May 2023

my Magnus Archives problem persists. I still want to avoid spoilers, but also: the Jon/Martin fanart is so cute!!! Love y’all’s character design ^^

While I appreciate that Jonathan Sims bought a knife before exploring a dark and dangerous location, I’m also wondering: what. What does he think he’ll do with it. You are a silly little bean, Jon. A tiny waif of a man. Go back to your desk and drink some tea!!!

….oh who am I kidding, I will naturally gravitate towards the most toxic ship in the fandom.

So, uh. Is Jonathan/Elias a thing…?

Jon. Jon. You precious pathetic little creature.

I wanna slap you silly and then wrap you in a blanket.

so naturally, I couldn’t handle *not knowing* what happens next in Magnus Archives, and reading through tv tropes and fanfics and tumblr is quicker and easier for me than listening to a podcast (excellent though it may be)

and now I am sitting here and pondering the irony of it all

I am delighted to announce that the Jonathan/Elias fics are exactly as unhinged and wonderful as I could have hoped.

However! they come in three basic flavours:

1. Elias is a bastard and Jon suffers

2. Elias is a bastard but he’s inexplicably soft on Jon

3. Elias is a bastard but Jon is into it.

And I have yet to decide which one is my favourite :D

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.

stringbeanbones:

my magnus archives experience

i am WHEEZING

Elias: Be careful. You know how hard it’d be to replace you.

Jon: ….I don’t actually?? But thank you??

intellectually, i know TMA is a horror podcast and isolation is an important theme, but goddammit i just want Jon to be nicer to his friends

itchyeye:

the jon/jonah parallels

So this is me, trying to write some light and fluffy Jon/Elias.

….yeah.

***

“Uh, Jon? You okay?”

“Yes,” Jon says, through gritted teeth, and wonders if it’s too early in the day for another smoke break. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Everything’s just great, isn’t?”

Martin takes a hesitant step back.

“Well, actually—”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know that!” Martin’s face twists into a scowl, and Jon feels a well-deserved stab of guilt. He was supposed to stop that, wasn’t he? Stop keeping people at arm’s length, stop being mean and short-tempered, stop with the suspicions and stalking and baseless accusations—just. Stop.

Jon forces himself to breathe, imagining sharp taste of smoke filling his mouth, creeping down his lungs. He exhales, almost able to watch the puffy little cloud—

“Elias called. He wants to see you.”

Jon bites back a string of curses, because it would be unprofessional. He isn’t fooling anyone, though, not even Martin, who just pats him on the shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world, for him to touch Jon. For anyone to touch Jon.

“I’ll make tea, shall I?” Martin says brightly.

“Oh, great,” Tim says. “I didn’t feel like doing all this work, anyway.”

He has been slacking off as much as possible, these past few days (weeks?), straddling a fine line between plausible deniability and outright disrespect. Jon cannot even pretend to fault him for that. Sasha’s own hunger for knowledge prevents her from following in Tim’s footsteps, while Martin’s overall efficiency hasn’t wavered in either direction.

Most of the time, though, they act like everything is fine. They drink tea and eat lunch and follow up on statements, they make jokes and smile and laugh – somehow managing to ignore the fact that all this work is in the service of a powerful, malevolent entity, that they are bound to an evil cult, that their own boss is holding them hostage.

And they ignore this: that it’s all because of Jon. Stupid, short-sighted, arrogant Jon, who damned himself to this life, and then damned his assistants, too. Who cannot do anything to save them. Whose breakdown was understandable, apparently, whose behaviour was unacceptable but everyone’s willing to move past it anyway, so long as he promises to be better in the future.

Except he doesn’t know how. He just doesn’t. And they know that, and he knows that they know, and every time Tim or Martin or Sasha smiles at him in spite of all of this, Jon just wishes they’d punch him instead.

“Tea’s up!” Martin says, after the timer beeps. He has his own little ritual, preparing the tea to everyone’s liking. Despite his best efforts not to stare or catalogue their behaviour, Jon realizes now that it calms him, that the faint tremor in his hands stops when he’s preparing tea, that his posture relaxes and the smile tips over from slightly forced to genuine. It’s—sweet. Worryingly so.

“Thank you,” Jon says.

“So what pissed you off earlier?” Tim asks.

“HR called about health check-ups,” Jon says flatly. “Apparently, we’re due one soon. They asked if I’d describe our work environment as ‘particularly stressful’.”

Tim laughs, a short, unpleasant sound. Sasha just frowns.

“Do you think HR knows what’s really going on here? Or Library, or Research? It can’t just be us and Elias, right?”

“Ask them next time,” Tim says. “Maybe we can get ourselves institutionalized if they don’t.”

Would it even work? Would a mental health facility, or even a prison, keep them safe from Elias’s prying gaze? Maybe that’s something to consider. Not an ideal solution, but…

“Speaking of Elias—shouldn’t you…?”

“Oh, let the bastard wait,” Tim says.

“Tim.”

“What? You don’t think he’s watching us all the time, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says.

He needs to get them out. He just—he just needs to.

“You’re right though,” Jon says, rubbing his forehead in the faint hope that it’ll make his headache go away. “I should be going. Off to another pointless conversation.”

Sasha blinks at him. “Oh? I thought he was teaching you—you know—” she waves her hand around, in an abstract and vague manner.

“He isn’t teaching me anything,” Jon says. “Most of the time, he just sits there and stares at me. I just.” His shoulders sag. He curls his hands around the comforting warmth of his teacup and wishes, stupidly, that he could hold Martin’s hand instead. “I just don’t know what he wants from me.”

“Well,” Tim says. “For one thing, he probably wants to fuck you.”

Martin spits out his tea and starts coughing, violently. Jon narrowly avoids knocking over his own cup, while Sasha rushes to Martin, to make sure he’s not choking on the hot liquid. He is red in the face, weakly trying to get Sasha to stop pounding on his back, while Jon can only watch, in abject horror.

It takes several minutes before anyone breaks the heavy, oppressive silence. Jon is rather surprised to find himself speaking as calmly as he does.

“That joke was in poor taste.”

Unrepentant, Tim just shrugs. “Wasn’t joking.”

“Tim!” Martin yells, scandalized. His face is flushed, although it’s hard to judge if it’s from anger, embarrassment, or exertion.

“What?” Tim asks. “You all thought it!”

“I assure you,” Jon says, still perfectly calm. “I did not.”

“Yeah, but you’re not exactly an authority on the subject, are you?” Tim says.

“Now what’s that supposed to mean?” Calm. Still.

Tim doesn’t elaborate. Sasha is fiddling with the sleeve of her sweater and pointedly not meeting anyone’s eyes. Martin is the only one who looks appropriately shocked and scandalized, with an undercurrent of rage that Jon cannot guess the source of.

“Tim,” Jon says. “What did you mean?”

He wishes there was something triumphant in Tim’s expression – a vicious satisfaction at getting the blow to land. At embarrassing Jon in such a crude, vulgar manner. Some measure of animosity or hatred that one could cling to. As retaliation, it was perfectly well-deserved; as a joke, Jon cannot handle it.

But Tim only looks at him, tired and—pitying? Is that it? Because as a statement of fact, Jon cannot even begin to consider it…

“I am sorry,” Tim says. “I know it’s not appropriate to speculate, because you’re my boss, and I don’t actually know about your preferences or anything. But you can be a bit oblivious to people hitting on you. I mean, you didn’t notice it when I did it back in Research, and I thought I was being pretty blatant.”

Jon’s mind tries to make sense of that statement. He thinks back to his interactions with Tim – they were quite friendly, definitely much more so than since Jon’s promotion. And Tim was quite flirtatious, sure, but he was like that with everyone. It was just Tim’s personality.

As for Elias—no. It doesn’t even bear thinking about.

“So? You think I’m sleeping with Elias?”

He cannot stop himself from asking the questions, and it seems that Tim cannot stop himself from answering.

“I never said that. I just think that he’s interested in you.”

“Based on what? That he made me Head Archivist? That he wants to sacrifice me to his God, or whatever it is he’s planning?” Jon is laughing now, and it sounds jarring and unnatural even to his own ears. It sounds more like Michael’s laughter than anything that should be coming out of his mouth.

“No, based on the way he’s always looking at you!” Tim says, louder. “And it’s not just me who thought as much, mind you. When you got promoted—”

He stops abruptly. Jon laughs and laughs, until he feels the sharp sting of tears in his eyes. Martin and Sasha stare at him as if he was going insane, which is honestly rather hurtful, as he isn’t the one spouting absolute nonsense right now.

“This isn’t funny, Jon” Martin says quietly.

“I beg to differ,” Jon says. Then, struck with another unpleasant thought on top of the other unpleasant thoughts, he turns to Sasha. “Is that what you thought, too? That Elias didn’t make you Head Archivist because he was involved with me?”

“No!” Sasha bites her lip, before she carries on, the words seemingly dragged out of her throat. “I mean—yeah, okay, it crossed my mind once or twice. But that was then. Before we learned what this place really is – who Elias really is.”

So people think Jon slept his way into a position he is obviously unsuited for. His own assistants thought that. And it would be insulting if it wasn’t so utterly absurd – aside from Jon’s own aversion to sex, he isn’t particularly attractive. If that was Elias’s only criteria, there were plenty of better-looking people to choose from. To think otherwise would be arrogant, borderline delusional.

Not for the first time, Jon wishes he could be normal about this. Had he been in a stable relationship, no one would think to entertain such ridiculous rumours. No one would whisper behind his back about his preferences, or wonder just what the hell was wrong with him. Was he just frigid and unpleasant, or was there something deeper? An unresolved trauma? Something vile, unnatural, wrong?

All things considered, maybe he’s getting off easy. There are worse things people could be accusing him off.

He is tired, Jon realizes. Exhaustion weighs heavily on his limbs, slows down his thoughts, blurs his vision. And he still needs to talk to Elias today.

“Look. I’ll—I have to go,” he says. He looks down at his hands, splayed on the table, and tries to push himself up. Wills his legs to carry his weight. Get him where he needs to be.

“Jon,” Tim says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Sasha says.

“Don’t be,” Jon says. “It’s fine. Nothing happened, right?” It’s not as if their opinion of him can get any lower. It’s not as if it wouldn’t be warranted, if it did.

“But what if something does happen?” Martin asks. The terror in his voice is enough to sap whatever energy Jon has left, leaving behind pure, impotent rage.

“What exactly do you think I’m going to do, Martin?” Jon asks. “Fuck Elias in exchange for letting me go? Promoting me further? Bestowing some of his powers upon me? Please tell me, because I am very interested in what you think I could possibly gain here!”

They are all so very, very quiet.

“Jon, this isn’t—this isn’t about what I think you’re going to do,” Martin says, softly. “It’s about what Elias might plan to do to you. You get that, right?”

No, Jon doesn’t. He doesn’t get Martin’s horrified, pale face, or Sasha’s grim expression, or Tim’s vaguely nauseated one. This feels like a step too far. And he wants to laugh again, or scream, or maybe even cry, because of the ridiculousness of it all. But he is still their fucking boss, and he promised to be nicer.

“Look,” he says, choosing his words very, very carefully. “I appreciate your concerns. I really do. But what you’re suggesting here is beyond ridiculous. Especially compared to everything else that’s happened. So, please. Let’s all go back to our actual jobs and never, ever mention it again, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for their response. They’ve already said too much.

I apologize for the false advertising last time. So. Uh. Elias does appear in this one, at least? It’s still not *soft* but we will hopefully get there.

This is a TMA fic by me. Continued from here.

***

The walk to Elias’s office is simultaneously much longer and much quicker than he remembers. Jon’s legs protest the exertion, his breaths coming in painfully shallow and fast; it feels like he will never reach his destination. At the same time, he barely has time to collect his thoughts, compose his posture, and figure out how the hell he’s going to look Elias in the eye.

Rosie waves him in without a pause. Jon takes in a final, deep breath, and tries to smooth the creases in his too-large sweater (it used to fit him perfectly; must have stretched out some time in the past weeks…)

“Hello, Archivist.”

“Elias,” he says upon entering the office, praying that his voice remains steady. “You wanted to see me.”

“Indeed I have. An hour ago.”

Elias’s expression is inscrutable as always. He sits back in his chair, fingers steepled together, the very picture of a model CEO. Behind him, Jonah Magnus stares at Jon through the eyes of his portrait.

“I apologize,” Jon says. “We had a problem in the Archives that needed my urgent attention.”

“Hmm,” Elias says. “All dealt with now, I trust? Or is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Before he can hold himself back, Jon says, “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of taking up your valuable time.”

“More than you already have, that is.”

“More than I already have.”

He forces himself to hold Elias’s gaze. He tries to clear his mind, because he’s fairly certain Elias can read him like an open book right now, but it’s useless – Tim’s an idiot, Jesus Christ I hope he doesn’t do anything to them, what if he was listening, what if he knows, how much does he know, can I stop him will I ever be able to stop him, what does he want, what does he want from me, what is it that he’s planning, is he going to hurt them? Is he going to hurt me? Shoot me like he did Gertrude, bash my brain in the way he did with Leitner… who else did he hurt? Who else is going to suffer because of him, because of me, because I’m too blind, too stupid, too tired to think…

What does he want from me?

He can’t do it; he drops his gaze and shuts his eyes, because while it may be cowardly, it’s easier than facing Elias right now.

If I can give it to him, will he leave them alone?

“Take a seat, Archivist,” Elias says, once the silence stretches for too long.

“No thank you.”

“I insist. You look like you were about to fall over.”

“I won’t.”

“Jon.” Elias sighs heavily, as if he were dealing with a particularly difficult child. “Any reason for this petulant display?”

At that, Jon’s eyes snap open. It takes a worryingly long time for his vision to focus and, to his mortification, he sways slightly where he stands.

“Was there something you needed?”

Elias’s smile is almost believable. Almost.

“What I don’t need is the hassle of finding another Archivist because the current one is too stubborn to take proper care of himself.”

Jon doesn’t know what he hates more: the fact that Elias is treating him like this, or the fact that he is probably right to do so. Still, either of those reasons is enough to hold himself straighter, and stare down at him with a (what he hopes is) dignified expression on his face.

“Was there something you needed?”

Elias’s eyes drift closer, a pleased, almost beatific smile gracing his features. Jon doesn’t know how to feel about that. Unwittingly, his mind drifts back to what Tim had said; but, no. This is still a ridiculous notion that he refuses to entertain.

He turns on his heel and starts pacing the room (plush carpet overlaid on marble floor, because of bloody course it is). He still hasn’t been dismissed, but maybe he can annoy Elias into doing so.

“Jon. Take a seat, please.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself, then.”

Elias leans forward in his chair and reaches for the mouse and keyboard. Within minutes, he is completely engrossed in his work, content to leave Jon standing.

It’s disconcerting. Elias’s office is spacious and rather old-fashioned, if sparsely decorated: the giant portrait of Jonah Magnus being its focal point. Jon’s not overly familiar with art history but he can appreciate mastery when he sees it. Jonah Magnus looks to be in his forties, his piercing grey-blue eyes seemingly tracking Jon’s every move. The name of the artist is not one Jon recognizes, but something nags at him; perhaps it’s one of Magnus’s friends, who used to write those thinly-veiled love letters to a man who only ever loved his work. Maybe the letters are still somewhere in the Archives. It’d be useful to find them; to learn more about Magnus himself, beyond the quite thorough research Jon had already done. Maybe it can help him understand how his mind worked. Maybe he’ll learn what actually prompted him to establish the Institute. Did he know about the Beholding from the beginning? Or had it taken years of meticulous research to acquire the knowledge that had been so unceremoniously dropped onto Jon’s head? Did the Eye claim him, or did he seek it out himself, devoting himself to an incomprehensibly powerful entity for a chance to quench his own thirst for knowledge? And would Jon still hold the same admiration for the man, if he knew more about his fears and doubts and motivations?

His head is spinning. When was the last time he slept? Elias has a fancy leather couch in his office, fitting all snugly between two bookcases. It is much, much nicer than the cot in the Archives that Martin used to sleep on after he was accosted by Prentiss, and that Jon still sometimes uses when he’s too tired to go home after work.

He should get a couch. Or a nicer cot. He’s sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble to fit it somewhere in the budget. If Elias intends to keep them all prisoners in the Archives, they might as well make the place more comfortable.

And it is such a nice couch. The leather is cool, and sticks to his skin; the. Whatchamacallits. Pillows mould themselves to Jon’s body. Like they were trying to hug him. And there’s a tear in the leather, right next to his cheek; he picks at it absent-mindedly, catching fine, web-like threads, poking at the spongy thing underneath. Tries to make sense of what’s happening to him right now.

Elias killed two people. Elias is putting a blanket around Jon. Elias is holding them hostage. Elias takes the glasses from Jon’s face and sets them down on a bookshelf, where they cannot be damaged…

Jon falls asleep, and dreams of grey-blue eyes.

***

Someone’s shouting.

Jon stirs and tries to make sense of his surroundings. It’s all blurry; he gropes around for his glasses, but they aren’t there. He can feel smooth leather under his hand, the delicate fabric of a blanket cocooning him, a pillow that’s warm with his body-heat beneath his cheek.

He can hear two men, arguing; familiar voices.

Slowly, he pushes himself into a sitting position. What time is—

–17:56—

–it?

He should have been on his way home, then. Except he is still within the walls of the Institute. His train is—

–pulling onto the station with a metallic screech; the doors open; commuters mill near the entrances, never leaving enough space for the people disembarking before they try to force their way in, eager to get home—

–he missed his train.

Jon rubs his face. Something isn’t quite right, he just can’t pinpoint what it is…

“Jon! You okay?”

It’s Tim. He’s trying to push past Elias and make his way inside the office. And why are they here, anyway–?

He must have fallen asleep here. He just—went and fell asleep, in full view of his enemy, vulnerable and helpless. Did Elias do this to him? Or did he do it to himself? Does he even want to know the answer to that particular question?

“I’m fine,” Jon says, hoarse with sleep and embarrassment both, and sets about looking for his glasses. How could he have been so stupid? Yet again?

“See? He’s alive and well,” Elias says. “Now get out of my office, Timothy.”

Tim glares at Elias with near-palpable hatred. One doesn’t need otherworldly Powers to know what, exactly, he thinks of Elias right now.

“Did you drug him?” he asks.

“Why the hell would I do that?” Elias sounds genuinely baffled and annoyed by the suggestion. “He was exhausted, so I let him rest.”

“How kind of you,” Tim spits out.

Jon carefully folds the blanket before putting it down and then realizes, to his mortification, that his shoes are set down neatly on the floor. That he is barefoot.

Did Elias take them off? If so, Jon can only assume he did it out of concern for the upholstery rather than Jon’s comfort. Either way, he slides them on his feet and ties them, hasty and careless, uncomfortably aware of two – at least two – pairs of eyes on him.

“Right. Well. It’s past five…”

Maybe he can sneak down to the Archives and sort through a couple of statements before heading home. His assistants must have already left – except for Tim, who is, inexplicably, still here.

“Why are you here, Tim?” Jon asks, trying to stifle a yawn.

“You never came back! We were worried about you!”

He feels the familiar stab of guilt. Martin and Sasha and Tim were out there, fretting about his well-being and their own imprisonment, while he was taking a peaceful nap in the company of their jailer. That isn’t right. None of it is right. And he can already see Tim’s eyes narrow in suspicion, because how hard is it to assume that Jon is here out of his own free will? That he feels safe around Elias, safe enough to drop his guard down like this? How can they trust him afterwards?

He wishes Elias had, in fact, drugged him. Because wouldn’t it be convenient, to blame all of Jon’s shortcomings onto somebody else?

“Thank you, Tim,” Jon says quietly. “But we really should go now.” Belatedly, he remembers that Elias never told him why he wanted to see Jon today, and that they may still have something to discuss. He corrects himself, then: “You should go, that is. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He wants Tim out of the office. Away from Elias’s clutches.

Except Tim chooses that moment to plant himself in the door, and stare at him angrily.

“I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

“Oh, aren’t you,” Elias growls. “I think you will find, Timothy, that this is my Institute, and my Archivist, and if I want him to stay in here, he will.”

Jon should be offended, and quite frankly he is, but he also desperately wants Tim to leave. And Tim isn’t moving.

“We aren’t your property, Elias!” Tim shouts.

“Tim,” Jon tries to seize his arm, get him to stop, but Tim only shakes him off.

And it’s going to end horribly. He knows this, because Elias is smiling now, his eyes focused on Tim’s; and Jon steps between them but can’t quite block their line of sight, because they are both taller than he is, and he doesn’t know what Elias is doing, but he can see the blood drain from Tim’s face, can see his pupils widen, can see the shock, fear, terror, transforming his features—can see him tremble, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his lips parting on a word or a name or a scream—

“Elias!”

Tim crumples in Jon’s arms, his shaking hands clutching at the back of Jon’s sweater, his face, damp with tears, burrowing against Jon’s shoulder; he is breathing so quickly now, tremors running through his body, holding onto Jon like a lifeline.

“Elias,” Jon repeats quietly. “Stop that. Please.”

Behind him, Elias sighs.

“I would really prefer not to have to do that at all,” he says. He doesn’t seem particularly angry or annoyed anymore; rather like a schoolteacher or a put-upon parent, delivering a well-deserved, if harsh punishment to an unruly child. “Contrary to what you want to believe, Archivist, we are on the same side.”

He says that as if Tim weren’t openly sobbing in Jon’s arms. And then he pats Jon’s shoulder, all business-like, with something approaching a genuine smile on his face.

“Go home, Jon. Get some rest.”

Hey look, it’s another instalment of that Jon/Elias fic I never planned to write, because I want them to be soft and they just keep fighting.

Part 1 | Part 2

***

Jon cannot rest.

On his way home, he glances upwards, only to see the familiar grey eyes in the face of the woman opposite him. The train lurches; the woman blinks. Jon must have imagined it, because her eyes are dark, almost as dark as his own. And she notices him staring, because she stands up and moves further down the car, very blatantly avoiding Jon.

He cannot blame her.

Back in his flat, he drops his briefcase and collapses onto his own (much less comfortable) couch. He fixes himself a cup of tea that isn’t nearly as nice as the tea Martin makes for him. He stands up, and paces, and then sits back down again, only to bury his face in his hands.

There is a pile of old magazines on his coffee table. He breathes in, sharply, because the man on the cover is watching him—

He isn’t, of course. Jon rolls up the magazine just in case, and then stuffs it in the bin.

There aren’t many pictures in his flat, thankfully. Not even of his grandmother, which he feels vaguely guilty about. But not as guilty as he does now, as he retrieves duct tape from his cupboard and carefully, deliberately tapes it over every eye he can see. CDs. DVDs. A paint-by-numbers painting of owls, which was supposed to help with his anxiety. Even the little ghost magnet on his fridge that Georgie gave him at some point.

It’s stupid. It’s really, really stupid. But it makes him feel better, lessens the prickling sensation on the back of his neck.

He goes to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and then looks up, startled to see his own reflection. Is there grey in his eyes, to match the grey in his hair? Can Elias even do that? Spy on Jon through Jon’s very eyes, without alerting him to his presence?

There must be limits to his abilities, and it’s maddening that Jon doesn’t know them. If he understood more, he could protect himself better. Protect Tim and Martin and Sasha, too.

Tim shoved him away as soon as they left Elias’s office. Whatever it was that Elias forced him to see, Jon couldn’t even begin to guess. But he shouldn’t have let Tim go, either. He offered to walk him home, at the very least, but it only brought back unpleasant memories of when he used to stalk Tim; an unforgivable breech of privacy. Tim angrily rebuffed his offer.

Jon would have to face him tomorrow. Find some way to apologize. Even though he was running out of excuses for his own inadequacy. There’s only so many times a man can apologize, after all, before it all rings hollow.

He takes the mirror off the wall. Just in case.

***

Next week, Elias is busy. Something about the board of directors, Rosie says apologetically; meetings to have, reports to give, budgets to submit for acceptance. It’s mundane to the point of grotesque.

Jon requests a meeting anyway, and isn’t granted one until next Wednesday. His heart is in his throat, the way it tends to be when he enters Elias’s office lately. It’s thankfully late in the day, the Institute being almost deserted. He wonders if Elias scheduled it that way on purpose, so that they can be alone.

If so, he is almost glad.

“Elias,” he says. And then, because nothing in his life makes sense anymore, he follows up with: “I hope everything went well with the board meetings.”

“Quite so,” Elias says. “Even if we had the exact same bloody conversation hundreds of thousands of times. You’d think Peter would get bored of it by now.”

He runs a hand through his hair, messing up its neat, stylish lines. It’s strange to see Elias in any state of disarray; he looks disconcertingly human right now. He seems to almost forget about Jon’s presence, before he looks up.

“Come on in, Archivist. Lock the door.”

Jon does so. There is something final about the click of the lock; he almost shudders at the sound.

“Any particular reason?” he asks, belatedly.

“It’s been a long week. I don’t want any of your annoying assistants pestering me today.”

“They wouldn’t do that if you hadn’t—”

“What? Assaulted your precious virtue?”

Jon is blushing. He must be, because he feels the warmth in his cheeks. But he refuses to back down. Not with Elias smirking at him the way he is right now, leaning back in his fancy chair. Jon takes the opposite seat and folds his hands in his lap; his mind helpfully brings back the memories of his job interview; the day he signed the contract and unknowingly pledged himself to the Institute and the Beholding for the rest of his life; the day Elias offered him the promotion.

Knowing what he knows now, he wishes he could have refused at any of these occasions. He could have told Elias “No” at any point. But—in truth, he isn’t sure he could have. He might have walked away, but he’d spend the rest of his life wondering.

“You were listening, then,” he says.

“Yes,” Elias says simply.

“Is this why you hurt Tim?”

Elias’s sharp laugh cuts through the silence. Jon fidgets in his seat.

“No. But he annoyed me.”

“You can’t do this sort of thing just because someone annoys you, Elias!” Jon snaps.

Tim still isn’t quite all right. He pretends to be, but Jon’s been watching him too carefully, and too long, to miss the obvious signs. And he knows that his watchful concern is driving Tim insane, but he still can’t bring himself to stop.

“Why not?” Elias asks, with an infuriating little smile.

Jon struggles for an appropriate response, but all he can come up with is: “It isn’t right.”

“And who is to decide what is or isn’t “right”, Jon? You? Me? An impartial and uncaring God? Because I can assure you, the Eye loved that particular display. Or could you not feel it?”

“Whatever it is your God wants from you—”

“Our God, Archivist. Do not ever forget that.”

Jon bites back a sharp retort. He has little to gain by challenging Elias’s delusions—

“Do you need any further proofs?” Elias asks calmly. “Because I can provide them. In abundance.”

“Get out of my head,” Jon seethes.

“Learn to stop me,” Elias says. “Make it difficult, at the very least.”

“Tell me how.”

“Why would I give you answers it took more than one lifetime to procure?” Elias asks. “You have to work for these things, Jon. Otherwise they have no meaning.”

Jon forces himself to breathe evenly. He didn’t ask for this; he doesn’t need to know. He can ignore the gnawing hunger that’s consuming him; that has already consumed Elias. The Eye demands a hefty price for its gifts, and Jon isn’t willing to pay it. He must remember that.

“Let them go,” he says, as calm as he can manage. “Tim and Martin and Sasha. They shouldn’t be here.”

“They are bound by the same contract as you are,” Elias says.

“They didn’t know. None of us knew.”

“Yes, it is frustrating, isn’t it?” Elias smiles. “Ignorance. Uncertainty. Doubt. Wouldn’t you rather be rid of them, Jon?”

He doesn’t bother denying. What would be the point? Elias can see right through him already. But there are lines Jon cannot cross. And there’s some comfort in knowing his own limits; he wonders if Elias has any such compunctions. Knowing that about him would be an immensely valuable asset.

It is hard to imagine. Harder to imagine still that he might come to know Elias so intimately, and what that knowledge might do to him. How well can you know another person, Jon wonders, before it changes something irrevocably and fundamentally about your own self?

“Elias,” he tries again, in a softer voice. “Please. Let them go. I don’t want to see them hurt.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Elias says. “So what is it you can offer me in exchange, Archivist?”

And Jon laughs. He can’t help it. His shoulders tremble with the effort of holding it back, before he gives up entirely, and dissolves into giggles, wiping more than one tear from his eyes. His thoughts are such a complete and utter mess that not even Elias can read them right now, if his puzzled frown is any indication.

“Something funny?”

“I was just thinking about what Tim had said,” Jon says.

Elias isn’t pleased, he can tell as much from the frown on his face. Jon is half-heartedly expecting him to take out his anger on Jon himself – he tries to prepare himself for a barrage of horrifying images that Elias might want to push into his mind. What shape would they take? It is unsettling to consider, but some detached part of himself can’t help but wonder what Elias thinks Jon’s worst nightmare is. If that’s even how it works, of course.

“I’m not going to do that, Jon,” Elias says.

“Why not?” Jon asks. Yet again Elias is picking through his thoughts as if it was his right to do so. Yet again he shows absolutely no regard for other people’s privacy. It’s maddening, and Jon wants very badly to stop him, but since he doesn’t know how, he just thinks the word: Bastard as clearly as he can, and hopes it makes its way through their mental link.

“There is no reason to,” Elias says. “It’s just that, you see… considering how well-suited you are for your role, and how quickly you are adapting to it, I find the idea that my interest in you is purely sexual to be unacceptable and downright insulting.”

That—Jon doesn’t quite know what to make of that. What does one make of that?

“You think I’m good at my job?” he asks. Clarity, he needs clarity.

“Yes, Jon. I knew you would be. This is why I picked you.”

“Oh.”

Jon looks at the floor. Elias isn’t looking at him, either, his gaze focused somewhere on the ceiling.

“But—” No, he can’t bring himself to ask. You do want to have sex with me? Hangs at the tip of his tongue, caught in a limbo of shame and mortification. People don’t ask questions like that. Do they? For them this is just—perfectly natural. They don’t need to be told these things.

He should have dated more. He should have tried, actually tried, to get the experience he is so utterly lacking. Maybe then he might have a frame of reference for how to talk to Elias, or how to act in this situation. What is he even going to do?

Tim should be here. Or Sasha, or Martin. He still wants to keep them as far away from the supernatural as possible, still needs to keep them safe – and he can do it, really, he can do his own research, it will only take more time without Sasha’s technical skills or Tim’s charisma, without their combined dedication and efforts. He can—he must learn to handle it all alone. There’s no other way to proceed, it’s too dangerous otherwise. But – in this particular situation, with this particular subject, Jon could really use some bloody assistance right about now…

“Jon. You’re spiralling.”

“Hm?”

He looks down at his hands, twisted in his lap. He unclenches them carefully, and tries to wipe the sweat on his trousers without making it too obvious that this is what he’s doing.

Elias is smiling at him, that inexplicable, infuriating little smile that spells out that Elias knows he is the smartest person in the room, and is very much enjoying it. And oh, how Jon aches to wipe it off; to finally, finally see Elias Bouchard trip on his own ego and admit he isn’t as perfect as he likes to pretend.

After a long silence, Elias finally decides to take pity on him, and Jon hates him for it.

“Yes. I would rather like to have sex with you. But I am aware this isn’t something you would be interested in, it is irrelevant to the greater work we are trying to accomplish, and forcing you into it might negatively impact your ability to follow my orders. So I decided not to pursue the matter.”

“Negatively impact—? Oh, fuck you!”

Elias shrugs. “You wanted a clear answer.”

“I’m—you’re unbelievable.”

“It’s not my fault that the truth isn’t what you wanted it to be, Archivist.”

Elias is enjoying himself, still. And Jon wants to punch him. It would solve nothing, and create more trouble than it’s worth, but oh, he really, really wants to do it.

For some infernal reason, Elias makes them suffer through an office party.

His assistants flat out refuse to come, but Jon is a department head, and should make at least a token appearance. They’re celebrating an anniversary of the establishment of the Institute, and Jon very much does not care which one it is—

–one hundred and sixty years—

But at least the wine is nice.

Elias drags him around and introduces him to his benefactors: Peter Lukas and Simon Fairchild and some others, old men with more money than common sense. Jon shakes Peter’s hand and feels the cold, creeping fog curl around his feet; looks into empty eyes and can’t see or hear anyone else—

Elias’s hand curls around his bicep, proprietary and way too presumptuous.

“Do not startle my Archivist, Peter,” Elias says. “He’s rather shy.”

They all laugh at Jon as if he were an object, paraded around for their approval. Well, Jon couldn’t care less about it, so he smiles through clenched teeth, makes whatever small talk he deems unavoidable, and excuses himself at the earliest opportunity.

He sulks at the top of the balcony and watches the colourful crowd milling below. How many of them are of the Beholding, then? How many serve other Powers? There are patterns there, he can feel the shape of them, but they don’t make sense to him yet. And wine makes him unsettled, overly warm; he can feel his inhibitions melt away, stupidly texts Wish you were here to Martin, because wouldn’t it be nice to have a shoulder to lean on?

Mostly, however, he watches Elias. He seems awfully close to Peter Lukas; even now, they stand together, caught in a whispered conversation, Elias with his hand on Peter’s shoulder, leaning a tad too far into the man’s personal space for it to be accidental…

They both look up, and catch Jon staring. Jon shudders; the men just laugh.

Thankfully, some of his former colleagues from Research are here. They ask polite questions about his new position, but are mostly just content to discuss old stories and their current projects. They miss Sasha; Jon lets her know via text, and receives a heart emoji in response. It’s almost pleasant. Easy enough not to wonder how many of them are aware of the Eye’s watchful gaze.

But he does wonder. He can’t help but wonder.

Do they know they can’t leave? Everyone’s acting like nothing is amiss, and it’s driving Jon insane. There’s a buzz in his head that he’s trying to drown out with more wine, that prickling sensation of constant surveillance, the underlying awareness that all these happy, smiling, innocent people are doomed, that they have already signed their freedom away, that there is nothing Jon can do for them…

He lets the conversation drift around him and then, eventually, away. He doesn’t seek out company afterwards, content to sleepwalk through the Institute halls, paying no attention to anyone and receiving none of it in turn. It is peaceful. It is terrifying.

“Archivist.”

The voice is vaguely familiar. Peter Lukas, his mind supplies – captain of the Tundra. The fog thickens around them, muffling sound and light. He can still see people, they are still there, but Jon doesn’t know them. Doesn’t care to know them. Certainly no more than they care to know him.

“Captain Lukas,” Jon says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His voice drifts through the mists. Peter laughs.

“You know, I could very easily take you right now,” he says. “Snatch you right from underneath Elias’s thumb. Wouldn’t that serve him well?”

Jon shrugs.

“Can’t imagine he’d care.”

He can’t imagine anyone would care. Jon could stay here forever. Probably should. It’s not like he’s making much of a difference out there – all of his actions only serve to make the situation worse.

Except Elias would care – he might care about the failure of his pet project. But he can replace Jon easily, can he not? Sasha would make a great Head Archivist. She’d get the position she had always wanted, that should have been hers in the first place, that Jon had stolen from her. Tim won’t have to suffer Jon’s entitlement and paranoia, won’t be looking at him as if Jon was going insane, won’t have to struggle with that seething rage… and Martin… Martin deserves someone better. Someone who will treat him right, and not as a punching bag or a source of emotional support.

He can feel the cold, damp fog seep through his clothes. Its tendrils creep along bare skin, leave him shivering. But that, too, passes; he stands still, numb to the mist that will swallow him whole. He can see nothing, hear no one…

“How are you doing this?” he asks.

Peter Lukas is a shadow in the fog, his voice coming from somewhere far, far away.

“I’m not doing anything to you, Archivist. You’re doing it to yourself.”

“But why?”

He knows why. It is one of the Powers, feeding on his fear, the way it did to Naomi Herne, Carlita Sloane, Andrea Nunis… their statements float through his memories, each one stark and clear, even though everything else slowly sinks back into the fog. They made it through. And Jon took their fear and committed it to tape, picked it apart and studied it, filed it away with all the others, fed on it, and for what? What good does it do? It cannot help him now. It didn’t help them. It never helped anyone.

And if he stays here, it never will.

Jon shakes his head, his hands. He is shivering now, chilled to the very bone; he can barely feel the tips of his fingers, where they’ve gone pale and cold and numb.

“That’s not a very nice trick to pull at a gala, of all places,” he says irritably.

The fog is melting away. Or perhaps it was never there in the first place. But he can see people, real people, moving about them, exchanging idle gossip, laughing, flirting. There’s music playing, an honest-to-God string quartet that Elias always insists on bringing to these events if no one manages to stop him in time.

“I disagree. There’s something deliciously ironic about it, wouldn’t you say?” Peter grins. It’s not a very pleasant grin; his eyes remain lifeless, cold.

Jon wants to argue, but his teeth are chattering. Low temperatures never agreed with him, and it’s been even worse recently. Has he lost weight? It might explain why even his suit was hanging a bit awkwardly off his frame, much as the rest of his clothes. Huh. He had attributed it to stretched fabric, but perhaps…

He feels the warmth of another person, stepping up smoothly on his right to place a hand on his shoulder. For a brief moment he feels the brush of fingers on the nape of his neck, just above the collar of his ill-fitting jacket; warmth blooms beneath his skin, like a ray of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day. He has to forcibly hold himself still not to burrow into that heat, push his way all the way into its nice, secure embrace, and soak up everything it has to offer.

Because it’s Elias. Of course it’s Elias.

“If you wanted to dance, Peter, you could have just asked,” Elias says. His tone is pleasant, almost playful, but narrowed eyes and stiffness of his posture betray the irritation he must be feeling. “No need for such underhanded tactics.”

“But you love them so,” Peter says. His smile, when he addresses Elias, is a touch more genuine than the bland expression he has for everyone else. Jon is trying very hard not to consider the implications of that, mostly because he is still shivering and it’s taking all of his willpower and whatever remains of his dignity not to cling to Elias’s warmth like a swooning maiden. Peter gives him a short, unreadable look, and turns back to Elias. “I will see you later. Take better care of your pets in the meantime.”

“I do not recall asking for your advice, but thank you nonetheless,” Elias says smoothly. “Shall we?”

The last question is directed at Jon. He finds himself nodding numbly, content to follow Elias’s in their not-quite embrace, up and until he notices where Elias is leading them.

“No,” he says.

“It’ll warm you up,” Elias says.

“I am not dancing with you.”

“Whyever not?”

Because I hate you, Jon thinks aggressively, making sure to stare directly in Elias’s eyes. Out loud, he says: “Because you’re my boss, half of the Institute is here, and I don’t want to fuel any more inane gossip.”

Elias sighs dramatically. “You care way too much what other people think of you. I, for one, think it is a splendid idea.”

And of course he manages to manoeuvre Jon exactly where he wants him: the middle of the dancefloor, among other couples, who are swaying to the music with varying degrees of skill or a sense of rhythm. And of course Elias’s hand slides down Jon’s back, to rest below his shoulder blade; his other reaches for Jon’s hand and tugs it upwards, curling warmly around stiff, frozen fingers.

“Elias,” Jon whispers urgently. “I can’t dance.”

He doesn’t know what to do with his free hand, or his legs, or the rest of his body. Their new position puts them awkwardly close, facing each other, even if they have to angle their heads for their eyes to meet. Elias has him more or less trapped in the cage of his arms, and if his self-satisfied smirk is anything to go by, doesn’t intend to let go any time soon.

“Just follow my lead,” he says, smooth as you please.

And then, suddenly, they are moving.

Elias shifts his body weight forward, barely giving enough warning before Jon has to scramble backwards, to avoid colliding with his leg. He clutches onto the fabric of Elias’s suit, and stares down, trying desperately to mirror the movements of Elias’s legs. Which are, annoyingly, a bit longer than his own, their stride much longer. And smoother. And more self-assured.

“Look at me, Jon,” Elias murmurs.

He’s moving backwards now, and Jon has to race to catch up with him. His gaze never leaves Jon’s face. Miraculously, they don’t collide with anyone; he wonders if Elias is keeping an eye on the dancefloor from a higher vantage point, like one of the portraits or any of the Eye-shaped embellishments.

“This isn’t helping,” Jon gasps.

He steps on Elias’s foot; Elias barely seems to notice.

“Try to relax,” Elias says. “Let me lead you.” He pulls Jon closer, much closer; the distance between them is now scant few inches. His steel-grey eyes are hypnotizing to look at, even as Jon’s thoughts scatter. “Trust me.”

Jon isn’t cold anymore. He is fairly sure he must be burning up, from shame and mortification. And he can’t hold Elias’s gaze, not from up close, so he shuts his eyes instead, and considers his options. Make an utter fool of himself by causing a scene? Continue to stomp on his boss’s feet at this very public event? Or actually try to dance, blend in with the crowd, and pray no one is paying attention?

Of course, that would require putting his trust in Elias Bouchard, which is just about the last place Jon ought to be putting it. He knows this. He isn’t stupid. But so much of his life is already in the man’s hands; it’d be a strange place to draw the line.

He exhales, slowly, deliberately, praying that some of the tension bleeds from his muscles. He shifts his posture, leans back in Elias’s embrace and rests the weight of his back more securely against his hand. He loosens the death grip he held on Elias’s fingers, allows their fingers to lace together. And he tries to respond to Elias’s movements, tries to feel the rhythm of his breathing, the changes in his posture and the way he gently steers Jon’s body with subtle movements of his hands.

He still can’t look. He cannot look, he feels too awkward, but otherwise it is almost—nice. To surrender in this manner. To the rhythm of the music, to the flowing motions, to Elias himself. He feels light on his feet, possibly because Elias is half-carrying him now, as they glide their way across the dance floor. He will probably regret this later, but “later” feels like a foreign concept and, for now, Jon simply lets go.

There’s a pleasant haze in his mind, so unlike the cold, creeping fog from earlier. It clouds his senses nonetheless, to the point where Jon barely registers that something has changed; music stops and they stop with it, their breaths quickened, Elias’s pulse racing beneath Jon’s touch, Jon’s own heart not falling far behind. The hand at his back dips ever so slightly, fingers splayed wide, almost at his waist. Elias’s suit is rumpled at his shoulder where Jon has been clutching it earlier; he smooths it now, as best as he can, and tries not to shiver when Elias exhales against his ear, whispers something that might be Jon’s name.

Jon opens his eyes.

This was a mistake. This was all a horrid, unforgivable mistake. Elias’s mask of smug self-satisfaction seems to have slipped away; there’s colour in his cheeks, his lips remain slightly parted, and his steel-grey eyes seem vulnerable and open in a way Jon has never seen them before. It would be easy, so very easy right now to look deeper, to see past Elias’s carefully maintained defences, to see him. All of him. And there’s a hunger gnawing at Jon now, the burning need to examine Elias’s thoughts and emotions, to have all his secrets uncovered, to peel away each and every layer of his mind until he is laid bare before Jon… and the worst part of it is that he knows, in this very moment, that Elias would let him.

They part so suddenly that Jon can’t tell who moves first.

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…”

So, uh. I hope you like angst…? *nervous laughter*

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

***

“What is it?” asks Sasha. She’s sneaking a look at Tim’s phone over his shoulder, and—maybe it’s something else. Maybe the Institute burned down in the meantime. Maybe Elias got arrested. There’s absolutely no way—

“Tim? What’s wrong?” Martin asks.

Tim tosses his phone at the table and slides it in Martin’s direction. Martin picks it up, confused and alarmed, eyes wide, wider still as he takes in whatever it is.

“What the hell?”

“Jon?”

Jon hears buzzing in his ears, like a million tiny worms burrowing into his brain. He shakes his head and then reaches out towards Martin, who’s gripping the phone so hard Jon is beginning to worry for its structural integrity.

“May I?” he asks quietly.

He doesn’t really want to know. Except he needs to. Even now he can feel the Eye’s influence, even when he knows he’ll regret finding out, he still can’t combat the urge to.

It’s a text chain between Tim and his former colleagues from Research. There’s a few pictures of them, inside jokes he doesn’t get, a meme or two… he scrolls down, to check whatever’s got everyone so scandalized.

He’s not particularly surprised to see what it is.

Pictures. Of him and Elias. Dancing together.

That wouldn’t be that incriminating all by itself – it’s just a dance, after all. A part of him is irked by the framing of it – the photos were clearly taken covertly, over someone’s shoulder or from a strange angle, the frame partially obscured, oftentimes blurry and unfocused. As if it was some overzealous P.I. turning in evidence for a cheated spouse, and not two colleagues at a formal, public event, surrounded by dozens of other people.

One or two of them could almost pass for decent photographs though. There is Jon and Elias on the dancefloor, closer together than Jon remembers them being. The photo was taken from behind Elias’s back, so Jon’s face is clearly visible. And, good lord – is this what he looks like? There’s bags underneath his eyes, ugly scars standing stark against his skin, greying hair, ill-fitting suit… at least Elias is someone actually worth taking pictures of. And Jon has his eyes closed, yes, but his face is turned towards Elias, and he is smiling. Was he smiling the whole time? And in the next picture, even more disconcertingly, Elias is looking down at Jon with an expression that can only be described as fond.

They are holding hands. It didn’t feel as incriminating in the moment, but there’s no denying that, with their fingers laced together, Elias’s pale and perfectly manicured, Jon’s slimmer, and darker, but holding on just as tightly.

Jon sets down the phone, trying to reign in his anger. How could Elias miss this? How could someone spy on him in his own place of power? Did he want it to happen? Didn’t he care?

Or perhaps he did not notice at all, because his focus was elsewhere.

“So?” Jon asks, curt and unpleasant. “What of it?”

“You look very cosy together,” Tim says. “When should we expect the happy news?”

There’s no disguising the bitterness in his tone. Jon looks around; Sasha’s lips are pressed thin and she’s avoiding eye contact, Martin seems to still be processing the new information.

“Don’t you think you’re being overly dramatic?” Jon asks. “It was just a dance.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sasha says. “We were out here, worried sick about your safety—”

“You were drinking at a pub—”

“—while you went dancing. With our enemy. Or is he no longer your enemy, Jon? Have you already picked whose side you’re on, or do you need more time to consider?”

He has never heard that tone from Sasha. The rational part of his brain knows that it’s the stress, the fear, the exhaustion; it’s getting the better of them all.

“Look,” he tries. “I know the last few weeks have been difficult—”

“Oh, I am so sick of you patronizing us, Jon,” Tim says loudly.

A number of other patrons turn around, staring, giggling. Jon feels the pressure of their gaze, feels it from every angle; he can feel blood heating his cheeks, sweat beading at the back of his neck.

“Tim—”

“You know what,” Tim says. “I can’t do this right now. I’m leaving. Have fun.”

“Tim! Wait!”

Tim grabs his phone, his jacket and is through the door before Jon manages to get out of his seat. Muffled laughter follows him as he scrambles to catch up, pushing on the door, knocking into people on his way out.

“Tim!”

Tim stops. There’s other people in the street, but they hurry away, anticipating a fight; Jon manages to catch up, even though his chest squeezes painfully on each shallow breath. Good lord, he’s in terrible shape; when did it get so bad?

“Jon,” Tim says, deathly quiet. “I asked you to stop following me around. Is it such a difficult concept to grasp?”

“I’m sorry!” Jon says. “I’m sorry, okay? What else do you want me to say? You’ve reached some wild assumptions based on a picture and now you’re acting like I’m conspiring with Elias!”

“Oh, that’s not the only time you got awfully friendly with him. But I guess it all sort of blurs together after a while.”

“He imprisoned me,” Jon says. “The same way he imprisoned you. I did not ­ask for any of this.”

Sasha and Martin are there, wary, keeping their distance.

“Same way, sure,” Tim snorts. “Except you get to nap and dance, while I get to watch—”

He stops, abruptly, choking back on his words. He is crying again, shaking with anger, the way he did back in Elias’s office.

“Watch what?” Jon takes a careful step forward. “Tim. What did he make you see?”

He can feel a strange buzzing sensation on his tongue, like he licked something electric…

“I watched my brother die,” Tim says, eyes widening with horror. “Over and over again, I watched Danny die—”

He clamps his hands over his mouth, as if the words were being dragged out of him against his will.

And they are. Jon knows this with sudden, chilling certainty. Tim doesn’t want to be telling him this. Tim hasn’t chosen to answer his question; Jon forced him to.

The realization hits Tim at roughly the same time. He lowers his hands, and stares at Jon.

“What are you doing to me?” he whispers.

“I don’t know!” Jon says, panicked. “Tim, I swear, I don’t know—”

The blow, when it comes, nearly knocks him off his feet.

He staggers backwards, clutching at his face. It hurts, the pain sudden and unexpected; he can still hear ringing in his ears from when Tim’s fist connected with his cheek, can feel the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.

“Jon? Jon, can I see?”

Martin is holding him, Martin is gently prying Jon’s hands from his face, Martin is examining him; Jon can barely register it. It feels like his cheek is on fire.

He yelps when Martin’s fingers brush against his skin, and finally shoves him away.

“Sorry,” Martin says. “I had to check – I don’t think anything’s broken, but we should get you to the ER just in case. Is Tim okay?”

He asks this of Sasha, who is looking over Tim’s bloodied knuckles. Tim is breathing heavily but at least he isn’t crying anymore.

“I think so,” Sasha says dubiously, and then mutters: “I should really sign up for some kind of first aid course…”

 Jon’s ears finally stop ringing. The problem is that once the shock starts waning, the pain becomes more noticeable. He grits his teeth and tries not to whimper.

Martin is still holding him. God, he feels so pathetically grateful to Martin, because he isn’t sure he’d be able to stand on his own right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Maybe if he says it enough times, someone will finally believe him. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know.” He chokes back a sob, but they just wreak through his frame; he can’t really breathe, can’t hold back the tears, can’t stop hanging onto Martin for dear life.

He’s pathetic. He’s pathetic, and he has to stop, has to take a step back; take a deep breath, no matter how rattled; has to figure it out, instead of simmering in his own misery. Has to look them in the eyes, no matter how much he hates what he sees there.

“You’re mad at me,” he says. “You have every right to be. But please believe me when I say that I’m trying. I’m trying to find out how to get you all out.”

“And which part of that includes getting friendly with Elias?”

Jon shuts his eyes and counts to ten.

“He’s the only one who knows what’s going on.”

“You shouldn’t trust him.”

“I don’t!” Jon snaps. “Jesus, we just—” He tries to sort out his thoughts, tries to ignore the pain in his cheek, tries to ignore the way even Martin is looking at him now. “We danced. Okay? Yes, I enjoyed it. I’m exhausted, I can’t eat, I can barely sleep, there’s monsters and evil magic in the world, so excuse me for wanting to forget about it all for five minutes! Or can you only trust me if I’m miserable one hundred per cent of the time?”

“No one wants you to be miserable, Jon!” Sasha says. “We just don’t like how close you are with Elias. You say he knows what’s going on, but what of it? He isn’t telling you anything!”

“I can still learn something from him. I can learn more from Elias than I could from just about anyone else.”

“He’s lying to you,” Martin says, with such an open, vehement hatred that Jon takes an involuntary step back. “How can you not see it? He’s manipulating you. He’s using you…”

“I know.”

“Oh, of course you do! Because you know everything, do you not? You know better than anyone else, better than us—”

“I never said that,” Jon says.

“You never had to say it,” Martin says. “You said you’re trying to save us. What about you, Jon? Who’s going to save you? Or do you expect us to just stand idle and watch as Elias turns you into a—”

He doesn’t say the word but it hangs in the air nonetheless. Jon feels it on his skin, prickling, coursing through his blood vessels, settling deep into his bones. He can see them, he knows them; he can see the shape of their fear. They don’t trust him. They’re probably right not to. To them, Jon is already a monster.

“Jon,” Martin says, softly. “I didn’t mean that. Whatever’s happening to you—we’ll figure it out. We’ll find a way to stop it.”

“Oh, I think we all know it’s too late for that,” Jon says. “But your concern is appreciated.”

“No, Jon, don’t—”

“Jon,” Tim says, suddenly. “Look. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you. I—I was angry, but I still shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” Jon says. He’s so, so tired. He just wants to go home.

“Jon—” Sasha begins, but Jon won’t let her finish. Whatever she has to say, he cannot deal with right now.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s just—” he sighs. “I’m sorry for ruining your night. I’ll see you all on Monday.”

He leaves. There’s little else he can do.

Dear readers: I hope you have abandoned all hope of this thing fitting in anywhere within the canon timeline. And also of Jon getting a break anytime soon.

….I’m doing my best to wrap it up I swear ;-;

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

***

The night doesn’t get any more pleasant from there.

Jon spends several long hours in an Emergency Room, gets a CT scan to exclude cranial fracture, a blood test that tells him he’s slightly anaemic, a nurse worried that he’s underweight, comments about his blood pressure and resting heart rate being elevated, some less-than-subtle inquiries about domestic abuse once they see his scars, and a stern reminder to not mix alcohol with the sleeping pills he wheedled out of his GP.

(He wonders, now, if he influenced the GP into prescribing him the pills, or was he just annoying enough that she eventually caved in. He wonders how that power even works.)

They want to keep him in for observation, but after he signs a waiver that he’s aware of the risks and leaves of his own volition, they let him go with little fuss. The ER is busy enough as it is, and Jon is stubborn.

He does pause on his way out; the waiting room is full of mostly elderly people in bad physical shape, a few drunken brawlers, some victims of unfortunate accidents, and other assorted medical emergencies. The one person that stands out to him is a middle-aged woman, sitting unnaturally still in the corner, with wide-open, haunted eyes. She’s been marked by one of the Powers; he knows this. He feels her calling out to him, a promise of a feast for the Eye, brimming with fresh terror and terrible nightmares. It’d take very little to get her to talk—

Their eyes meet. Jon swallows, an involuntary reflex; he can feel the hunger in his stomach, this terrible need to extract a tribute to his patron. And it would nourish him in ways normal food doesn’t seem to anymore. It might even make him whole.

A nurse passes by with a clipboard, and asks the woman a number of questions. Jon flees the waiting room, hating himself every step of the way. He isn’t a fucking misery vampire, to prey on innocent unsuspecting people. He isn’t.

It’s long past daybreak when he finally makes it back to his apartment. He doesn’t even bother undressing, just swallows a pill, throws himself on the bed, and waits for the nightmares to begin.

***

He wakes up around noon with a mild headache and throbbing pain in his cheek. It’s raining outside; the steady beat of raindrops against the windowpane is actually quite soothing.

Jon showers, brushes his teeth, and contemplates breakfast, but the very thought of eating food makes him nauseous. He settles for a mug of herbal tea and watches the rain for a while, holding an ice-pack to his cheek and drumming an erratic melody on the table with his other hand. He wonders if he should make that phone call. He can almost hear Tim calling him insane, Sasha’s attempts at reasoning with him, his own name repeated in Martin’s worried voice. But he can also remember what it felt like to drag the truth out of Tim’s mouth; the mark of the Powers on that unfortunate woman. The Eye’s insistent presence.

He makes that phone call.

“Archivist.”

“Elias.”

There’s a beat of tense silence on both sides of the line. Jon curses himself for not writing down his questions beforehand.

“Sorry for calling on Saturday,” Jon says. “Are you busy?”

“No need to apologize,” Elias says smoothly. “I always have time for you, Jon.”

That is a blatant lie, but Jon lets it slide.

“I hope the gala went well,” Jon says.

“You call me on a Saturday to ask about an event you didn’t want to attend and that you bailed on halfway through?” Elias asks, thankfully more amused than upset.

“Oh! Yes, sorry about that. I, uh,” he contemplates lying, but is too worn out to come up with anything halfway believable. “I felt really awkward. After the. You know.”

“Yes, and maybe sometime next decade Simon Fairchild will stop reminding me of your dramatic escape,” Elias says. “All in all, it went about as well as I could have expected. Don’t worry about it too much.”

“Right,” Jon says, knowing damn well that he is going to worry.

“But this isn’t why you called.”

“No. It isn’t.”

There’s another long, awkward silence, while Jon struggles to formulate his thoughts.

“I think I can force people to answer my questions,” Jon says. “Is that normal?”

Elias has the audacity to laugh at him. The bastard.

“I was wondering when you were going to notice,” he says. “Compelling voice is a crucial ability to fulfil your role as the Archivist. How else could you extract statements from those unwilling to share them?”

He says this as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“That’s—horrifying,” Jon says. “You do realize that it’s horrifying, right?” He takes in a shuddering breath. “Can I control it?”

“Yes. Of course. Now that you are aware of them, controlling your powers should become your next priority.”

“Stop giving me damn homework, Elias! I’m trying to ask for your help!”

The words are out his mouth before he can stop them, but he doesn’t think there’s anything supernatural about it. No; just pure desperation.

Elias sighs. “As lovely as it is to hear your voice, Archivist, I’d rather have this conversation in person. Are you available?”

“What—right now?” Jon asks. “Oh, wait. Is it because you cannot read my mind over the phone?”

“…maybe,” Elias says after a pause.

He files away the information for later. For now, he says, “Yes. I’m available.”

“Splendid. Where should I meet you?”

Jon considers the question. The Institute is the most obvious answer. It’s familiar and relatively safe, and both he and Elias have been known to spend their weekends at work, so it wouldn’t even be that strange. But the thought of always meeting Elias in a place where he holds all the power annoys him to no end. A restaurant, then? But, damn, he doesn’t want to have to dress up for the sort of place that might meet Elias’s standards. Besides, his head spins slightly every time he stands up; he suspects he might end up slipping on the wet pavement and cracking it open.

“I am actually not feeling very well,” he says. “Could you meet me at my place?” Suddenly aware of how it sounds, he hastens to add: “I don’t mean—I’m not trying to suggest anything inappropriate, so please do not read too much into it.”

“Of course. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Great,” Jon sighs. “I’m assuming you know where I live.”

“I do.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you later,” Jon says.

***

Inviting Elias over might have been stupid, but isn’t much more questionable than any of his other decisions as of late. It’s the sort of baseline stupid Jon is becoming accustomed to.

He spends the time cleaning up and fretting over his clothing. Should he dress up? Which part of the dress code covers this particular situation? He feels like he shouldn’t be meeting his boss in an old band T-shirt and sweatpants, but another, more rational part of his brain points out that he shouldn’t be inviting his boss to his house at all. His outfit is the least concerning aspect of this situation. Intellectually he understands this, but he spends a good while selecting the right combination of sweatpants, shirt, and hoodie. He can’t imagine Elias would take him seriously if he were wearing pyjamas. If he deigns to take him seriously, that is.

His nervous fretting comes to an abrupt stop once the doorbell rings. Right. One hour.

He opens the door, and is greeted with the comical sight of Elias’s tailored suit and expensive coat looking distinctly out of place in the cluttered, dark, narrow corridor of his apartment. But then Elias’s eyes zero in on Jon’s face, and Jon feels suddenly self-conscious.

“Uh. Hi. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”

He leads the way to the living room, but doesn’t get very far before Elias stops him.

“Jon,” he says quietly.

Now he is in Jon’s space, looking down at him with an intense, scrutinizing expression in his steel-grey eyes. He smells faintly of rain and laundry detergent, but mostly that cologne he favours, which Jon remembers well from yesterday’s gala. His fingers are on Jon’s chin, gentle but insistent, turning his face up, towards the light; he brushes away the hair from Jon’s face. For a moment it seems inevitable that he will lean down and press his lips against Jon’s; why else would he touch him in this manner?

“What happened?” he asks.

His fingers skim feather-light over the bruise on Jon’s cheek. Jon winces; it’s swollen and tender, and no doubt does little to improve his appearance. He misses the ice-pack, but it was getting too warm so he had to place it back in the freezer for the time being.

“It’s nothing,” he says, a little breathy. He’s trying not to inhale too much of Elias’s scent, in case it makes him do something above-baseline stupid. “Just a bruise. It’ll fade.”

Elias’s lips are pressed thin, his brows knitted together. His eyes flare; for a moment, Jon could swear they changed colour into something deeper, vibrant, otherworldly; that they can suddenly see much, much further than Jon’s own face.

“Timothy Stoker did this to you?” Elias asks. His voice is pitched low, in cold fury; it sends a tremor through Jon’s body, an instinctive reaction to flee. But he can’t quite move, Elias’s hand and gaze pinning him in place, as gentle as they are insistent.

“We had a fight,” Jon says. “Stay out of it. It’s none of your business.”

Elias narrows his eyes.

“What happens to myArchivist very much is my business,” he says.

“I’m not your damn property,” Jon seethes. “And I can take care of myself.”

“You called me to ask for help,” Elias reminds him coldly.

“Not with this,” Jon says. “Leave Tim alone. Leave all of them alone.”

He’s trembling; his head spins. What a pathetic sight he makes right now, bargaining for his assistants’ lives with an empty hand. It’s a wonder Elias doesn’t laugh in his face.

“Jon,” Elias says. “They haven’t the right…” he cuts off, abruptly, and lets go of Jon’s chin.

The sudden absence of his touch is enough to have Jon swaying on his feet. He gasps, black spots dancing before his eyes; luckily the wall is not far behind his back, giving him something to lean on, his sweaty hands desperately scrambling at it for something to hold.

Elias looks down at him, startled. Jon gives a weak laugh in response.

“I told you,” he says. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Elias says. He steps away to where he set down his briefcase and retrieves a file from it. “Here. I brought you these.”

It’s the damn statements. Jon doesn’t even need to browse through its contents to know as much; the file calls out to him through no sense he can name. As Elias places it in Jon’s hands, Jon can almost hear the background static of the tape recorder, all other thoughts and concerns receding from his restless mind. He’s blank, achingly empty, and ready to receive this new account of the Powers, to absorb the fear and lose himself in it, to feel, to experience, to know—

“No,” he says. “Why—”

“It’ll help,” Elias says. So calm, so logical.

“I don’t want this,” Jon whispers. “I never wanted this. I can’t…”

The wall slips away, or maybe he slides down, limp and helpless. Elias catches him before he can hit the ground and steers him towards the couch; Jon doesn’t fight him. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“Jon,” Elias says, from somewhere far away. “You need this. You know you need this. What, exactly, are you hoping to gain by intentionally starving yourself?”

“This is wrong,” Jon says. His mouth is dry; his tongue feels like it was made of sandpaper. The buzzing in his head only gets louder.

“It is what it is,” Elias says. “You can be angry about it later, if you’d like.”

Jon shoves him away. He would have more luck with a brick wall; Elias catches his hands easily, encircling Jon’s wrists in a loose grip, his thumb running soothing patterns on the delicate inner skin of them.

“No,” Jon repeats, numbly.

He still can’t bring himself to let go of the statements. He is clutching them so tightly it’s a wonder they haven’t torn yet… but, no. The thought is absurd. In the heights of madness, Jon would never damage these. He might as well take a knife to his own flesh and slice it into ribbons.

“When was the last time you read one?”

“Not sure. A week. Maybe two,” Jon shakes his head. He’s been avoiding them, he hates what they turn him into. He hates the sick thrill of anticipation, he hates the words flowing out of his mouth, he hates the buzz of static on his tongue, he hates the Eye’s heavy gaze over his shoulder, all around him, within him. He hates the nightmares. He hates himself most of all.

“Oh, Jon,” Elias says softly. Like he understands, like he cares. He moves closer, sits right next to Jon and lets go of his hand to cradle the back of his head.

And it’s nice. It’s nice to sink into his embrace, regardless of how sure Jon is he’d be safer throwing himself into shark-infested waters. Elias is warm; his chest moves at a steady, comforting rhythm. His arms around Jon feel grounding, partially shielding him from the Eye’s constant presence.

“I don’t want this,” Jon repeats, over and over, like a broken record. He isn’t making any sense. He knows he isn’t.

He smooths the paper in his hands. Elias tucks a few loose strands of hair behind his ear, so that they won’t obscure his vision.

“You didn’t hurt these people, Jon,” he says quietly. “Whatever happened to them is already done. You cannot rewrite their stories. All you can do is archive them.”

“What for?” Jon asks. “Why?”

Elias considers him for a long moment, with an inscrutable expression on his face. On anyone else, Jon might be willing to classify it as remorse; but he knows better. He knows Elias too well, and yet not at all.

“For now? Because you need it,” Elias says. “For later – I’ll tell you when you’re ready.”

He needs it. That’s the simple truth of it. Right now, Jon can start reading, or he can die. It’s stupid, it’s absurd; and yet it’s true.

“Statement of…”

streetlight-halo:

ALT

needing some other kind of madness

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.

shhamsleepinherethankyou:

THEM

(@veggyjuice is my Twitter BTW, Im not stealing this fkenfkwbqj)

insuspensa:

“draw your otp” don’t mind if i do