Little disappointed no ones written Jon watching Elias murder leitner and Elias realizing Jon’s getting off to brutal pipe murder, tbh
Sorry it’s not much but my finger slipped
xx
Jon stared at his fingers wrapped around a Silk Cut and tried to suppress the deep ache of indecipherable emotion that was causing his jaw to lock. His tremors were back. Well, that was just lovely. He supposed it was fitting, one more thing over which he exerted no control. At least his day couldn’t get any worse than learning that he was under ownership of some sort of evil Fear not-god thing.
He shook his head and stubbed out the remains of his cigarette on the outside wall of the Institute before heading back indoors and making his way toward his office. What little color had been left in his face drained as he approached it. The sensation in his legs was not unlike treading knee-deep in the ocean. Be still, the thought came as though a whisper from an intimate friend. Wait and watch, for there is much to see.
Jon knew he hadn’t left the door cracked open like that.
The knowledge that great violence was afoot settled over him, but he did not fling the door wide to try and stop whatever was about to happen.
Jon Sims was not a brave man, but that was not the reason he hid himself in the hall now. He did so because it felt correct.
“It’s always a danger,” Elias’s voice came from inside the office, and Jon stumbled a step back before positioning himself to spy through the centimeter of space slitting around the doorframe. Elias’s voice was honeyed as always, and Jon pretended to be unaffected by it as always, even though there was only himself here to whom to lie. There was a new note of unease to it, though. “Almost always.”
“Elias,” Leitner moaned desperately, “it doesn’t have to be like—”
Elias slammed the pipe he had been gripping down on the center of Leitner’s scalp so hard that Leitner didn’t have time to scream before he toppled to the floor. Even the landing was muted, as Leitner’s weak old body crumpled no louder than a tiny bag of dirt of dust. Jon’s hand flew to his mouth to halt a shriek, and part of him detached by trauma noted that he never knew such a dramatic gesture was something people did outside fiction.
Head wounds bleed a lot.
(cont. under cut)