2023-05-11 3:32:04 ¶ ●

I’m only halfway through season 2 but is it going to stop me from writing self-indulgent Jon/Elias fanfiction? No. No it isn’t.

(Okay, the Jon/Elias is only implied, but whatcha gonna do. And it’s a pre-series 1 office christmas party, because the idea of the Magnus Institute throwing an office party is simply delightful)

(also on ao3)

As soon as he sinks behind his desk, Jon breathes a sigh of relief. It hasn’t been his desk for long of course, and it’s a bit presumptuous to already feel like he belongs here; but the Archives are blessedly quiet and calm, away from the noise and too-bright lights. The pressure behind his eyes lessens somewhat. He will have to go back to the party eventually; he is not foolish enough to believe that his absence can go unnoticed for long. Networking is, after all, as important in academia as it is anywhere else. Unfortunately. But he just needs a few moments to collect himself.

And, since he’s already here, he might as well get some work done.

A sharp knock on the door snaps him back to reality. It has been—no, it couldn’t have been that long. He looks down at the cluster of papers before him, and the half-empty glass of wine he had snatched from the party before heading downstairs. The ancient cassette recorder is right there, humming, waiting. He doesn’t remember turning it on.

Another knock. Jon flinches.

“Come in!” he calls out.

It’s—fuck. It’s Elias. Looking distinctly out of place in his crisp, perfectly tailored three-piece suit, next to the overflowing shelves, dusty boxes and the overall clutter.

“Jon,” Elias says. His tone is mild, but the disapproval no less obvious for it. “You do realize what “mandatory” means, do you?”

“Yes, of course—”

“And that “hiding in the corner for five minutes before running away” isn’t the same as “attending a party”?”

“It was more than five minutes,” Jon says, stupidly, and then sighs. “I—I apologize. I have a bit of a headache.”

“Ah,” Elias says. “Could it be because you’re working too much, do you think?”

Jon looks down at his desk, the half-finished statement, and the tape recorder. Belatedly, he presses a button and turns it off. The sudden absence of its sound is strange and wrong, somehow.

“Uh. I’m.”

It’s the stress. It must be. He is – not entirely unqualified for the job, but most certainly inexperienced. And everyone can see it. His own assistants can see it. Even Martin can see it.

There’s a sudden pressure on his shoulder. He freezes, breath catching in his chest, his heartbeat drumming loud—but the weight is still there. Not dragging him down, exactly, but grounding him in place. Warm. Almost—pleasant.

He looks up. Elias is much closer than he was before, staring down at Jon with an inscrutable expression on his face. His hand stays where it is, fingers curled ever so slightly inwards, pressing into the muscles of Jon’s shoulder through the cheap jacket and even cheaper shirt.

“Are you alright?” Elias asks.

He is way too close, half-sitting on Jon’s desk. Jon cannot really move without dislodging his arm, and with every shallow breath, he gets a lungful of Elias’s expensive cologne. It’s all a bit—well.

“Yes,” Jon says. “Perfectly fine.”

It’s disconcerting, is what it is, to be a subject of this level of scrutiny. He can’t remember if Elias used to watch him just as closely during the job interview and the scarce few conversations they have shared since. Or maybe it’s just his own mind playing tricks on him, and he really has been working too much, or drunk too much, and now he’s seeing what isn’t really there.

Which doesn’t bode well for his career at the Institute, at any rate.

“The new position is—something of an adjustment,” Jon says, and then hurries to add: “I’m grateful, of course, for the opportunity, but. It’s a bit daunting nonetheless.” Oh no, now Elias may think he is terrified and incapable and lacking—“I think I just need a while to adjust. But I can handle it. I’m sure of that.”

Elias, bless him, doesn’t point out the obvious lie. He just continues to watch.

“Admittedly, social gatherings aren’t my forte,” Jon says – wondering, belatedly, if discussing his shortcomings with his boss is the smartest possible move. But Elias knew that about him, didn’t he? He must have. Jon was never very good at hiding his anti-social tendencies. Honestly, he seldom ever tries.

Elias smiles. “Yes, that much is apparent,” he says. “I would still appreciate it if you came back upstairs.”

“Of course,” Jon says. “I was—I was just about to go.”

Another lie that Elias either misses, or chooses to ignore. His hold on Jon’s shoulder loosens, and Jon takes in a deeper breath – only for it to catch in his throat, in a startled gasp, when he feels a brush of fingers against his cheek, his forehead, pushing away a stray strand of hair that’s fallen onto his glasses.

Is this normal? His mind races, trying to come up with a possible explanation, possible excuse. It’s slightly inappropriate, maybe, the featherlight brush of skin, Elias’s watchful gaze, the way he sits there, perfectly composed, in between Jon and the way out. He should perhaps be worried, except—there really is nothing to be worried about. What is he going to do, file a complaint with HR? Tell them—what? That Elias was doing—what?

He isn’t even touching Jon anymore. Jon drops his gaze, inconveniently caught at the hollow of the man’s throat, just above the crisp collar of his shirt. He tries to think, but is coming up short. And—damn it all, he just wants to see what Elias does next. Maybe it will shine some light on his motivations. Maybe Jon is just too curious for his own good, and should have said or done something by now. Except it’s unfamiliar, it’s all achingly strange and unfamiliar, and Elias seems to always know what he’s doing, and Jon will admit that there’s a certain appeal to that.

So he looks up, and waits. For a touch, or cold dismissal, for a question or a statement or for Elias to leave without another word – he just—he wants to know what Elias does next. He doesn’t know, and he thinks he’d quite like to find out…

“Um, Jon? Are you—whoa!”

Martin stumbles into the room. Because of course he does, nearly falling on his face as he does so.

“Jesus, Martin!” Jon says, irritably. “Can’t you knock?”

“Sorry,” Martin says. He straightens, somewhat sheepish, and adjusts his glasses. “I, um. I didn’t mean to interrupt?”

It’s a perfectly innocent statement. Probably. There’s absolutely no reason for Jon to flush, or push himself back in his chair, putting more distance between himself and Elias. Not that—not that he needs to do that, of course. They were just talking.

Elias raises to his feet, perfectly smooth and unruffled, and smiles politely at them both.

“That’s all right, Martin,” he says. He’s not looking at Jon anymore, which is a good thing. It is. Jon can breathe a little easier without the weight of his gaze. “I came down here to fetch our wayward Archivist. Has something happened upstairs?”

“No! No. The party is—it’s a great party,” Martin stammers out. “I just—Jon disappeared, and I wanted to find him. Make sure he’s okay, I mean.”

“I’m fine, Martin,” Jon says, through gritted teeth. His nice, quiet office is getting way too crowded, and it’s stupidly hard to think when he can still smell Elias’s cologne. “You can go back now.”

“Right,” Martin says. He makes no move to leave – his eyes are still darting between Jon and Elias, as if he had caught them doing something untoward. Which he hasn’t. And that makes this behaviour even more ridiculous.

“We all should,” Elias says. “After you, Jon.”

He rests his hand on Jon’s shoulder; it takes conscious effort to suppress a full-body shiver at the simple, casual touch. It means nothing, and what does it say about Jon that even this is enough to throw him off-kilter?

“Right,” he says. The rasp of his voice sounds strange to his own ears; his mouth has gone dry all of a sudden, and he picks up his glass and drinks the rest of the wine before he can think any better of it. Before he remembers that both Martin and Elias are staring at him now, Martin with his usual flustered expression, Elias with wry amusement. “Let’s go, then.”

Elias engages Martin in polite small talk on their way back, but Jon can’t bring himself to participate. He still can’t really make sense of what happened, if he should be scared or upset, or if he’s reading too much into a perfectly ordinary conversation between a boss and his employee. During a mandatory office not-Christmas party. With everyone already slightly tipsy, and louder, and more tactile than usual. Which would explain Elias’s earlier behaviour.

Besides – and Jon smiles grimly at his own thoughts – even if he went to HR, it’s not like anyone would believe him, right? Elias is. Well. Well-dressed, sociable, polite, and rather annoyingly attractive. Jon is none of these things. Even if Elias were to compromise his own well-earned position by fraternizing with an employee, Jon would be the last one on that list. Hell, even Martin might be a more likely candidate – stammering and forgetfulness aside, he does have a nice, warm smile, pretty blue eyes and a rather fetching scattering of freckles across his cheeks—

“Jon!” Sasha and Tim grab him by the arms as soon as he enters the crowded conference room.

“Hey—” he yelps, as they drag him away, towards the buffet. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping an eye on you,” Sasha says, and flicks his nose with her fingers, as if he were a misbehaving child, and not her boss. He is tempted to yell at her, but her expression softens, the playful tone of her voice giving way to genuine concern. “We were worried about you.”

“Mostly Martin,” Tim says, with a wide smile and a suggestive wink in Sasha’s direction. Jon isn’t even going to try and understand that gesture.

It is still too loud and too crowded. And Elias disappears, of course, whisked away by the Head of Research. Jon would love nothing more than to listen in – it’s always a pleasure to listen to Elias, whose knowledge of the paranormal is unparalleled – but it seems to be a boring discussion about funding. And also it’d be a bit pathetic and, well, creepy.

“Still with us, Jon?” Sasha asks.

“Yes,” Jon says. “Yes, I am.”

It is loud, and crowded, and he can’t help but think of his cold, empty flat… and, yeah. Maybe it’s not so bad here, with Sasha and Tim and even Martin. Maybe he can have another drink, and a casual chat with his assistants, and pretend, for one evening at least, that he is exactly where he needs to be.