Chapter Text
The employees of the Magnus Institute have grown accustomed to Michael—or at least, the thing that calls itself “Michael”—showing up whenever it pleases. None of them are necessarily comfortable with its presence, but at this point, everyone has accepted that there’s no way to get rid of it once it’s decided to stick around. So they let it stay for however long it insists upon, trying to ignore it as it stares at them and follows them each around through their workday with no clear motive whatsoever. It’s been going about this routine for a few weeks now, and hasn’t posed any real threat throughout that time. Some days, it speaks. Some days, it doesn’t. There’s no discernible distinction between the days it does and the days it does not.
All Jon knows is that tonight... is a very talkative night for Michael. That is, it won’t stop talking. And for some god awful reason, it’s chosen Jon as its conversational partner of the night. It seems to have no regard for social cues, and the little hints Jon makes that he would like for the talking to stop haven’t gotten through. The eventually blunt requests for it to be quiet aren’t doing the job, either. Jon can feel the headache pounding against his skull. His brain feels like it’s been jabbed by a thousand little needles, as if it’s nothing more than a fleshy pincushion. It is too damn late in the night for this, and Jon needs Michael to shut up.
“You know, Archivist, I hear a lot of talk about arthritis. It sounds like a terrible affliction, especially to someone like myself. Could you imagine?” it says, stretching out its long, sharp fingers as if to give an assisting visual. It lets its bulbous hands rest in their usual spot when Jon simply continues to shuffle through statements, silently organizing them to be recorded by none other than himself. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll begin developing it early? It is my understanding that overuse of one’s joints only accelerates the process.”
Jon doesn’t respond. It’s like he didn’t even hear Michael. He maintains this stone-cold poker face as Michael continues on, listing off the symptoms of arthritis, along with its causes. Jon is listening, though he doesn’t let on. Truthfully, he does already exhibit a few of the symptoms. Michael goes way too in-depth about the treatments offered for the illness, all while Jon pays him no mind.
There is quiet for a moment. For this one, gorgeous moment, Jon thinks that the silent treatment worked, and wonders why he didn’t just try this earlier. Then, there is a creak on his desk. He doesn’t dare look. He doesn’t do anything, at risk of encouraging this behavior.
A few creaks follow the original, and as Michael’s thin frame comes into Jon’s field of vision, he realizes it’s slowly scooting itself nearer to him. It’s not talking anymore, but Jon wonders to himself now if this new development is better or worse.
When Michael is close enough that it’s obscuring Jon’s reading light, he decides that this is worse. He takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes and feeling the pain settle in his head. He gives a sigh and opens his eyes to look up at Michael, who is looming over him and staring with wide, swirling eyes. They seem to glow in the dimness of the room, both a neon blue that seems much too bright to be a real eye color. Generously speaking, this thing resembles a human. At first glance, you might even be tricked into thinking it is one. But upon further inspection, no matter what feature you choose to focus upon, there is always something wrong. Something... off. Uncanny. Jon forces himself to continue to look. The way Michael’s blond hair seems to never endingly swirl around as if it’s a living part of its body doesn’t do any good for Jon’s headache. It reminds him of the way a lizard’s tail continues to curl and twitch even after being torn from the rest of the body.
It’s dark in the Archives, hence the reading light that Michael is currently rendering pointless, and Jon is oh-so-tired. He works so hard every day and gets substantially less out of it than he puts in. Undeniably, he is a good Archivist. Everyone knows this. He deserves to rest. His eyes, droopy from this all-work and no-play lifestyle, trace over Michael. All of Michael. Jon realizes that he’s never actually gotten that good of a look at this creature. After all, why would he? Why is he?
A noise that would have been a cough, if it didn’t sound like crackling static, seems to tug at Jon’s attention. He looks back up at Michael’s face—the apparent source of this sound—and takes notice of how blurry it has become. Hm... When did his glasses come off? Did he do that, or did Michael?
Jon supposes the answer isn’t important as he finds himself entranced by the swirling spirals of what must be Michael’s equivalent of irises. He has a hazy curiosity about how Michael even sees out of eyes such as its own, but it’s a half-baked afterthought that isn’t able to reach his lips before his head has grown too heavy for his neck to support. Gravity pulls it down, and luckily for Jon, there’s a pillow there to keep his head from thudding against the hard wood of his desk. He is asleep before his face can even properly sink into the soft material.
Since when did he keep a pillow in his office...?