2023-05-24 1:48:14 ¶ ●

I’ve had a long day so this part is shorter. But there’s a cliffhanger!! :D

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

***

He didn’t take any cigarettes. Why didn’t he take cigarettes? Ostensibly, it’s because he’s been trying to quit, and because it’s an awful habit, and because smoking has been rightfully banned in most public spaces – which are all valid, yes, but, counterpoint: Jon really needs a cigarette right now.

No such luck. He can see two people smoking, but given who the gala is for and Jon’s own rotten luck, they are probably in service of a Fear Entity that would love to swallow Jon whole. So he hides in the shadows instead, his back pressed against the walls of the Institute, and takes some comfort in the fact that the Archives are nearby. Just a short walk down the main hall, a staircase, and a corridor, with the familiar door at the end. And there’s the cot in the old storage room, a kettle, five different types of tea, fresh milk in the fridge, biscuits, a few apples, bread and ham and cheese… it is a little sad that the small kitchen in the break room is stocked better than the one in Jon’s apartment, but this is his life now.

The only reason he isn’t down there right now is that it’s the first place Elias would look for him. If he even needed to look.

He could hide in the tunnels. He would, if he had a torch, some supplies, and a comfier pair of shoes. Or, really, a reason to go for such extreme measures.

…besides, if Elias tried to look for him and couldn’t see him anywhere, wouldn’t he figure out that Jon is somewhere that’s hidden from the Eye, and since the tunnels are nearby and relatively safe, that’s where he must have gone?

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, because Jon hasn’t done anything to warrant Elias hunting him down. He just—turned around and fled the room. Just like that. Shame it wasn’t at the stroke of midnight, and Jon had no glass slippers to leave behind. Alas, it’s only 9:34 and Jon’s shoes are the most generic brand available, and they pinch a little anyway.

So it’s not a perfect metaphor. Jon was never great at those. The fact remains that it’s a chilly evening, he is shivering slightly, sitting on the steps of the Institute, and aching for a smoke. He is also alone. Not in any supernatural way, but if he stays here any longer, he isn’t sure the fog won’t come creeping back for him.

He fishes the phone out of his pocket, and considers his options for a few minutes, before he cracks and calls Martin.

“Jon?”

“Erm. Hi,” Jon says. His mind is blank; he should have thought of something to say. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No, not at all. Are you okay? Do you need help?”

Martin. The concern in his voice is so apparent, and it sets around Jon’s shoulders like a warm blanket. It’s wonderful; Jon wonders if he will ever come to deserve it.

“Everything’s fine,” Jon says. He feels slightly guilty for making Martin worry in the first place, so he hurries to add: “The gala was rather uneventful. I think I’m going to head home.”

“Oh!” There are some noises on Martin’s end of the line; he can recognize familiar voices. “We are actually at a pub right now? With Tim and Sasha. Would you like to join us?”

He says it all in a rush. He’s expecting Jon to decline; Jon has never accepted their invitation in the past. It might have been a sense of propriety, some rules about fraternizing with one’s subordinates. But he knows that’s not the whole truth.

“I’d like that,” Jon says. “If, erm, Tim and Sasha don’t mind?”

There’s laughter on the other end; are they laughing at him? They must be. Good lord, why is he always so awkward…

“They don’t,” Martin says. “Come on, I’ll text you the address.”

***

It’s a quaint little place, not far from the Institute. A coincidence? Or is it part of the binding, that they cannot stray too far from it even on a Friday night? Either way, all three of them look reasonably relaxed, sharing a cramped booth and finishing off a round of drinks.

“Looking good, boss,” Sasha grins at him. Jon would assume she’s being sarcastic but there’s no malice to her tone; he still fiddles with the sleeve of his suit jacket, aware that he is horribly overdressed for such an informal setting.

“I should have changed,” he says. “But it was already pretty late…”

“No! I mean, uh,” Martin clears his throat nervously. “You do look really nice.”

“Smooth, man,” Tim mutters.

He smiles at Jon, but there’s something uncomfortably guarded in his expression. Jon aches for a time when things were simpler between the two of them.

“So! Tell as bout the gala,” Sasha says, sipping something bright and colourful through a straw. Jon perches down on a seat opposite her, next to Martin, who is shuffling around awkwardly to make more space, and whose face is now almost entirely red.

“Like I said,” Jon says. “Uneventful.”

“Really?” Tim asks. “No black candles, no ritual sacrifice?”

“You make it sound like we’re in a cult.”

“We are in a cult.”

“Do we have to talk about this now?” Martin asks.

“No. I suppose not.”

An awkward silence descends upon the table. Jon fidgets with his hands, and the others drink, each scanning around for a safe topic of conversation.

They don’t find it right away. But it unspools gradually, through books and music and movies. Jon buys a round of drinks for everyone – he is their boss, after all, it seems customary – and Tim smiles a little more favourably at him after that.

It is nice, in a very mundane way. But Jon appreciates the mundanity of it all the more for how rare it’s been. They drink, and chat, and everything’s going perfectly well until Tim pulls out his phone to check his messages, and goes incredibly, unnaturally still.

“Tim?” Sasha asks. “You okay?”

Tim looks up. Stares at Jon. Then he looks down again.

“More or less, yeah,” he says. “So, Jon. About that gala…”