2023-05-28 0:53:43 ¶ ●

More Jon/Elias nonsense. Enjoy!

Many, many thanks to everyone still reading this thing <3 I’d love to know your thoughts, if you care to share them!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

***

“Statement ends.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon to come back to his senses. The tape recorder in his hand is still whirling, hungry for more words. But Jon is done for now. Sated.

He tells himself it isn’t relief he is feeling. It shouldn’t be. But he is tired of lying, so he lets the thought go with a deep sigh.

Elias is watching him. At some point he must have let go of Jon. There is space between them, on the couch; not enough space for propriety, with their thighs almost touching, and Elias sprawled back, his arm resting on the couch, behind Jon’s back. Certainly there is nothing innocent or proper about the way he watches Jon right now, intent and pleased and hungry.

“You had your fun, then?” Jon asks.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Elias says simply. “Am I not allowed to be?”

Jon is, in fact, feeling a lot better. So much so he is beginning to question his decision to invite Elias into his home. It’s supposed to be his space; he is meant to be safe here. And the man next to him is everything except safe.

Belatedly, Jon switches off the recorder. Habit has him retrieve the cassette and sign it with the case number. He will have to file it away on Monday, and he doesn’t want it to get lost or mixed up in the meantime.

“I’m going to make tea,” he says. Mostly he needs to be alone right now. “Would you like some?”

“Please,” Elias says.

It’s still raining. Jon pours water into the kettle and sets it down on the stove to boil. He prepares two cups. There’s a carton of milk in his fridge, long past its expiry date; he sniffs it and recoils at the smell, before pouring the whole lot of it down the kitchen sink. There isn’t much left in his fridge that’s actually edible, which is a shame. He’s hungry now, in a normal, human way. Maybe they can order take-out, if Elias decides to stay over.

The kettle whistles. Jon waits a bit – Martin claims you cannot pour boiling water on the tea leaves – before remembering that he hasn’t actually prepared them yet.

The tea needs to seep for three minutes. Jon grabs the ice-pack from the freezer and touches it to his face. Hopefully the heat and swelling will leech away before Monday rolls around.

He brings the mugs and a small jar of honey back to the living room.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t have any milk.”

“That’s fine,” Elias says mildly.

He is standing by the bookshelves, examining Jon’s collection. It’s—definitely odd, for him to be here. Jon watches, warily, as Elias pulls out Jon’s binder on the Magnus Institute. It’s mostly articles, newspaper clippings, some bits printed out from the official website and any other place he found it mentioned. There is a section on Jonah Magnus himself, as well, although the information there was sparse.

“This is quite thorough,” Elias says, with evident amusement.

“I wanted to be prepared before I started working there,” Jon says. “Sadly, my research omitted a few key details.”

Opinions on the Institute vary. It’s not like there aren’t any conspiracy theories floating around the web or within Oxford academic circles – it’s just that the truth is much worse than any of them. But, of course, younger Jonathan Sims dismissed them all as nonsensical and flung himself face-first into the Devil’s waiting embrace.

Elias doesn’t respond. He puts the binder away and checks the other titles. Some newer additions, like a book on Smirke’s architecture that Jon borrowed from Tim, or the one on basics of cybersecurity Jon’s been trying to figure out with Sasha’s help. There’s novels and historical non-fiction, some that Jon has already read, some that he plans on reading in the future. Elias pauses on the House of Leaves, considering it.

“Have you read it?” Jon asks.

Elias shakes his head. “No. It’s fairly new, isn’t it? I’m still working my way through the 1940s and 1950s.”

“You’re reading books according to the date of publication?” Jon asks.

“It’s a pretty efficient system,” Elias says, somewhat defensively. “I make occasional exceptions for contemporary literature, if it warrants it. And I keep up to date on anything overtly occult. But novels are just a hobby.”

Jon can’t help but smile at that. His own approach to book selection is less methodical and more haphazard, boiling down to whatever catches his attention in the moment. It’s always been that way.

“Well, you should read this one. You’ll like it.”

Elias looks at him, eyebrows raised. But he picks it up nonetheless, skimming his fingers over the cover.

“I made tea,” Jon reminds him.

“Mhmm.” Elias barely acknowledges him. He’s opened it now, and Jon recognizes the look of a man who’d be content to stand still for hours and devour the book in his hands until something managed to distract him. It’s—it’s actually quite endearing.

Luckily Jon’s phone rings, so he doesn’t have to stand there and watch his boss like a creep. It’s still on the kitchen table, ringing its generic little tune. Who on Earth would be calling him on a Saturday?

Martin Blackwood, the phone proclaims. Of course. The heavy, anxious feeling returns to Jon’s stomach.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Jon?” Martin says, surprised.

“Who did you expect?” Jon asks, perhaps a touch too aggressive.

“Oh. I, uh,” Martin stammers. “I just wasn’t sure if you were going to pick up.”

Jon can feel his cheeks flush with shame and anger. He isn’t quite sure if he’s angry at Martin or at himself, but it doesn’t stop him from snapping back: “Well, I did. Was there anything you needed?”

Martin is quiet for a moment. “I wanted to ask if you’re okay,” he says softly.

Soft, always so damn soft. Jon cannot deal with soft, not now. He knows what he is, Martin knows what he is, so why this entire charade?

“I’m fine,” he says.

“And—your face? Tim was really worried…”

“My face is also fine,” Jon says. Then, because it would nag at him otherwise: “How’s Tim’s hand?”

“It’s fine,” Martin says. “Apparently he took boxing classes at some point? He says it’s really easy to break your fingers when punching someone, but they taught him how to do it properly.”

“Yes, I can attest to his skill in the area,” Jon says. He touches his cheek and winces. “Was there anything else?”

“You said—well, you said you haven’t been sleeping, so I wanted to ask…”

“I’m fine, Martin,” Jon says, louder than he intended. “You don’t need to worry about me. I appreciate it, but it really isn’t necessary.” Just leave me alone, he doesn’t say. Leave me alone, because I’d rather it happen right now than in the future, after I forget how to live without you. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Are you sure you want to go back to the Archives?” Martin asks, something like panic lacing his tone. “This place—it isn’t good for you, Jon. I’m sure Elias will give you a few days off…”

“No!” Jon says. The thought of leaving the Archives for an extended period of time is unpleasant and wrong; he shudders at the mere idea. “No,” he repeats. “I have to—I have to go back. You don’t understand…”

“I’m trying to,” Martin says. “I want to help you, but—”

“Well then stop pestering me about it,” Jon says sharply. “Goodbye Martin.”

There’s a beat of tense silence, before Martin sighs, defeated. “Bye, Jon.”

Jon jabs at the screen to end the call.

He was too harsh on Martin. He knows that. He’s always been too harsh on Martin. And yet Martin continues to worry about him, and bring him tea, and is so damn kind—

Jon draws in a shuddering breath. He cannot, will not think about Martin right now. Elias is here, and Jon needs to learn to keep his powers under control before he faces his assistants again. Or any other human being, for that matter.

Elias has sat down in the meantime, on the couch beneath the lamp, where the light is better. He’s sipping the tea Jon made for him, and reading the book Jon recommended. It is weirdly, shockingly domestic. He hasn’t often thought about Elias in this manner. First he was simply a rather eccentric boss, and an authority on the paranormal; then an actual murderer; finally an agent of an eldritch entity, capable of reading and influencing the minds of others. What else is there to Elias Bouchard that Jon has yet to learn? And why is the thought enticing?

He should be horrified. He knows that. So why isn’t he?

“Elias?” Jon asks.

“Hmm?”

Jon takes in a deep breath.

“Can you stop what’s happening to me?” he asks.

Elias doesn’t even look up from the page. “Do you honestly want me to?”

“I—” The answer is yes. It should be. He knows it should be.

He can’t bring himself to say it.

Finally, Elias looks up. His features soften a little once he sees the state Jon has worked himself into.

“No,” he says. “I cannot stop it. You’re the Archivist, Jon. You belong to the Beholding. And to me.”

“Fuck you,” Jon says, but there’s no bite to it.

Elias looks around for something – a bookmark, Jon assumes. He picks up a sticky note and carefully inserts it before closing the book and setting it down on the table.

“You wanted to learn more about your powers,” he says. He is in full business mode now, sitting straight in the chair, his fingers steepled together. “Use them. Ask me a question.”

Jon shivers. He tries to recall that buzzing sensation on his tongue, the need to know.

Except his head is mostly empty right now, so he just blurts out the first question that comes to mind.

“What’s between you and Peter Lukas?”

Elias, damn him, laughs. It’s a nice laugh, full of surprise and genuine amusement.

“Ask me a simpler question, Archivist,” he says. “There’s quite a long history there.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles, the crow’s feet becoming more pronounced. And there’s something about the way he watches Jon that makes Jon’s heartrate pick up; a certain weight, attentive and considering. He wonders if it’s the Eye or Elias himself.

“Who is he, then?” Jon asks.

“Captain of the Tundra. Prominent member of the Lukas family. A crucial benefactor of the Institute. Avatar of the Lonely.” Elias smiles. “My ex-husband.”

“What?”

Jon sits back, dumbfounded. He—well, he should have expected something like this. They did seem awfully close. And Peter was willing to kidnap Jon just to annoy Elias, which in retrospect might have been part of some sick power-play between the two of them. But the thought of Elias and that silent, cold, distant man? Married?

Elias looks entirely too satisfied with himself when he regards Jon through narrowed eyes. “Are you jealous, Archivist?”

“No!” Jon says quickly. Too quickly.

Well, this is what he gets for asking personal questions. And he isn’t even actually sure if Elias is answering them of his own volition, or if it’s because Jon compelled him to. He isn’t sure if Elias isn’t lying.

He isn’t.

The knowledge arrives in his head, unbidden. He shivers, feeling the weight of the Eye’s presence. Is it watching them, now?

“You feel it, then?” Elias asks.

“I—yes. I think so.” He doesn’t need to ask for clarification. Cold sweat is beading on his forehead, that persistent sensation of being observed prickling in the back of his neck. He thought it was just his paranoia, but, well.

God, he wishes it was just paranoia. Something he might treat with therapy and medication, not that persistent dread…

“When did you learn about the paranormal?” he asks. “When did you believe it was real?”

Again, Elias smiles.

“I cannot give you the exact date,” he says. “But I was seventeen years old.”

Jon shakes his head. His mind is still foggy, swirling with thoughts of Peter Lukas, of the Eye.

“If Peter managed to trap me, would you have saved me from the Lonely?”

This time, it takes a moment for Elias to answer. “No.”

Jon laughs, weakly.

“Great,” he says. “That’s just great.”

“I had every faith you’d manage to get out on your own,” Elias says coolly. “And, as a general rule: do not expect me to save you, Archivist. The point is for you to learn.”

“Yes, I can tell as much,” Jon says. Then, he asks: “I cannot compel you at all, can I? You’re just humouring me.”

Elias is watching, always watching. Assessing Jon from afar. And damn if Jon doesn’t want to bask in the feeling of his approval; if he doesn’t want to make Elias proud. It’s an absurd, toxic impulse, one that he wouldn’t admit to unless someone compelled him to answer. Except Elias doesn’t even need to do that; he can pick the knowledge from Jon’s brain, can look right through his feeble defences. No doubt he knows what he’s doing to Jon right now, when he smiles at him, when he nods his head, and says:

“Very good. You’re paying attention.”

Jon shivers. He can still taste static on his tongue, he can feel the Eye, looking through him. Jon is nothing but a vessel for the Powers, and the idea that he can control it is—laughable. He feels like a child on a playground, being given just enough freedom to swing on the swings or dig through the sandbox, but knowing that someone else brought him here, and someone else will take him home once they decide it’s time for Jon to go.

You can run, says a voice in his head. You can even try to hide. But you cannot hide forever, Archivist. Sooner or later, you’ll have to come back to me.

“I don’t have any choice at all, then?” Jon asks. He knows Elias is reading his thoughts right now; he can almost feel his presence. He closes his eyes and shivers, tries to commit this elusive feeling to memory. If he learns to recognize it, he may learn how to fight it.

“Did you have a choice when it came to attending school, or paying rent, or participating in society?” Elias asks. “When you’re hungry or tired, is it your own choice to eat or sleep? Are you choosing to breathe right now? Your freedom is limited by a number of outside forces. It always has been.” He pauses and considers Jon for a long moment. “You’re taking this relatively well, mind you. Better than I have.”

“Breathing is an involuntary reflex of my own nervous system,” Jon says. “I don’t think it qualifies as an “outside force”.”

Elias glares at him. “It was a figure of speech.”

Jon shrugs. It isn’t actually important. He just felt like saying something to fill in the silence. But Peter Lukas had a point, even if Jon wishes he hasn’t attempted a kidnapping to make it: it is fun to annoy Elias.

“Even so,” Elias says. “Like I told you before: your will is still your own.”

“For the most part.”

“For the most part,” Elias agrees. “There are boundaries, which you must learn to recognize. But within them, you’re free to do as you please.”

His tea’s gone cold. Jon sips it anyway, and tries to take some comfort from its bitter taste.

“This isn’t how I hoped this conversation would go,” he says.

“No, I can’t imagine that it is,” Elias says, infuriatingly calm. His phone chimes; Elias glances at the screen and then checks his watch. He sighs. “Regrettably, I have another meeting scheduled for today. If you’ll excuse me?”

“Yes, of course,” Jon says. Is it another employee having a mental breakdown? He doubts Elias often deals with those, even though, logically, it should be quite common in their line of work. A meeting with sponsors? A follow-up to yesterday’s gala? Some dangerous artifact to move into storage?

“May I?” Elias asks, picking up the House of Leaves from the table.

Jon just shrugs his assent. Let Elias borrow the book. It’s not like Jon has much left he hasn’t taken.

Elias is fussy with his appearance; that isn’t new. He complains about the lack of mirrors in Jon’s apartment. He takes an awfully long time to re-style his hair, even though it looked perfectly fine to Jon. He smooths each crease in his suit jacket and fiddles with his tie until it lies perfectly symmetrical. It makes Jon feel extra self-conscious about his own casual outfit, and the mess of his too-long hair. Worryingly, it also makes him smile.

Finally, Elias puts on his fancy coat, making sure it lies evenly across his shoulders. Jon follows him to the doorstep. He wants to say something, but the words can’t make it past his lips; not until Elias has his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave.

“Elias?”

“Yes?”

Jon drops his gaze, unable to look Elias in the eyes. He says, “I, uh. Thank you. For coming here today.”

He shouldn’t be doing this. Elias is the reason they are all in this mess. And here Jon stands, thanking him for the courtesy of making sure Jon doesn’t starve to death. He made Jon a monster; Jon shouldn’t be grateful that he’s now trying to ease the transition. Jon’s having many feelings he shouldn’t be feeling, and this is perhaps the worst of them.

Jesus. Martin would hate him right now. And he’d be right to do so. Jon desperately wants to hear his voice again; he’d like to be half the man Martin believes him to be.

“Jon.”

Elias is—Elias is so close. Jon forces himself to look up, to meet his gaze. He takes in a deep, unsteady breath.

He’ll talk to him. He will have to talk to Martin. Explain as best as he can. Maybe—maybe Martin can actually figure it out…

Elias is closer still, his hands cupping Jon’s face. He hesitates—Elias never hesitates. It isn’t in his character. And he is afraid—of what? Of Jon? What could Jon possibly do to him?

His mouth is dry. Jon wets his lips, breathing shakily. Elias’s cologne is all he can smell right now; his grey eyes are all he can see. And he’s being stupid, so fucking stupid, this isn’t right—

Elias kisses him.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It doesn’t, not really. What’s surprising is this: Elias’s lips, warm, and soft. Elias’s fingers on his face, gentle, handling him like something breakable. Elias’s unsteady exhale, his hesitation before he deepens the kiss. Jon’s own racing heartbeat, his hands on the lapels of Elias’s coat, pulling him closer, until he is trapped, caught between the wall at his back and Elias’s steady form.

It feels safe. It shouldn’t, but it does.

There’s a hand on his waist, on his hip. It slides upwards, beneath the fabric of his hoodie, his shirt. The touch of it on his bare skin is electric, sending shivers down his spine. Jon gasps; he can feel Elias tightening his hold, pushing deeper into his mouth, until there is no space between them at all.

They part, breathless. Jon is looking now, incapable of tearing his gaze away: Elias’s face is flushed, his lips red and swollen, his pupils widened, only a thin ring of silver framing them; it feels like they could swallow him whole. He thinks he may want them to.

His fingers are trembling, ever so slightly; he presses them to Elias’s cheek. He wants to feel the warmth of his skin, the texture of it. The soft flesh and solid bone underneath. That, too, he wants to commit to memory. He could fill in an entire room in his Archives with everything he’s learned about Elias.

“Your, uh,” he says. “Your meeting?”

Elias blinks, as if he had forgotten. As if Jon occupied all of his attention right now.

“Right,” he says. He makes no move to leave; he kisses Jon again, both his hands on Jon’s waist now, working their way under his shirt.

The damn phone chimes again. Elias pauses, ragged breaths hot and damp on Jon’s lips.

“Fuck,” he says, quietly.

He steps away. Jon makes no such attempts, content to hold onto the wall behind his back and just breathe.

“This was—” Elias begins.

“Highly inappropriate,” Jon says.

“And won’t happen again.”

“No. It won’t.”

“Right,” Elias says. “Goodbye, Jonathan.”

And then he’s gone.