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He hates that he never feels the fall. At least not properly anymore, and he hates even more so that he never remembers their expressions as the sky swallows them, the pavement just out of reach for several minutes and eternity. He has no idea if they ever experience the impact, or if they truly do fall forever. They might. He doesn’t envy them.
Holding the Archivist between midair and nothing is something of a relief. Mike folds his hands in front of himself, clasped gently, brings his crooked fingers to his mouth once he has finished giving his statement. Of course the Archivist, this Jonathan, is incredibly irritating. But Mike supposes he doesn’t actually realize how fucking annoying his half-powered compulsions are. He’d originally thought Jonathan had come to fully compel answers from him, and Mike had been ready to kill the man and be done with it all. He’d never wanted to get immersed in this mess, just wanted to live life the way he pleased. Jonathan, in the moments before, had seemed like a threat to that.
He doesn’t now. The more Mike watches him the more he realizes this Archivist is almost laughably harmless, despite the latent ability bubbling under that tired flesh surface. Someday he might be a force to be reckoned with. But right now, Jonathan looks frail and something like beautiful.
His eyes are tightly shut, his face caught in gasping terror as he falls even though he is simply seated in an armchair. The energy’s thrown Jonathan’s hair about his face like a gust of wind has risen from the floorboards and from what Mike can tell, he’s barely even able to catch his breath.
Windswept academic. Mike’s never had a type, never even remembers those who feed his power, but if he could remember then Jonathan might put them all to shame. It’s such a wonderful sight, though since this is the first time he can remember he’s certainly biased. Mike cuts off the fall and Jonathan collapses in his chair, flushed and shaking.
“Have a nice go ‘round?” Mike asks pleasantly, and smiles when Jonathan can barely focus wild eyes on him.
“Y-you…” He rasps. It’s a lovely sound, he’s always had a soft spot for terror, but Mike realizes he doesn’t want to feel another compulsion from this wounded thing. He sends Jonathan falling again. Jon, he thinks, is a much friendlier name. Jon is casual. They’re probably casual by now, since Jon has Mike’s statement on recording and Mike has Jon freefalling in a faded green armchair.
Mike thought Jon might not be as pretty the second time around but he’s wrong. Eyes clenched shut, thin lips moving with gasped words or just gasping for air at all. Slightly too long hair whipping about high cheekbones and a proud nose. He’s been falling long enough that he, too, smells like ozone. Ozone and dust and cigarettes.
He ends the fall more quickly, though it likely made little difference in Jon’s mind. Jon goes completely slack, doesn’t even try to speak. His breathing is ragged and when Mike notices Jon reaching for his shirt pocket he goes rigid, but Jon just pulls out a cigarette with trembling fingers.
“It’s rude to smoke inside,” Mike chides, but he pulls a zippo from his own back pocket to light it for him.
Jon takes a drag, chokes, tries to contain himself. He’s looking at Mike warily enough that Mike is tempted to push him off that edge again, but doesn’t. He takes the cigarette from Jon’s lips and takes a drag of it himself. It’s cheap, it burns, it tastes the way he imagines the atmosphere does when you’re falling a hundred miles an hour from the stratosphere. He holds the smoke inside his mouth and kneels down before Jon, who is still boneless in that armchair, and then he grabs Jon’s chin.
“What-” Mike allows Jon that single word before he kisses him, open mouth, the cigarette smoke puffing out. He likes the way Jon is both tense and limp, and he likes the way Jon tastes.
Jon, though irritating, has managed to benefit Mike after all. A new way to experience the fall. His stomach has dropped the way it used to on rollercoasters, the way it used to when storms rolled around. There’s a thrilled terror. Anticipation. Jon’s hands grasp weakly at his shoulders and Mike presses harder, biting at his lower lip and tongue. It’s like burned air.
No need to send Jon falling again, Mike realizes, because whatever’s claimed Jon has him in so deep that he’ll never hit the ground.