2024-04-27 3:17:15 ¶ ●

Here comes another part of the Untitled Jonelias Magic AU, enjoy!

Once again, huge thanks to @ceaseless-bitcher, the rest of the Discord server, and the tumblr folk for the likes and reblogs and tags. You’re the best! <3

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

***

Whoever was in charge of the archive ought to be persecuted for his crimes. It was a tiny, windowless room, stacked from floor to ceiling with unlabelled boxes and stacks of loose papers. After three hours of digging for a single report, Jon was about ready to commit an act of unspeakable violence.

He returned to the laboratory, fuming. Other researchers and lab techs took one look at his face and mostly shuffled out of the way as he made his way back to the work station and slammed the papers down, readying himself for the long, tedious process of comparing several columns of numbers to check for trends and discrepancies. He would still need to run them by Sasha later to do some proper statistical analysis, but at least he could have some basis to work on…

“Um… Sims?”

“What is it?” Jon snapped.

The unfortunate technician took a hasty step back. “Master Bouchard is looking for you.”

“So? He could have sent a message,” Jon said.

Bouchard did not care about the state of the archive room, that much was apparent. It was disgraceful, that something like this was even allowed—

“Um—”

“What?”

All of a sudden, Jon realized that he was being watched. The people around him were giving him odd looks; some were exchanging whispered comments. And it wasn’t that hard to guess what they thought about him, and what they were saying behind his back. Some were even openly questioning his relationship with Master Bouchard, and what might have prompted the man to take on someone like Jon to be his apprentice. Jon wasn’t doing himself any favours by openly disrespecting his master’s wishes.

What if Bouchard listened to the gossip? What if he realized he had made a mistake, that he was wasting his time, that—

Jon shook his head. “Right,” he said. “I will go see him now.”

Each step he took felt awkward, now that he knew he was being stared at. Most days he could ignore it and focus on the work in front of him, but now and again it would catch him unawares. It wasn’t just his own reputation at stake; not anymore.

Bouchard would be in his office at this hour. The way was familiar by now. Rosie waved him through with a polite smile, and Jon offered her a curt nod before letting himself into the room.

“Master,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”

Bouchard wasn’t at his desk; that was unusual. But there was a sitting area in the corner where he occasionally conducted meetings. He was there now, lounging in an armchair and engrossed in a book. Jon didn’t get a chance to read the title before he shut the covers and put it away.

At his invitation, Jon took the opposite seat. There was a pot of freshly brewed tea and two cups on the table between them; Jon grabbed it hastily and poured the tea. He glanced at his master’s face and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cup.

Bouchard took a sip of tea and exhaled with obvious pleasure; Jon tried to hide his smile. But his patience was running out quickly. Surely Bouchard had a better reason for summoning him.

Apparently his restlessness was obvious. Bouchard sighed and set down his cup.

“Enough pleasantries, Mr Sims,” he said.

“You haven’t said anything yet, Master,” Jon said.

“And yet you’re already bored,” Bouchard said, the corner of his lip twitching. “I take it the lab requires your constant supervision?”

“It requires some supervision,” Jon said, and immediately felt the urge to bite off his own tongue. It wasn’t his place to criticize the way Master Bouchard managed his department. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Bouchard said. “And do not lie to me, please. I much prefer impertinence to dishonesty.”

“That is a relief,” Jon said. “I’m a notoriously bad liar.”

Bouchard chuckled lightly. It accentuated the lines on his face, particularly around his pale eyes, and the upturned curve of his mouth. And it wasn’t really fair how much that look suited him.

“Well,” Jon cleared his throat, and adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Is there anything you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Indeed there is,” Bouchard said. “Have you made any progress with your training?”

All of a sudden Jon realized how relaxed he had felt up until this moment. But now his posture stiffened, and a weight pressed down on his chest.

“No,” he said. “I have not and you know it.”

Was it disappointment, then, in Bouchard’s solemn expression? It had to be. He had every reason to be disappointed with Jon. Impertinence might have been acceptable but incompetence was decidedly not. And Jon really wasn’t proving himself in that regard, was he?

“And why do you think that is?” Bouchard asked.

“I don’t know,” Jon snapped, frustration boiling over. “I am trying, I really am. I just—I don’t know what it is I’m doing wrong.”

He rubbed his chin and covered his mouth with a hand, eyes fliting around the room, trying to focus on something, anything that wasn’t Bouchard’s knowing gaze.

A long, heavy silence followed. His master was clearly waiting for Jon to come up with a decent excuse, or at least a reasonable explanation for the numerous failures; for all the wasted hours and sleepless nights. But it ought to have been clear by now that Jon had nothing to offer. So what was he still waiting for?

“Jon,” Bouchard said, after Jon remained stubbornly quiet. And that—he almost never addressed Jon by his name. It was improper, it implied a level of familiarity that they decidedly did not share; Jon flinched in his seat. “If I may offer a suggestion?”

That startled a laugh out of Jon, bitter and somewhat unpleasant. Now, after all this time, Bouchard wanted to help? “Of course,” he said.

“Will you do as I say?”

“I—” Jon hesitated, but it did not last long. He was past the point of desperation – or, come to think of it, pride. “Yes. I will.”

“Good,” Bouchard nodded. “Then take off the bracelet.”

“The—what?”

“You heard me.”

“I did hear you,” Jon said, incredulous. Was Bouchard toying with him, again? “I just—I can’t do that, Master. You know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

The bracelet had been his near-constant companion for the past twenty years; Jon touched it now, seeking reassurance from its presence. He felt the familiar intricate pattern, the faint pulsating rhythm of it, the subtle way it shifted and reacted to his touch. And—how could he explain it? Why would he need to? It was embarrassing enough that he had to wear it at all, and now Bouchard was expecting him to admit to this—this weakness?

“Because I can’t control my magic without it,” Jon snapped.

Bouchard looked as if he was waiting for something. It seemed like he would be willing to wait a long time for—what, exactly? For Jon to have a miraculous breakthrough—

–wait.

“I—I can’t control my magic,” Jon repeated, slow and incredulous. “Really? That’s it?” He turned towards Bouchard, who was watching him intently. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did,” Bouchard said. “You didn’t listen.”

“I did listen! I just didn’t understand—” Jon’s voice drifts off. His hand is wrapped loosely around his wrist, covering the bracelet. “And now you want me to take it off?”

“Yes,” Bouchard said. “You have been relying on it for, how long now? Several years?”

“Twenty,” Jon said flatly.

At that, Bouchard went still. He stared at Jon with wide eyes, as if he was seeing him for the first time. It occurred to Jon that it was the only time so far he had seen the man genuinely surprised.

“I’m sorry—twenty years?” Bouchard said. “Oh, Jon… what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Jon said. He was feeling slightly nauseous. His tea had cooled down in the meantime but it was still refreshingly bitter; he took a long gulp to settle his stomach. “How would taking it off now possibly help me?”

“You need to get used to relying on yourself again,” Bouchard said after a moment. “Your own willpower, your own self-control. It is not something that can be exercised for half an hour twice a week.”

“Oh, and it’s that easy?” Jon snapped.

“No one said anything about easy.”

Jon set down his half-empty cup with too much force. Lukewarm tea sloshed inside and spilled partially onto the saucer beneath.

“Thank you for the advice, Master,” he said stiffly, pushing himself upwards. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

Bouchard measured him with a cool gaze, eyebrows pinched together. Perhaps Jon had gone too far this time – he expected the man to lash out, to discipline him, or just end his apprenticeship altogether. But Bouchard merely sighed, and shook his head.

“No, that is all. You may go.”

Off Jon went, and tried to tell himself that what he felt was relief, and not disappointment.