mess with him (he would have been tempted to think Michael had a crush on him if he were not, you know, a monster with no remorse), but Jon didn't think he'd come when called. This meant it was too late to back out now.
"What favour would you like to ask of me?"
"Yes, the favour..." Jon said, avoiding Michael's eyes, not just because they were hard to look at in general. The Archivist looked hesitant. Embarrassed, somehow. Michael was very curious. "Michael..."
"Yes, Archivist?" He asked, smiling.
"... I want you..."
"Yes?"
"...To stab me again."
"What?"
Jon grabbed his own hair and groaned. What the fuck was he thinking, why did he think it was a good idea in any way?
His idea was, to put it plainly, to stab himself. Brilliant, isn't it?
“Alright!”
“Huh?”
“I'll do it!”
“...Really?”
“Sure!”
“Oh...”
“Come here.”
“W-Wait! Hold on!”
Jon backed away too much and too fast, and the back of his knees hit his bed and he fell on his butt. Michael was looming over him even more. “Let me finish, first.” Jon said, using his stern voice.
“... Alright.” Michael said, thoroughly amused.
“I want you to cut the skin on my back. On my back only. Not so much as to kill me. It will heal, so I doubt you can do it anymore.” Jon noticed Michael's brow twitch a little. “I want you to leave scars, if you can.”
“And what do I get in exchange, Archivist?”
“You get to hurt me.”
“... Deal.”
Michael took a seat next to Jon and Jon unintentionally backed away.
“You're the one who asked for this.” Michael said, tilting his head. “You are awfully indecisive.”
“Well, you're not exactly the most trustworthy being out there.” Jon said.
“Why would you not trust me, Archivist? I have helped you before, haven't I?”
“You've also stabbed me for fun and been cryptic as all hell.”
“It is stabbing you ask of me! If you do not trust me, then why did you ask me, of all beings out there, to help you? I'm sure there are plenty of others out there that would stab you in the back before you finished proposing it to them, and they are much less awful than I am.”
“Well... you are not the worst.”
Michael stared at him. “How can you be so sure of that?”
“You had every chance to kill me since you arrived. But you didn't and you even let me talk.”
Michael didn't say anything, neither confirming or denying, only smiling at Jon, eyes slightly crinkled.
“So,” Michael started, “how I am to cut you if you do not trust me?”
“Um, I...”
“Prove you can trust me? Somehow?”
“I-I don't know!” Jon did not think this through.
“What would soothe your nerves?”
“Knowing that your... freaking... 'knife' hands don't slice everything they get near, maybe! Can you even do that?”
“Not slice?”
“Y-Yeah, on purpose.”
“Let's find out!”
Jon gasped and made to say “wait”, when the tip of one of Michael's long, horrible fingers tapped the corner of his eye, then slowly, smoothly slid across his cheek all the way to his jaw. It did not cut him, but Jon could feel the line it traced and left behind. Jon was shut up immediately, his breath stopped in his throat. Like grabbing a kitten by the back of its neck, Michael thought and smiled. Jon remembered to breathe and let out a shaky exhale. Michael continued, dragging the blade along his jawline, underneath his chin. It went back up his jaw, underneath his ear, then down, down, to the middle of Jon's neck, where Michael slowly moved it across, over each tendon and Adam's apple, to the other side. Jon did not hold his breath and looked right at Michael, who looked like he was enjoying himself.
“Very good.” He said and Jon felt his face grow warm.
“Okay... You've convinced me.”
“A little more.” He said, scooting closer. He pulled his hair behind his ears and cupped his face.
Jon furrowed his brows.
“Relax, okay, Archivist?” Michael said, stroking his cheeks.
Jon took a deep breath and sighed, closing his eyes.
Michael’s hands were long and very sharp. They scratched his cheeks, his cheekbones, his jawline, his ears, even if he tried to be gentle. He traced the apples of his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the arches of his eyebrows, the shape of them, his temples. They stroke the scars on Jon's face, felt the dips and injured skin. Jon sighed again, unconsciously leaning forward into his hands. They lightly stroked his eyelids and Jon felt a lump in his throat. They returned to his eyebrows and then his temples, brushing back hair and cradling his face. Jon's lips were parted and he thought he felt the lightest peck on them. He opened her eyes with no little effort. Michael looked so serene and content. He stroked a thumb over Jon's lip.
He pushed his finger against the middle of the lip and Jon could feel the skin about to break. Jon felt his heart beat faster as he looked Michael in the eyes, and then felt the sting of the cut radiating in his entire lip. Jon's eyes glossed over. A drop of blood rolled inside his mouth, on his tongue.
“Very good...” Michael cooed, licking his finger clean.
Jon straightened his back and took off his shirt, his heart pounding. His body was skinny and gangly, a mess of scars and green bruises yet to go away completely. He hated his scars. They were marks of all the beings that wanted him dead, all the times his life was put in danger, all the times he was afraid. They were marks of all the times something outside of his control happened, all the times he had no say in his own destiny, he was in the control of things that wanted him to suffer and got it. Jon was small and weak, he did not understand what was happening, he had no control over his own life. He hated that. He hated it, he was sick and tired of it, he wanted to scream and cry and get away and punch and bite and scar back, but couldn't.
He wanted control, wanted to decide for himself, knowing 100% it was him and not something or someone luring him in a trap, in another scheme. Jon wanted control over his own being, even if all that could be was pain and more scars. So be it. He'll claim back what all those monsters and evil gods and awful people used against him. He'll cover their scars with his own, by his own volition, by his own choice, and revel in them, wear them proudly, ache knowing it was just him, only him, and not another menace that did this. He'll be cut and sliced and stabbed and beaten and bit and bruised and broken because he said so and no one else.
Jon was breathing heavily and his eyes were not all there. He lost it. He lost it a long time ago. Michael smiled wider.
“Come…” He said, lying against the bed frame and urging Jon to do the same, hand still on his cheek.
Jon crawled into Michael's arms, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burying his head in the crook of his neck, cheek to cheek. Michael's hair tickled his nose. Jon shivered and keened and Michael dragged his fingers across his back in random patterns, only scratching and teasing. He pressed closer, flat against him. Michael smelled of cold air, as if it was winter.
Michael brought both of his hands to the back of Jon's shoulders. “I'm going to do it.” He said in Jon's ear. He sounded equally excited.
“Go.” Jon said, taking a deep breath while smiling. He felt one of Michael's hands move to the small of his back and the other being raised off him. He tried to anticipate it, snuggling closer, as he felt the tip of a finger press near one of his armpits.
Jon let out a strangled cry as the blade cut into skin, far deeper than his lip, and it was dragged, slow and steady, over both shoulder-blades. He gnashed his teeth and writhed. He felt it brush his bones. The pain muted everything else and Michael moved so agonisingly slow. The way to the other side of his back felt far too long. Only when it stopped and Michael removed his finger did he notice the feeling of blood dripping down his back.
“Very good, Archivist.” Michael laughed softly. “I expected you to tell me to stop!”
Jon panted and babbled something in response.
“Do you want more?” Michael asked, lips against his ear.
Jon nodded.
Michael drew another straight cut, very much the same way, but lower. God, was it Jon who just made that sound? The two cuts were already closing up. Michael cut diagonally, across the first two, opening them back. Jon bit into the fabric of his shoulder to muffle himself, but only made himself sound more obscene.
“You're shaking like a leaf,” Michael said, drawing another straight line, “but you're not moving away at all. It's fascinating, you know?” He followed the line of his spine and Jon's voice cracked. “To ignore the primal instinct of avoiding pain. To actively put yourself in the hands of danger. You look mad, Archivist. Is this another one of your ingenious solutions to your problems?”
“Suh... s-sort off...” Jon rasped out. It hurt to breathe, to move his body. He couldn't help himself laugh at the idea of explaining it like that. “Hah... ha-hah...” Everything was so silly and unreal. Jon's plan didn't make any sense. Nothing did! Everything was backwards! Pain shouldn't feel so good!
Michael laughed back and Jon felt the sound ring in his skull, cover the feeling of his heartbeat, choke him, make his wounds throb. Jon laughed and laughed, inbetween pants and gasps. Wow, he really lost it, didn't he? Michael rewarded him with more cuts and Jon's laugh dissolved into slurred giggles.
Jon woke up with his face in Michael’s hair. He was atop of Michael, his arms around his head, Michael's face on the crook of his neck and his arms around his waist. Jon's entire body hurt, he felt weak and his skin felt dirty. There was a small space between his cheek and Michael's temple that allowed him breathe. Michael seemed fast asleep. He was breathing slowly and deeply, gently rocking Jon with the rise of his chest, snoring a little into his shoulder. Jon was wide awake. His eyes could open without any resistance and his mind was clear. It has been so long since he got a good rest that it surprised him. He opened his eyes and at first he thought he was deeper into his hair than he guessed. Then it hit him that it was dark in the room. It was night.
Jon's eyes opened wider and darted around. How long had they been lying like that? He couldn't remember falling asleep. Did he pass out? The last thing he could remember was... well, being in pain (and enjoying it more than he should). Trying to pry deeper made his heart race and his face burn. The room reeked of blood. Maybe he fell unconscious from the combination of pain and blood loss. That's... not good. But then... Michael was still holding him. And Jon was calm and relaxed. He felt rested. He didn’t have a single dream.
He was careful to stay quiet and not wake Michael up. His cuts felt healed and washing could wait. It felt good to lie in his arms. His body was stiff and his arms were heavy. He squeezed Jon a little bit with every breath. At one point he shifted and wrapped his arms tighter, exhaling what sounded like a throaty growl against his neck. Jon bit his lips, remembering more things, including the cut on his mouth. It shouldn’t have felt so good. His heart had no reason to flutter in delight like that.
Michael's breathing changed and his eyes opened. Jon felt his eyelashes against his neck.
“Archivist...” He whispered and Jon blushed despite himself. “Are you awake?”
Jon hummed that yes, he was.
Michael sighed content, rubbing his back. Jon stifled a whimper without much success.
“Hmm... My handiwork is mostly gone.” Michael said. “But your body remembers being battered.”
“Y-Yeah...” Jon said, ragged and feeling like he should like to cough. His throat hurt, as it does after using your voice too much and too loud. “Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Did I pass out or...?”
“Ah, yes. I cut your back, as you asked of me. Your skin was stubborn, it kept growing back. It took a while to make some of them stick. It looked so beautiful before that. It looked like you had been flogged with 50 lashes!”
Jon tried really hard not to shudder at that mental image.
“You, Archivist, were equally lovely. I don't think you would have known how to tell me your name, had I asked. All you knew and could think about was more pain. You went truly mad!” Michael laughed, thrilled. “You were sliding off of me and the blood helped you, but you continued to ask me all sorts of things-”
“W-What?!”
“I couldn't parse what you were saying too well, but I'm pretty sure you asked me to gouge your eyes out and to slit your throat. You even showed me the scar that hunter left you as a guideline.”
“Oh-okay, that's enough. Thank you.”
“ 'More! More!' you said, like a spoiled brat. Like you were trying to seduce me.”
“I said that's enough!” Jon said and made himself hack into Michael's hair with the force of it.
“I'm not surprised.” Michael said, moving a hand to pet the back of his neck. “The way you moaned and sobbed, I'm surprised you have any voice left at all.”
Jesus fucking Chirst, why did he have to use the word “moan”?!
“I, uh,... Thank you, Michael...” Jon decided to say.
“You're welcome, Archivist.” Michael said, sighing content.
Both of them stood quiet. Michael made no move to let him go.
“Um... You... can let me go now. You can leave.”
“And leave you like this?”
“I can wash myself.”
“It's hard to reach your back. For you, at least.”
Jon didn't say anything. Michael was hard to understand. Jon thought there might be something human left in Michael that didn't let him just leave Jon in the messy state he was. Jon found himself smiling and feeling tender.
“Alright...” Jon said and moved his arms from under Michael so he could push himself up. He immediately regretted it and fell back on Michael, cursing out. Michael laughed at him. Jon felt him slid away from under him and walk out Jon's door. Great, now Michael's snooping around his old apartment.
Jon listened to his steps around the hallway. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for something to help you wash.”
“Do you know what you need?”
“... No.”
With a lot of difficulty, Jon was manoeuvred into the bathroom and inside the tub. He brought spare clothes and he is not taking his pants off in front of Michael. Before climbing in the tub, Jon looked at his back in the mirror and his eyes went wide. His back was mostly healed, but still had five dark, deep gashes starting from his shoulder blades to the small of his back, beneath a thick layer of dry blood. His back was a disaster, that he authorized. Jon's chest felt tight and a smile crept on his lips.
The shower head sputtered a couple of times before spraying water out properly. Jon told Michael to let it flow for a few seconds until the water was clean. Jon wasn't sure of the last time he stayed in his apartment, thus when he last used anything in it. The Archives became his new home. Jon was brought back from his thoughts by freezing cold water on his back, that made him yelp and jump.
“Sorry.” Michael said.
Jon sighed and bared the cold water. He felt the dry blood come off in sheets. Eww. The water felt a little soothing on his new scars. They were soft and raw to the touch, but formed, like they had happened weeks, if not months ago, not a few hours ago. Michael stroked his back with the same gentleness he touched his face and Jon relaxed, placing his chin on his knees and closing his eyes.
“I think it's done!” Michael said and Jon woke up again.
“Thank you.” Jon said, drowsy.
When Jon returned to the bedroom, the stench almost made him vomit. Jon picked the bag with spare clothes and quickly went to the living room. Michael watched him and followed him in silence. Jon glared at him, blushing furiously, and Michael sat in the doorway with his back turned to him. Jon sighed and quickly got dressed, throwing his wet pants somewhere in a corner. He had already dragged water everywhere, not to mention what happened in the bedroom. He wasn't going to return to the apartment, maybe ever. It's not his problem anymore.
Jon sat heavily on the couch. He closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts and opened them when he felt Michael sit beside him. Jon assured him he will go back to the Institute in a moment and sleep there, in safety, but he didn't protest when Michael pulled him down on top of him again. He fell back asleep quickly, hugging Michael, feeling his mouth against his hairline and his arms crossing over his waist. Jon hadn't felt so at peace in a long time. Michael wasn't so scary anymore. Take that, Spiral.
Jon hissed as he took his coat off and draped it over his desk-chair. His back felt as thought he tried to impersonate a pretzel in his sleep. The night he spent with Michael was a Friday and it felt that way throughout the entire weekend. Saturday morning, as the sun was rising, he felt Michael set him on the couch after he got out himself and then leave through his door. He heard it click shut. He wondered if Michael was aware he woke up because of him and awake to feel him kiss Jon on the forehead.
Jon smiled to himself and tried to hide it, but only smiled wider. He still couldn't think of that night without breathing shakily. He tried to think of reasons to propose doing it again, more for himself than for Michael, who would happily oblige.
“Jon!” Basira said as she came quickly in his office.
“Basira?”
“Isn't this your address?” She said as she showed him her phone. On it was displayed a news site where one of the articles was about an apartment that was found with the bed covered in blood. It talked about the inexplicable gore filling the room, then about how discarded clothes were thrown about. One of the elderly neighbours (oh no, not Mrs Gibs) gave an interview where she vaguely recalled hearing screaming during that evening, but she thought it came from outside, because the lad living upstairs hadn't been around in weeks, until the other neighbours pointed out to her that nothing happened outside on back then.
“Y-Yes, t-that's mine!” Jon said, face burning so hard it felt like it was going to crack. He thanked every and any God out there for Basira taking his flustering for fear and concern.
“This is bad.” She said, taking her phone back in front of her. “I have no idea what they might have tried to do, but it's definitely bad.”
“Y-Yeah-”
“If they know your old address, they surely know mine too! And Daisy's!!”
“That's bad!”
“I'll go warn her and the others. God, will we ever catch a break?”
Basira left, refreshing the page to see if anything new was found out. Jon put his head in his hands, dying of embarrassment. This is so bad. He'll call Michael again, but to get rid of evidence.