Hello. So sorry for disappearing for a while but- well- you know how it is. You start a book and you think it's going well, but halfway through a chapter you get stuck and convince yourself you should rewrite the whole thing. Then you tell yourself to take a break, and during that time away you somehow persuade yourself that the entire book is no good and you should rewrite it. Except that you've already posted the first four chapter and it would be so much work.

And then I just reread this thing and realized it was absolutely fine and I was just overreacting.

No big deal.

I realize I haven't been much for interacting with you guys through these author's notes, which is because I'm usually pretty tired after editing an entire chapter so that I've got nothing left to say.

Which is why this is coming to you before the editing.

And I also realize this note has gotten long enough so- uh- see you at the end, hope you like chapter 5.

-

"You would really think that after all this time, you'd have learned how to behave."

Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Meeting his eyes always makes it worse.

"But no." Elias let's out an exasperated sigh, one hand finding its way under your chin, "You insist on meddling."

When he wrenches your face up, you find that it's an exercise in control to keep your hands gripping the armrests of the chair. You want to squirm out of his grip, you want to run away from here as fast as you can.

But you can't.

His eyes scan your face and you watch as a slow smile blooms on his lips. He's pleased, pleased that you're afraid. Pleased that you're afraid of him.

"Hmmm. I was satisfied with our pace of one statement a week, but I think you can take one more today, can't you? After all, if you have the energy to be a nuisance, then I think you can stand to feed one more statement to our god."

You can't. You can't you can't you can't you can't you can't-

The grip on your chin becomes bruising.

You're in shadowy security room. You're afraid. You watch as every security camera focuses on you.

You're afraid. 

-

"-Woah!" You manage to swerve out of Martin's way at the very last second, careful not to drop the stack of files in your arms as he fumbles with the tape recorder he was carrying.

Sorry.

Martin sees you sign and smiles. "'S alright, just didn't see you coming around the corner." His eyebrows furrow slightly in concern, "Wow, are you okay? I just- I mean- you look... tired."

Well. That's one word for it. 

(You run around the corners of buildings- there's something watching you- you run from the hunter-monster on your tail- there's something watching you- you trip and fall to your knees, the thing chasing you pinning you beneath it a second later- there's something watching you)

They're just nightmares.

You shrug. Sign, I'm fine.

Both you and Martin only know a limited amount of sign, but at least it's something not to have to pull your phone out for once.

"If you're sure then... are you heading out?"

Must've been the jacket that gave you away. The basement is always slightly warmer then upstairs and you guys usually don't have to wear too many layers even in the winter season. You nod again and hitch a thumb over your shoulder.

"Right- right, well, stay safe- I guess. Maybe check in a few hours?"

You give a thumbs up and continue on your way.

-

Jon is waiting for you. This particular cafe is one of the quieter ones, which certainly has its advantages when it comes to a man supposedly wanted for murder simply trying to meet up with company. You're purpose here was more as a messenger, and certainly, thinking of the situation in such terms was far more exciting than thinking yourself to be Elias's errand runner. 

Jon is of course seated in the back, looking significantly worse since the last time you saw him. For one thing, he looks sicklier, curled in on himself like a wounded animal and contemplating the meaning of existence itself in the reflection of his coffee. A loose hoodie hangs from his frame, clearly not his, maybe Georgie's going by the cartoon ghost printed in the front with a speech bubble that exclaimed 'What the Ghost!'.

Hey- and wasn't this a thought- maybe you could give What the Ghost a listen. There had to be some upsides to being in this godawful situation, right? 

Not for the first time, you wished Magnus Archives hadn't been one of those fandoms where every fan agreed that the trope of, 'character wakes up in their favorite show's was a terrible idea, mostly for the sake of the character themselves. You could now attest to that. It was horrible. Of every anime you've watched and show you've consumed and podcast you've listened to, why did it have to be this one that upturned your life? 

Somewhere out there, someone was cackling at your misfortune. With your excellent luck, it was probably the Dread Powers themselves.

You slide into the seat opposite of Jon. He flinches, apparently having been far enough into his own musings that he hadn't noticed you at all until you were literally in front of him. You're happy to give him a moment to collect himself as you rummage through the satchel you've pulled into your lap for your deliveries.

"(F/n)."

Your eyes flicker up to look at Jon before returning back to the bag, noting how his spine is stiff with tension. You don't think you're that intimidating, to warrant this kind of watchfulness, but who knows? Maybe you've been underestimating yourself all along.

A stack of statements come out of the bag, which you slide towards Jon as your other hand reaches into your pocket, fishing for your phone. He barely spares them a glance before his attention returns to you, and you're abruptly reminded of how this is supposed to be the time when he's really starting to develop his Archivist powers. You can't pin point exactly why, but the thought sends an unpleasant feeling twisting through your gut.

You place the phone down flat on the table, the screen unlocked and the cursor blinking. You don't move to type anything just yet, instead opting to sit back and loosely placing both your hands on the table. In front of you, Jon purses his lips and his eyes narrow.

An unpleasant premonition churns in the back of your mind.

"It's been a while, hasn't it? Since we last saw each other."

That's true, you suppose. It's been a busy two weeks, with keeping up with Daisy, keeping tabs on Tim, warning Melanie. Pulling together research in hopes of directing these people in the right direction so there don't have to be any more unnecessary injuries in the name of knowledge. 

But also, it's not just Jude Perry's information that you're delivering, after all, which Elias thought was a fit enough punishment for the whole incident with Melanie (besides, of course, sitting in his office, living through nightmare after nightmare-). No, you've done your best in cobbling together as many statements as you could find that had very obviously common themes, words and phrases and explanations that could hopefully neatly overlap and hopefully, maybe, convince Jon that seeking avatars was, uh, a really bad idea? Maybe?

A person could hope.

"I recall your warnings before the whole incident." Jon carefully folds his hands over the table. "Remarkably, you were right."

You... don't really have much to say to that. You remember your hilariously abysmal excuses at explaining away the knowledge, and how Jon had rebuffed them with no hesitation, but it's not like you can tell him the truth you couldn't tell him then. So, you just shrug, hoping that whatever this is he'll let it go, and let you be on your way. You don't have much reason to stick around here, and just as many reasons to get this over with.

For one, you haven't seen Daisy in a week and are deeply afraid of being found here, with Jon. While you know its deeply selfish, you wouldn't mind if that particular encounter happens the way it did in canon. God knows you've had your fill of being hunted for sport.

For another reason, you also promised you'd get lunch with Tim, and after having tried to look out for him while simultaneously trying to give him space, you think you'd rather like to keep said promise.

But, here in this unassuming little cafe, Jon draws in a deep breath like he's trying to call upon some sort of strength, and says, "What I want to know, of course, is how you knew about the table."

The compulsion burns. 

It starts as a tiny itch, and amusedly you wonder how exactly he's going to pull this out of you when you're physically unable to speak, thanks to Elias. You might have expected it to go to your hands, maybe, like electricity on your finger tips that would only rest when you'd answered the question.

No. It's much, much, worse.

It starts off as an itch and blazes into a burn, until you can taste blood in the back of your throat. When you open your mouth, you think you might keen like a wounded animal, but instead it's just your voice. Your voice that speaks words, while your mind burns in pain. "I listened to the statements."

Jon is completely oblivious to your agony. You wouldn't even notice, except that he seems to have started on a roll and is determined to get answers out of you. "How did you know that the table was binding the creature disguised as Sasha?"

"Michael. Michael said it was binding the NotThem."

Jon frowns and you think it's a horrible thing, to be trapped in your own mind in shackles of pure pain, "Are you friends with Michael?"

"I would like to be. But I'm not."

"Then why would Michael warn you about the table?"

"He didn't."

"But you just said-" Jon frowns heavily, "You're talking nonsense." And then he looks at you and all at once, the compulsion falls away.

A high-pitched whimper escapes your mouth, a small mercy before your throat closes down once again. More than that, more than before, the noose that always hangs around your neck tightens ruthlessly, until you can't breathe at all. You're curled forward, hands scrabbling at your chest as you heave, a fruitless in and out motion because There. Is. No. Air.

Your hands are tearing, clawing at your neck and you can't breathe you can't breathe youcan'tbreathyoucan'tbreath-

You don't notice the hands pulling your own away from drawing anymore blood from your neck. You don't notice Jon speaking urgently at you, keeping you from tearing into yourself if only you could breathe again. You don't notice how the cafe goes abruptly quiet, even more so than before, because strange colors swirl in the air as a hand reaches out and rubs against your back and suddenly- you can-

Your lungs stutter heavily at being able to take in air again.

"It would do well for you to stay back, Archivist."

You're shivering, you realize, trembling so hard that it feels like you're going to shake right out of your skin. The hand on your back, impossibly long and impossibly sharp, continues to rub mindless fractals in no discernable patterns. It pulls you closer, until your head rests against a collar and the person who represents the impossible gives you the structure you need.

Your eyes remain squeezed shut, a childish sort of fear that says nothing can hurt you if you can't see it. But you think Jon might be standing a small distance way, sounding admirably worried for being the person to cause this mess. "Michael. I hadn't expected to meet like this."

"I suppose you didn't, did you? Feels terribly off putting, does it, to be the monster in this situation?"

Jon holds in a guilty breath and let's it out in one shaky exhale, his voice sounding terribly small, "I didn't mean to hurt anybody."

"And yet you did. You wanted answers, so you took them. And you continued to take them, until the spell fell away and you abruptly realized that there's always a price to pay, when it comes to things like this."

"Its fine Michael." Oh shit, your voice sounds terrible. You sound like someone strangled you, then did it again for good measure. Actually, yon second thought, that might not be too far from what happened.

Michael scoffs but it's Jon who vehemently voices both their apparent disagreements, "(F/n), it's not- that wasn't fine. I forced you to speak and you- you weren't breathing."

"I know. I was there for it." You grumble, "Wish I wasn't- but- well- you couldn't have known, alright? And if you had known, you wouldn't have done it."

"That's not-"

"Shut up. I just want to go home, alright? So shut up for one second and just- listen."

Michael let's out an amused breath and, interestingly enough, continues holding on to you. Out of everyone in this fucked up universe, you never expected Michael to be the monster who was so carefully tactile. "What just happened- it's- really not your fault- but!" You give Jon a stern look when he starts looking like he's thinking of interrupting you, "It's- it's just weird supernatural backlash. I- I can't explain it, and I don't want to try because- it's to do with why I can't talk, right? Outside of whenever- Michael cancels out the effects, I guess. But still- don't know what-" you cough roughly and have to swallow several times just to get speaking again, "What'll set me off. Just- don't compel me again. You can ask questions and I'll do my best to answer but don't- I know you won't do it on purpose again. Right?"

"I-I won't."

"It's just a bad situation I'm in." You blink tiredly, realizing that with the adrenaline wearing away you're frankly exhausted and you hurt, "It's- like being cursed and- when you compel me it triggers the bad bits."

"I understand." You give him a raised eyebrow, as if to say, do you? Do you understand when I don't even know what I'm saying anymore? Surprisingly, Jon seems to get that. "Well- not exactly- but it makes sense. In a weird sort of way. I don't- I don't know the details but it makes sense and that's all that matters right now."

"Thanks."

"Shall we be on our way, then?" You blink up slowly at Michael, who in return twists his lips in what almost seems like amusement, "I recall overhearing that you promised a certain Archival Assistant lunch."

You groan, "Oh God Tim. He's going to kill me."

"Yes."

"Ah." Jon awkwardly fiddles with the hem of the hoodie, looking terribly shy, "Is he doing alright?"

"He's fine. He's just... dealing with Sasha being gone."

"Yes."

You give Jon a tired look, "You should leave, Jon. We'll get in touch some other time, alright?"

"Yes, that-" he straightens up a bit, looking determined, "That's perfectly fine." Hesitantly, again, "I'm sorry again."

"S fine. Just- take care, next time."

Jon grimaces, "Hopefully, there won't be a next time."

"Goodbye Archivist." Michael says rather pointedly.

Jon makes quick work of gathering your research up into a neat pile and sticking the stack under his arm. He walks out of the distorted cafe without looking back and both Michael and you watch him leave without a word.

"We'll want a door, then."

-

"Please tell me I didn't just see you coming out of Fuck-hands McMike's door just now."

You collapse onto the seat in front of Tim with a shrug. A part of you already misses being able to speak, but the other part of you knows you wouldn't have been much good either way, not with how scraped-up-raw your throat feels. It's better to let it rest a while, anyways.

"Also, very important question that you should probably pull your phone out for, why is your neck wrapped up in bandages? Again?"

Your hands hesitate over the screen of your phone. On one hand, it's just another injury in the grand scheme of things, really, and not even your most gruesome one. On the other, Tim's looking like he's going to worry either way, no matter how you downplay it. You can't tell him how you got it exactly, since Tim doesn't know about you meeting Jon in the first place and he already dislikes him as it is. But- well- you were never going to be able to hide it, were you? Not when the white poking out of the collar of your neck is like some kind of beacon for an overly worried big brother types.

It was an accident.

"An accident by who, exactly? Always thought that Mike over there was more the stabbing kind."

Your eyebrows rise in surprise. Is it bad you hadn't even considered Tim thinking it would have been Michael who did this to you? Wasn't him. Ran into a different kind of trouble.

Tim gives you a skeptical look but at least he doesn't outright accuse you of lying, "...Right. And Knife-hands was giving you an exit?"

Yeah.

"Why do I not believe you?"

You roll your eyes. Michael hasn't hurt me yet.

"Yet. Right. You forget about him conveniently losing us all in his hallways? Or that time you had holes poked in your jaw?"

Oh boy. You don't really count those interactions, you know? The same part of you that insists that you don't trust Michael and that he isn't your friend is the part of you that knows asking for more from Michael is just an exercise in futility. It's not possible. There's no befriending the Spiral, or trusting it, or depending on it. It'll only let you down if you do. You know this, and you're grateful for whenever Michael shows up and gives you an easy solution to a problem, but you can't count on him. And it's fine. Its- it's what you'll have to live with, that's all.

Relatively tame compared to him never letting me out of his corridors.

Tim scowls, "Is that your frame of comparison? Cause that's- that's fucked up. You don't- you see how fucked up that is- right?"

You stare down at the table, not willing to answer. You know it's fucked up- of course you do. It's just-

You don't really care, do you? Or, correction, you can't afford to care.

Can we drop this?

"No? (F/n)-"

Please?

"Fine." Tim grounds out with some effort and you sag in your seat, relieved. "But this conversation isn't over, alright?"

You flap your hand as if dismissing the thought and reach for the menu, feeling incredibly like you could do with eating a whole buffet on your own. Your hand hovers over the laminated card, eyes snagged on Tim who suddenly looks incredibly tired, even more so than before. You think it's a terrible thing, how much this man can worry, and push the screen of your phone towards him as small olive branch:

You went to Malaysia, right? Tell me about that.

Tim lets out a tired huff, but none-the-less launches into recounting his trip.

-

Yes, hello again. So. Once upon a time, on AO3 this author said that they would update every Thursday and Sunday, but that turned out to be a big fat lie. I would love for that would to happen, believe you me, but I'm not used to writing long fics and-

You know what? That's all just excuses. I'm sorry. I really wanna try having a concrete update schedule but I'm very flaky so please be patient with me.

Also: If anyone is interested in beta-reading this for me, come message me on tumblr at @tma-more-like-suffering

Last thing before I sign off, while I still edit these on my own, I am obviously bound to miss things. That's why everyone is free to point out any grammatical errors they see, especially with tense because I struggle most in that area.

Signed,

Your Captain, Lynda