“My dear Archivist,” Elias says, voice low and fond and satisfied. One hand is on Jon’s cheek, cupping his face, and the other is busy affixing the dog collar back to his throat. He’d felt so bare without it, in America, where he hadn’t wanted to weather the strange looks. He makes a little relaxed sound, leaning into Elias, eyes closed. Content. “How good to have you back where you belong.”
Here, in his Archives, the Eye watching both of them, Jon can’t help but agree.