Work Text:
Gerry exhales a wreath of smoke, savouring the acrid burn in his lungs as he taps out the excess ash onto the roof tiles below him. In the corner of his vision, Michael watches unblinkingly. He half-turns, holds out the lit cigarette like an offering. Michael's hand brushes against his as it reaches out. Gerry still finds it an effort not to flinch away.
(He doesn't know, still, why Michael hasn't killed him yet. Half of him is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even now, he can't quite bring himself to fully let his guard down.)
Michael takes the cigarette from his hand with a gentleness that defies its own nature. There is violence in its restrained elegance, twisting under the surface of its skin like an unripe bruise. Gerry can't help but think it's beautiful.
He watches, enthralled, as it breathes out a twisting mass of smoke that ripples into endless fractals across the night sky. When he gathers the strength to tear his eyes away, he finds Michael watching him with thinly veiled curiosity. Its head tilts to the side, a mass of golden curls cascading over one shoulder. Like a predator eyeing its prey, his mind helpfully supplies. Gerry says nothing, but shifts warily in the fragile silence. It is Michael who speaks first.
"You seem uneasy, bookburner."
"Do I?"
It grins, wide and playful, shark's teeth gleaming.
"Uncertainty suits you, Gerard. You should reconsider our offer on becoming a part of It Is Not What It Is."
Something in his chest twists painfully.
"Call me Gerry."
It's an admission, not a denial, and they both know it. The air turns quiet, vulnerable. Neither of them can quite look at the other.
Gerry's boot taps out a staccato rhythm on the rooftop tiles. He is playing with fire, and he knows this. It does not stop him from speaking again.
"Michael?"
It flickers, in the corners of his vision. It's a gesture so human it could almost be called a shudder.
"Yes, Gerry?"
He takes a deep breath to settle his nerves.
"Why haven't you tried to kill me yet?"
Michael hums, low and musical.
"Seeking out death, are we, bookburner?"
He says nothing. Michael goes very, very still.
"I do not know, Gerry." It says carefully, choosing each word with uncharacteristic precision. "Perhaps it is a lingering fault of Michael, his humanity-" this spat from between gritted teeth, fingers like claws dug into roof tiles - "and perhaps not. What use is there in knowing?"
Gerry swallows and nods, relief and disappointment warring inside of him. He exhales deeply and leans back on his forearms, tilting his head up to consider the constellations. Michael's approach is so silent that he hardly notices when it settles itself on the roof next to him. A familiar buzz of static washes over him with the proximity. It's easy, too easy, to give in to the heady atmosphere surrounding the Distortion.
It feels like gaining freedom. It feels like losing control.
He tilts his head back to face Michael, who gazes down at him with an unreadable expression. Gerry's eyes flit to the cigarette still clutched in Michael's hand, almost burnt down to the filter. The flames dance around its knuckles in hues of violet and burning white. It follows his gaze, humming in apparent surprise before flicking the burnt end off of the rooftop inelegantly. Gerry has to stifle a snort.
He straightens into a more comfortable sitting position, one leg stretched out along the roof and the other tucked close to his chest. Michael looks at him expectantly, and he fishes for another cigarette from the packet beside him.
Gerry pauses with the cigarette halfway outstretched to Michael's waiting hand, struck by a sudden idea. It raises an eyebrow at him in silent question.
Before he can change his mind, he blurts out-
"Have you ever shotgunned a cigarette before?"
Its kaleidoscope eyes light up with recognition (and, he thinks, amusement). The hum of static in the background pitches up almost imperceptibly, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
"No."
Gerry can barely think over the pounding of his heart in his chest. It's too late to back out now.
"Would you like to?"
A grin stretches, slow and leisurely across its face. It leans forward to take the cigarette from his waiting hand - are there alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind, or is it just the music of the Distortion? - and carefully places it between sharpened teeth.
Gerry is reaching for the lighter he keeps in his pocket before his rational mind can catch up and stop him. Anxiety and something like anticipation is a live wire thrumming in his chest, catching at his breath as Michael leans forward. He cups a careful hand around the cigarette, holding the flame to its end until a small wisp of smoke curls in the space between them. It inhales slowly.
Gerry's hand finds the sharp edges of its cheekbones as it plucks the cigarette from its mouth, lips pursed. He leans in, bridging the gap between them-
Warm smoke fills his mouth, the soft weight of Michael's lips barely brushing his own almost unbearable as he breathes in. Keep it together, Gerry. It lingers for a couple seconds longer than necessary, before leaning back with a faint sigh. Gerry schools his expression into something neutral as the cool night air rushes in to fill the space between him and Michael. He feels its absence keenly. Michael takes another drag of the cigarette, the smoke curling out from the sides of its Cheshire Cat grin and spiralling into impossible fractals. Gerry can't tear his eyes away.
It extends the cigarette back towards him with a long, disjointed hand. He takes it but makes no move to bring it to his lips. Gerry considers for a moment, teetering on the edge of control. Michael's eyes flash quietly in the darkness. He lets out a breath that feels like surrender and stubs out the cigarette on the roof tiles behind him. Its grin splits impossibly wide.
"Michael." When did he lean in so close? He doesn't know.
"Gerry." It says quietly, eyes trained on his mouth.
"Michael, I really want to kiss you."
"Oh?"
It's close enough that he can feel a faint hum of static skittering across his skin, close enough that something resembling breath brushes his lips. If he concentrates hard enough, he can feel his mind unspooling into the fluttering of moth's wings, zeroing in on Michael's bioluminescence with razor-sharp precision. Gerry inhales, and it feels like swallowing salt water - burning on the way down, settling silt into his lungs. Michael's gaze does not leave his mouth.
"Would you- please-"
Michael makes a small, desperate sound and moves, surging forward to crush its lips to his. He can taste smoke and electricity and neon blue in the way it angles its mouth, scraping something sharp along his lower lip. Gerry's hand finds Michael's back, relishing in the way it shivers when he pushes it closer. He braces his other hand on the roof to steady them both.
Long fingers find the back of his neck, reach up to tangle into his hair, and Gerry exhales, hard, into Michael's mouth. It deepens the kiss, static numbing his tongue as he presses closer. He can feel it shifting under his fingers, shuddering into a shape that feels almost solid against his skin-
It startles backwards suddenly as if burned. Gerry's eyes shoot open.
"Michael?"
It scrambles backwards over the rooftop, all limbs and awkward joints as its form blurs and contorts inwards on itself. Michael whines, deep in its throat, and the sound is more animal than human. Gerry's face flushes against the sudden onslaught of cold air as bitter disappointment swells in his stomach.
He shifts onto his knees, making as though to close the gap between them-
Garbled speech twists itself from Michael's mouth and it covers its face with its hands. Gerry watches, helpless, as it stumbles backwards into the gaping mouth of a yellow door that swings shut behind Michael with a resounding slam. Rivulets of melting frost run down the roof in the sudden silence.
Gerry buries his head in his hands, trying to fight the tears stinging at his eyes. Fuck.
—
He waits on that rooftop for hours, refusing to retreat back inside even when the sun begins to dawn over the horizon. Distantly, he registers tears slipping down his cheek. Gerry makes no move to wipe them away.
He curses out the stubborn part of him that still thinks that Michael will return. Guilt gnaws at his stomach as he replays Michael's exit over and over in his mind - that final, pained expression on its face as it vanished. Gerry swears under his breath, reaching for another cigarette. The taste lingers bittersweet in his mouth.
He remains, motionless, until his phone buzzes with a text from Gertrude. Another assignment - a new Leitner to track down. Gerry sighs and stubs the cigarette out with more force than strictly necessary. His gaze lingers on the empty space next to him on the roof. One last chance for Michael to come back. Then, he stands, wincing at the way his joints pop after hours of stillness. Gerry turns and makes for the window without a backwards glance. Behind him, the packet of cigarettes lies abandoned on the roof tiles.
—
Hidden in the cocoon of the hallways, Michael shudders back together with agonising slowness. Pain pulsates through its entire being - limbs growing and shrinking, form flickering with bursts of electricity. It closes its eyes against the howling inferno of the Distortion's rage.
Tomorrow, it will force itself to forget the taste of smoke, the feeling of hands on its back. Tomorrow, it will cease all visits to Gerard Keay.
Knees tucked to its chest, Michael shakes apart in the confines of the Distortion. It presses trembling fingers to its lips, and wants.