so hey, remember when I said I wasn’t going to write any more Jonelias? but then things happened, we started chatting about a fantasy AU on the Jonelias discord server, and, uh. I wrote a short ficlet set in said AU…?
***
Jon knocked on the door, once, twice; his hands shook slightly, so the rhythm of it was unpleasantly erratic. Should he knock again? He didn’t want to appear rude or impatient, but he also didn’t want to risk being too quiet. If the man didn’t hear him, if he thought Jon was running late—
“Come in.”
He took in a steadying breath and pushed the door open. Immediately he stepped into a patch of sunlight, streaming directly from the huge, ornate window on the opposite wall. He blinked, narrowed his eyes; the desk was silhouetted against the bright sky, and it took him a moment to adjust.
“Mr Sims, I presume?”
“I—yes. Jonathan Sims. Er.” Jon cleared his throat. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Master Bouchard. It’s an. An honour.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Master Bouchard said smoothly. “Please, take a seat.”
He gestured at a chair in front of his desk. Jon took a few careful steps in its direction, and then sat down on the edge of the seat, taking care not to slouch. The bag he forgot to take off his shoulder dangled awkwardly. He had to shuffle around to remove it, and first placed it on his lap, before setting it down on the floor next to the chair. His hands were sweaty; he wiped them off on his trousers before he could think better of it, and then attempted to smooth the resultant creases in the fabric. His left cuff rode up an inch, so he tugged it down, and made sure it laid snug and secure around his wrist. Only then did he manage to look up.
Master Bouchard was watching him, the corner of his mouth twitching momentarily before settling into a polite smile. His steel-grey eyes flickered down to Jon’s hands, no doubt noting all the nervous gestures. His gaze felt—weighty. Not unsympathetic, just—
Jon swallowed.
“Shall we begin, then?” Bouchard asked. “Your resume is quite impressive for one so young, Mr Sims. Five publications across two journals…”
“Three,” Jon said. “I mean—I wrote three articles. For the other two, I was a co-author… mostly editorial input…” Again, he tried to clear his throat. He shouldn’t have interrupted a Master; he should have kept his mouth shut. Damn.
But Bouchard didn’t seem frazzled by the blatant disrespect. He opened a file on his desk – Jon’s file. Jon’s resume, his letter of recommendation, a printout of the articles, his diploma… Bouchard skimmed the contents. Had he read them before? He must have had. Or maybe he didn’t have time in his busy schedule to review every single applicant. But, then again – why invite Jon for a meeting?
“Why do you want to study Divination, Mr Sims?” Bouchard asked.
This question, Jon knew to expect. He managed to recite his well-rehearsed answer with no incriminating pauses or unnecessary repetitions. Finally.
“What about practical spellwork?” Bouchard asked.
Jon paused for a second. “I don’t—I’m not really well-versed in that area. I prefer theory to practice.”
“Did you take any of the relevant courses?”
Damn. Damn.
“I, uh,” Jon stammered. “I took one semester of the introductory module. It was—well—it wasn’t a subject I wanted to pursue.”
Let that be it, Jon thought. Obviously it came up; it had to come up. Very few people enrolled at the Institute to study theory.
“Can you show me what you have learned?”
“I didn’t learn anything,” Jon said sharply. He flinched, then, at the tone of his voice, and at the implications – that he was too lazy or too stupid to learn. It made him look exceedingly unprofessional. “I meant—I don’t see how this is relevant to the position I’m applying for,” he amended. Then, hastily: “Master.”
“A peculiar question,” Bouchard said. “You yourself wrote several paragraphs on the potential interference of errant magic on pre-existing enchantments.”
“I do not use magic,” Jon said. “I won’t be causing any interferences.”
“Even so. Accidents happen.”
“They won’t.” Jon grabbed his sleeve and shoved it upwards, exposing his wrist, and the thin, silver bracelet encircling it, with its webbing of faintly pulsating strands. “Whatever magic I might accidentally use will be fully suppressed. It’s not going to be a problem.”
Bouchard was watching him attentively, gaze flickering between the bracelet and Jon’s face. He didn’t seem surprised; was it written down somewhere in Jon’s file, then? Or did he have some other means of detecting such objects? Some mages were reportedly able to sense the subtle alterations in a person’s aura, the miniscule difference between absent and suppressed magic, even without the relevant spells or implements. But Jon could hardly believe those reports. They seemed rather far-fetched.
“May I?” Bouchard asked. His meaning became clear when he leaned forward and extended his hand, palm up, inviting. Jon examined it, warily. Was he expected to remove the bracelet? Bouchard wasn’t expecting him to do something that foolish, did he?
It seemed rude to keep him waiting, though. And Jon was on thin enough ground as it was. So, slowly, he placed his hand on the desk, within range of Bouchard’s touch.
He couldn’t help flinching in his seat when the man’s long, slender fingers brushed his bare skin. Bouchard’s hand was warm, textured with callouses, scars and imperfections; its movements were clever and purposeful, as he examined the bracelet. He wasn’t using magic, as far as Jon could tell. Or maybe he was, and it was too subtle for Jon to notice.
“Remarkable,” Bouchard said under his breath.
Jon slipped his hand from the man’s hold and drew back, tugging the sleeve down, nearly to the level of his knuckles, to make sure the thing was completely covered. He didn’t want to meet Bouchard’s gaze. Mostly, he just wanted to go home.
“I said it was fine!” Her smile was soft, sympathetic; she did not deserve to be treated that way. Guilt crept up Jon’s spine, and he tried to soften his tone. “I suppose it could have gone better.”
“I figured,” Georgie said. “Would you like something to drink, then?”
“Please.”
Jon adjusted his glasses and went back to the manuscript, already dotted with notes and corrections. It was a lot of drivel, honestly; he felt stupider for having read it as many times as he did. Well - editing wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, but it paid the bills.
Few minutes later, the Admiral trotted up to him and rubbed against his legs. Jon scratched the fuzzy little head, and smiled involuntarily when the cat jumped up and curled onto his lap. Sharing the flat with Georgie after their breakup was awkward at times, but he reckoned he wouldn’t want to move out, even if he could afford to.
The Admiral kept him company as he worked, eventually falling asleep. Jon felt like the worst kind of criminal when the time came for him to leave, but he had to get Admiral off his lap. He did so as gently as he could, lifting him and placing him down on a cushion; still the Admiral meowed and twisted around, claws scraping Jon’s hand, wordless accusations in his eyes.
“Sorry,” Jon said. “I have to go.”
He wasn’t being forgiven that easily; the Admiral hissed and turned his back on him, stomping away in the direction of Georgie’s bedroom.
It was well past midnight. He made it to the training area with ten minutes to spare. Unsurprisingly, it was almost deserted: the last few stragglers were leaving, and by the time the clocks struck one a.m., Jon was alone in one of the smaller rooms.
Each room had a similar layout: an arena, encircled with a powerful barrier enchantment that absorbed all errant magic, and chairs or benches outside the barrier, so that spectators could safely watch whatever was happening. Bigger rooms had rows and rows of benches, to accommodate for duels, competitions, spectacles, or other events that invariably drew in huge crowds. That Jon, invariably, avoided.
He sat down in the sand and took out his old textbook. It wouldn’t do him much good right now; lamps and candles had a nasty habit of exploding when exposed to too much magical energy, so they weren’t permitted inside the training rooms. He’d have to rely on what he remembered.
There was one last thing to do. Just one thing.
He ran his fingertips over the clasp of the bracelet. There was no need to worry; no reason to hesitate. Nothing would happen. Nothing could happen. The barrier around him was impenetrable. He had to remember that.
The clasp snapped open. He watched, hypnotized, as the bracelet uncoiled from his wrist and slipped to the ground; it seemed like a living thing, woven from a myriad of delicate strands, each one reflecting the sparse moonlight in its own way, casting a shimmering pattern upon the sand.
It crept around him; Jon held his breath. He could see the light now, more clearly than before. He could see the barrier further away, the intricate pattern of spell work designed to absorb and dissipate energy. He could see every grain of sand seemingly shift in the wind, even though the air was deathly, unnaturally still. He felt the moonlight on his skin like a brand, burning through the layers of flesh. He had thought the room was silent; but there was sound all around him, the delicate chime of his discarded bracelet, buzzing of the barrier, and the rapidly quickening beat of his own heart…
He forced himself to exhale and raised his shaking hands. They looked—they looked like they belonged to a stranger, sluggish to obey his commands, and felt like a thousand needles pricked his skin, sending electric currents down his nerve endings. But he had to—he had to control them. He would control them. It was a simple spell, he knew the gestures and the words, he knew how it should go.
He held his palms together and tried to focus on the space between them. A single point. See it. Feel it. See the infinite possibilities, see not what is, but what could be…
Sharp, sudden pain laced through his palms. Powerful spasm seized his muscles. He collapsed onto the sand, gasping for breath, a wordless scream tearing out of his chest.
It took an agonizingly long moment for his muscles to relax. The pain in his chest subsided once he managed to draw in a handful of unsteady breaths.
Right. So that was that. That’s what would usually happen.
He tried, again and again. Conjuring light was the easiest trick in the book. He had seen children do it without issue. Yet here he was, struggling to do even that.
“You do realize you are going about it completely backwards, do you?”
This time, when the light burst from his hands and momentarily blinded him, Jon yelped and fell backwards. There were spots dancing across his vision and a ringing in his ears.
“How about you mind your own business?” he seethed through clenched teeth and tried to push himself into an upright position. “I don’t recall asking for your advice, so kindly go and fuck yourself—“
The barrier flared; sand shifted. Jon looked up at the approaching figure, and felt his arms give in.
“Master—Master Bouchard.”
Of course it was. Such was Jon’s rotten luck, apparently.
“Hello, Mr Sims,” Bouchard said, clearly amused.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Jon said.
He was still flat on his arse. Bouchard was looking down at him. He scrambled to get up with as much dignity as he could muster in this situation.
“Yes, I figured,” Bouchard said. “I do owe you an apology. I did not mean to frighten you.”
“I’m not frightened,” Jon snapped. “I—why are you here?”
He felt the cackle of electricity on his tongue; he could almost see it in the air around him.
Inexplicably, Bouchard’s smile widened. He offered Jon his hand and Jon took it without thinking, letting himself be pulled upwards, until they were eye to eye and—
He saw a reflection of himself in Bouchard’s pale eyes, the image clear and sharp, every detail of his own face, the messy hairdo, skewed glasses, sheen of sweat on his forehead; his own eyes, widened, dark, a faintest glimmer within the depths of them; his half-opened mouth; and then he was looking at the man in front of him, the images superimposed on one another, and then stretching all the way to infinity, like standing between two mirrors…
Strong arms caught him as he was about to collapse, a terrible ache splitting his head open. His vision swam, and blurred; he tried to close his eyes, but there was no reprieve to be found in darkness.
“Breathe, Jon.”
He tried to focus on that: the movements of his chest, the flow of air through his lungs.
Eventually he realized he was clinging onto Master Bouchard like a swooning maiden. He was almost too mortified to let go.
“What’s happening to me?” he asked, in a voice that was dangerously close to a whimper.
“Well, it appears you are attempting to weave magic you have absolutely no control over,” Bouchard said. “Which is rather foolish, if I may add.” Jon blinked. “I already know how you feel about unsolicited advice,” Bouchard explained, smirking.
“Oh! Oh.” Jon took a hasty step back and rubbed his upper arms, gaze stuck on the ground by Bouchard’s gleaming shoes. “I—apologize. That was rude of me.”
“No, you were in the right. I shouldn’t have startled you,” Bouchard said. “But it seemed like you were in danger of hurting yourself.”
“I wasn’t—“ Jon began. A quick glance at Bouchard’s raised eyebrows stopped him in his tracks. “Well. Maybe. Maybe a bit.” He let out a long breath. “Thank you, Master,” he said stiffly.
Bouchard’s smile worried him; his gaze worried him more. Yet Jon couldn’t bring himself to look away once their eyes met.
to everyone who ever drew jonathan sims getting progressively more worn down and disheveled over the course of the five seasons: 1) I love you and 2) you are the backbone of this fandom
woahhh it’s… headshots!! Not the most exciting thing in the world but I’ve been wanting to knock out my personal designs for these guys, especially for some characters I don’t draw a lot of.
The lecture hall was filling in quickly. Jon secured a spot for himself in one of the topmost rows, giving him a decent view of the podium even if he would have to squint to make out the writing on the blackboard. And, luckily, no one questioned his presence here.
Master Bouchard arrived five minutes prior to the start of the lecture and began it exactly on time; less punctual students were still entering the hall, but they had to do so under Bouchard’s disapproving gaze. The man was very particular about schedules.
And he was a good speaker, Jon had to give him that: thorough, succinct, engaging. He kept watching his own audience, too, paying attention to their reactions, answering questions and clarifying his points when necessary.
When the lecture ended precisely ninety minutes later, a number of students would still crowd around Master Bouchard, but he excused himself with a polite smile. He had another class to teach in half an hour, and a department meeting after that. He was a busy man.
“Mr Sims. A word?”
Jon startled; he thought he was being inconspicuous, with his head kept down and a group of excitable undergrads in front of him. Nevertheless he could feel the weight of Bouchard’s gaze, and he nodded automatically, making his way forward. The other students were leaving the hall in small groups, chatting amongst themselves, mostly about nonsense. Jon closed the door after them with a sense of relief.
“I thought you took this course already,” Bouchard said.
“I did. In my second year,” Jon said. “But—”
But what, Jon? He had no reason to be here. They both knew it. And he hadn’t thought to prepare an excuse beforehand, so now he just stood there in incriminating silence, faced with Bouchard’s pale eyes and wry smile.
“You have a question,” Bouchard said. “Ask it.”
“I never said I did,” Jon said. Of course he had questions; he always did. It wasn’t such a leap to assume that. But he wasn’t entirely sure what they were as of yet.
Bouchard was waiting for them. It wasn’t—polite, exactly, to take up too much of his time; Jon watched him methodically and neatly sort out his papers and put them away into a briefcase. He had very neat, precise handwriting, Jon couldn’t help but notice.
The golden clasps snapped shut. Jon swallowed.
“Why did you come to the arena?” Jon asked. “That night, two weeks ago. You don’t usually come in that late…” He bit his tongue; now why would he say that, why would he know that?
“Few people do,” Bouchard said. “Except during exam session, naturally.”
“This isn’t an answer.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Jon shook his head, frustrated.
“Then why?” he demanded.
Bouchard said nothing in response, merely continued to watch Jon with an enigmatic smile on his lips. He didn’t owe Jon any answers, obviously; he didn’t owe Jon anything. And yet Jon desperately wanted to get them out of him.
He didn’t move out of the way when Bouchard approached the door. He ought to. But he didn’t.
“You knew I would be there,” Jon said slowly. “You wanted to see me. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Bouchard said.
“Why?”
For a long moment, he was sure Bouchard wouldn’t respond. He had to tell himself that it was fine, he didn’t actually need him to, he really ought to move and let the subject go. So he applied for a job, and didn’t get; it happened before, it would happen again. There was absolutely no reason he should stalk and harass the man who rejected him. It was juvenile, and it reeked of desperation.
But there was more to that. He knew that on a visceral level. If Bouchard had simply rejected and ignored his application, he wouldn’t show up at the arena just to see him. There had to be a reason, and if Jon asked the right questions, maybe he’d get the proper answers.
Much, much love to the Jonelias discord server, and to everyone who reblogs this thing with comments in the tags. It’s incredibly motivating, thank you! <3
There were other jobs he could be applying for. The current arrangement kept him afloat but it did not pay very well, and tended to be dull, repetitive, and irritating. And, selfishly, Jon wanted a career, an opportunity to prove himself, and a chance to learn. He knew that about himself, at least.
“What about Gertrude Robinson?” Sasha asked.
“The Judiciary?” Jon grimaced. They were out drinking in a quiet part of town, away from the droves of tourists who plagued the city centre. “No. I have seen the way she runs the archives—”
“Not this again,” Tim said, with an exasperated groan. “You really have to let that go, Jon.”
Jon scoffed. He wanted a challenge, but he wasn’t a masochist. Or suicidal.
“There are other opportunities though,” Sasha said. “The Lukases are offering an internship—”
“In Svalbard.”
“You could wear a warm coat,” Tim suggested. Jon had to fight a childish urge to throw a peanut at his head.
“No, he has a point,” Sasha said drily. “We don’t want Jon to die in a blizzard, Tim.”
“We don’t?” This time, Jon did throw that peanut. It bounced off Tim’s shoulder and fell down onto the table. “I’m joking, I’m joking. I know you’d rather stay cooped up in a laboratory or a library somewhere and never talk to anyone ever.”
“I’m here right now, aren’t I?” Jon said. He swirled the beer in his glass, momentarily mesmerized by the spiralling pattern of foam. “And you are not helping.”
“Well, forgive us for not spending enough of our time solving your problems—”
“Tim,” Sasha said.
“What?” Tim flashed her one of his infuriatingly charming smiles. “What did I say?”
Jon listened to their bickering for a while before his thought began to stray. Back in the arena, Master Bouchard had said Jon had been going backwards about his magic – what did he mean? Jon followed the instructions in the book to the letter. Still, he couldn’t get his magic to behave. And it wasn’t as if he could track down the man – it was bad enough that he had showed up to several of his lectures. Bad enough that Bouchard would notice his presence there, that their eyes would inevitably meet for a moment or two. They hadn’t spoken since that first time, though. They had nothing to say to one another. Well, not quite – Jon had questions. Master Bouchard just didn’t feel inclined to answer them.
“Jon?”
“Hmm?”
Sasha looked at him worriedly. “Are you all right?”
“You keep zoning out,” Tim added. “And you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I sleep just fine, thank you kindly,” Jon said. “And I would appreciate it if you stopped commenting on my appearance. We can’t all be as lucky as you are.”
“By the Powers, Jonathan Sims is flirting with me,” Tim said. “Sasha! Sasha, did you hear that?”
“What—I wasn’t—” Jon spluttered out. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. “I—I was—I was making an observation, that is all.”
“Yes, Tim. Don’t let it go to your head,” Sasha said, with mock seriousness.
“Much too late for that,” Jon muttered under his breath.
Tim was physically attractive. There was no denying it. He damn well knew he was. But he and Jon constantly got on each other’s nerves, and if it weren’t for Sasha’s mitigating presence, they’d quickly drop this pretence at friendship.
“Yes. Well,” Jon said. “I really should be going by now. Thanks—thank you. For inviting me.”
God it was awkward. He knew he was being awkward. He wished he knew how not to be.
“Another session in the training arena?” Sasha asked.
Jon paused, and narrowed his eyes. “How did you know?”
“I have my ways,” she said haughtily.
“Sure you do,” Tim snorted. “Actually, a friend of mine works there. He told me.”
“Why do you train in the middle of the night?” Sasha asked.
“Because it’s fully booked during the day and the private arenas are expensive,” Jon said. He didn’t want any witnesses to his embarrassing attempts at magic, thank you very much. It was bad enough that Master Bouchard had seen him.
“Shouldn’t you practice with a teacher though?” Sasha could be unbelievably stubborn when something piqued her curiosity; it was most inconvenient at times.
“Yes. He should,” Tim said. “He doesn’t have a licence.”
“I have a student licence,” Jon said.
“Didn’t it expire once you graduated?” Sasha asked.
“It did.” Tim snorted.
Jon slammed his empty glass on the table and rose to his feet, grabbing the bag and coat as he did.
“Are you going to report me?” he asked sharply. “If not, then this conversation is over.”
“Relax, will you?” Tim said.
“Yes, Jon,” Sasha said. “No one is thinking of snitching on you. But we are a little worried - isn’t it dangerous?”
“No. I know what I’m doing,” Jon lied.
“Nonetheless, I still think you should find a master,” Sasha mused. “Bouchard is looking for an apprentice, isn’t he?”
“He doesn’t take apprentices,” Jon said. Only interns, for a few months’ rotation in the Research Department, and a chance for a full time contract afterwards. And he had already rejected Jon. He didn’t need reminders of that.
“I heard he changed his mind,” Tim said.
“Good lord, Tim, will you stop repeating inane gossip?” Jon snapped. “I’m getting sick of hearing it sometimes.”
“I’m offering you valuable intel, mate,” Tim said. “You could stop being a dick about it.”
“Yes. You could,” Sasha added coolly.
“I—“ Jon paused, and sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t that outlandish, after all. You could not achieve the rank of Grandmaster without promoting another adept. If Bouchard was aiming for that title, if he wanted to stand amongst the likes of Fairchild and Reynart as an equal, he’d have to take someone on eventually. But—it seemed like such a hassle. And he was still comparatively young…
An apprentice.
Why didn’t Jon know?
“Who did he choose?” he asked.
“No idea,” Tim said. “Would you like me to ask around, or have you had enough gossip?”
Jon glared down at him. For once, he had the height advantage on Tim; it was a rather enjoyable feeling.
“Please do,” he said.
Tim blinked. Slowly. Then his lips stretched into a smile, and he leaned back in his seat, giving Jon a thorough once-over.
“That bad, huh?”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Tim waved his hand dismissively. He looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Go do your exercises, Jon. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary – Rose? Rosie? – asked politely, opening her calendar.
“I do not,” Jon said.
“I see,” she said. “Well, forgive me, Mr Sims, but Master Bouchard is currently in a meeting. If you have a message for him, I would be happy to pass it along.”
“Look,” Jon began, then shut his mouth immediately thereafter. The secretary – Rosie; he was pretty sure her name was Rosie – regarded him with a bland, polite smile, her hands folded neatly on the desk. Behind her were the doors to Master Bouchard’s office, presently out of Jon’s reach.
“Is there anything I can do for you, then?” she asked.
He should have written a letter. He should have refrained from coming here in the first place.
“Is it possible to arrange a meeting?” he asked. “I—I really need to speak with Master Bouchard.”
He didn’t want to accost the man after one of his lectures, or seek entry to the research floor without invitation. That seemed to be a step too far. But maybe he would have no other choice, if Rosie continued being this difficult.
“I will have to confirm it with him. I will let you know once I have any details,” Rosie said.
“Thank you,” Jon said curtly. He wrote down his contact information, and could not help one last heated glare in the direction of Bouchard’s locked office door.
It was foolish. It wasn’t important. The sense of urgency gnawing at his stomach was entirely unwarranted. He needed to put that feeling to rest and move on. If Bouchard refused to see him, he would do just that. He would stop showing up to his lectures, stop reading his papers, stop hovering near the research department…
Half-heartedly, he wished that this would be the end of it. And yet the reply arrived two days later, with the meeting set for next week. Jon didn’t know how to feel about that. He spent altogether too much time trying to come up with something intelligent to say, some compelling argument as to why he wanted to see Bouchard in the first place. Yet when the time came, his mind was blank and his throat was dry.
“Mr Sims,” Bouchard greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Jon swallowed. The office was just as he had remembered it, with Bouchard silhouetted against the large window behind him. Jon felt uncomfortably exposed where he stood; he could not see the man’s face clearly, with the afternoon light nearly blinding him.
“Take a seat, please,” Bouchard said, pointing to the familiar chair in front of his desk.
Jon moved slowly. He placed his hand on the back of the chair, fingers twitching against dark wood and embroidered fabric. Bouchard’s pale eyes were on him; he could feel them as acutely as he felt the sunlight on his skin. He had questions, so many questions echoing in his head, and yet he struggled to voice any of them.
Bouchard was a patient man. He sat back, fingers steepled together, and said nothing at all as Jon hovered awkwardly in front of him, at war with his own thoughts.
“Have you chosen an apprentice yet, Master?” Jon asked.
He hadn’t meant for these to be the first words out of his mouth, but now he couldn’t take them back.
Still the same frustrating non-answer. Jon’s frown deepened; his fingers clenched tight around the back of the chair. The bracelet shifted against his skin, responding to the movement, or perhaps the sudden flash of anger.
“Does it matter?” he asked. “You will not tell me anyway.”
Bouchard’s mouth twitched into a smile. This—he found it amusing. Jon was a source of entertainment for him, for whatever reason. The reasonable thing to do would be to turn back and leave; Jon, of course, stayed right where he stood.
“What is it that you want from me?” Jon asked.
“Why do you assume I want anything from you?” Bouchard asked calmly.
“You—” Jon bit his lip. This was wrong, this was all wrong. He was making an ass of himself. But—well. “Why did you reject my application?” he asked. This was a reasonable question, was it not? “Is it because of the—” he pressed his fingers to his wrist and the bracelet bound tight around it, feeling it thrum gently, matching the rhythm of his pulse. “I didn’t think it mattered,” he added quietly.
“It does matter,” Bouchard said. “To you, most of all. Why pretend otherwise?”
It was driving him insane, the way Bouchard insisted on answering Jon’s questions with even more questions. What would it take to get a normal reply out of the man? Why was he toying with Jon?
“I have been practicing,” Jon said. “You know I have. I—I want to learn.” He dropped his gaze, throat seizing with embarrassment. But he needed to say the words out loud, he needed to have them out in the open. “Master, I know I’m capable of this with your guidance. I want to be your apprentice. Please.”
He braced himself for whatever might come next. Maybe he ought to apologize for his outlandish request, offer an explanation, play it off as a joke… except he couldn’t bring himself to lie right now. Bouchard would probably know if he did. So he glanced up, chancing a look at Bouchard’s face, to better judge his reaction.
Their eyes met; Bouchard smiled.
“To answer your earlier question, Mr Sims,” he began. “Yes, I already made my choice. But I had to wait for you to make yours.”
Oh.
Jon still didn’t know why. But now he had the chance to find out.
There were perks to being Bouchard’s apprentice. These included nearly unlimited access to the Research Department’s library, laboratory, and archives, as well as a modest stipend, private training arena whenever he wanted, and more. But there were also disadvantages. Bouchard was easily the most intelligent, knowledgeable person Jon had ever met; he was also the most irritating.
Well, no. He wasn’t being fair to his master. But getting a straight answer out of him bordered on impossible, and Jon was reaching the limits of his own patience.
“What am I doing wrong?” he asked, once the light he had tried to conjure pulsated, changed colours at a dizzying speed, flickered, and finally disappeared.
“You tell me,” Bouchard said.
He was sitting on a bench, the ankle of one leg resting on the other knee, hands folded loosely together. His briefcase laid next to him, untouched; he should have been grading student papers, but was apparently willing to put that on hold and devote his full attention to Jon’s miserable attempts at magic. Yet he offered no words of advice, or encouragement, or even criticism. At this point Jon would welcome any feedback whatsoever, but none was forthcoming.
You tell me. Ass.
“How should I know?” Jon muttered darkly.
He snapped his fingers; a spark ignited in the air. It fizzled out almost immediately, despite Jon’s efforts to keep it in place.
At first he had felt self-conscious about wasting his master’s time. But, well, it was Bouchard’s choice to show up and maintain this silent vigil. Perhaps he wanted to make sure Jon wouldn’t injure himself any more than he already had; it was honestly pointless to speculate about his goals.
Jon sighed and lowered his hand. His head was already pounding; he had hoped it would ease over time, but instead the headaches would just get worse the longer he practiced. He took to carrying a box of painkillers on his person at all times, but something told him Bouchard would not approve, so he didn’t want to reach for it right now.
He needed a break. He didn’t want to ask for one.
No, he needed to try another approach. But he had followed the textbooks so closely, and the instructions were so straightforward, that he struggled to see what it was he could have been doing differently.
“Master,” he began, and took a few hesitant steps towards the man. Asking questions seldom worked, but asking for a demonstration might. “Can you show me how you do it?”
Bouchard smiled. His eyes flashed, nearly imperceptible; Jon only noticed because he had been prepared for it, and watching closely. And then there was light all around them, bathing the arena in a warm, golden glow.
It was—pleasant. Whenever Jon managed to conjure light it was always too harsh, too bright, constantly flickering, good for nothing except exacerbating his headache. Bouchard had the entire space evenly illuminated, in a way that wouldn’t strain anyone’s eyesight.
“Thank you,” he said, with only a touch of sarcasm bleeding into his voice.
Yes. It was beautiful, but not exactly helpful. Gestures and spoken words weren’t usually necessary for casting spells, they just made it easier, particularly for such demonstrations; but of course Bouchard wouldn’t want to make anything easy.
Jon returned to his position in the middle of the arena and raised his hand once more, to give it another try. Something made him pause though. He hadn’t noticed it before and even now he couldn’t quite describe the feeling, but the light felt… strange, whenever it touched his skin. Warm, yes, but slightly more tangible than light ought to be, like the faintest brush of someone’s finger, or an exhaled breath…
“What did you do, Master?” he asked, fascinated. Now that he looked closely he thought he could see individual particles of the light, swirling above the palm of his hand; or waves of it, perhaps, pulsing rhythmically in the air.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Bouchard said.
Jon turned around. The visible light had no apparent source, but he saw something connecting it to the man in front of him, some change in the way it bent and refracted… and Bouchard was a few yards away but it simultaneously felt like he was standing right in front of Jon, surrounding and enveloping him…
Jon staggered backwards; the light disappeared. Bouchard did not move but there was something very pointed in the way he cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, away from Jon’s face.
“You are certainly… sensitive,” Bouchard said after a while. “I will give you that.”
“What?”
Bouchard looked up at the sky. “You know that all magic leaves traces,” he said.
“Of course I do,” Jon said.
“And it can often be traced back to its source,” Bouchard continued. “Although it usually takes skill and experience.” Of which Jon had neither, he did not add.
“I know,” Jon said. “But isn’t the main difficulty in isolating one particular spell from the background noise? And since the barrier separates us from the outside world, well—that leaves only one potential source of it. It is not that difficult to trace.”
“Two sources, technically speaking,” Bouchard said. “But you are correct otherwise.” He chuckled beneath his breath. “We will have to revisit this conversation at a later date, Mr Sims. I think you could use a break.”
Here comes another part of the Untitled Jonelias Magic AU, enjoy!
Once again, huge thanks to @ceaseless-bitcher, the rest of the Discord server, and the tumblr folk for the likes and reblogs and tags. You’re the best! <3
Whoever was in charge of the archive ought to be persecuted for his crimes. It was a tiny, windowless room, stacked from floor to ceiling with unlabelled boxes and stacks of loose papers. After three hours of digging for a single report, Jon was about ready to commit an act of unspeakable violence.
He returned to the laboratory, fuming. Other researchers and lab techs took one look at his face and mostly shuffled out of the way as he made his way back to the work station and slammed the papers down, readying himself for the long, tedious process of comparing several columns of numbers to check for trends and discrepancies. He would still need to run them by Sasha later to do some proper statistical analysis, but at least he could have some basis to work on…
“Um… Sims?”
“What is it?” Jon snapped.
The unfortunate technician took a hasty step back. “Master Bouchard is looking for you.”
“So? He could have sent a message,” Jon said.
Bouchard did not care about the state of the archive room, that much was apparent. It was disgraceful, that something like this was even allowed—
“Um—”
“What?”
All of a sudden, Jon realized that he was being watched. The people around him were giving him odd looks; some were exchanging whispered comments. And it wasn’t that hard to guess what they thought about him, and what they were saying behind his back. Some were even openly questioning his relationship with Master Bouchard, and what might have prompted the man to take on someone like Jon to be his apprentice. Jon wasn’t doing himself any favours by openly disrespecting his master’s wishes.
What if Bouchard listened to the gossip? What if he realized he had made a mistake, that he was wasting his time, that—
Jon shook his head. “Right,” he said. “I will go see him now.”
Each step he took felt awkward, now that he knew he was being stared at. Most days he could ignore it and focus on the work in front of him, but now and again it would catch him unawares. It wasn’t just his own reputation at stake; not anymore.
Bouchard would be in his office at this hour. The way was familiar by now. Rosie waved him through with a polite smile, and Jon offered her a curt nod before letting himself into the room.
“Master,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”
Bouchard wasn’t at his desk; that was unusual. But there was a sitting area in the corner where he occasionally conducted meetings. He was there now, lounging in an armchair and engrossed in a book. Jon didn’t get a chance to read the title before he shut the covers and put it away.
At his invitation, Jon took the opposite seat. There was a pot of freshly brewed tea and two cups on the table between them; Jon grabbed it hastily and poured the tea. He glanced at his master’s face and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cup.
Bouchard took a sip of tea and exhaled with obvious pleasure; Jon tried to hide his smile. But his patience was running out quickly. Surely Bouchard had a better reason for summoning him.
Apparently his restlessness was obvious. Bouchard sighed and set down his cup.
“Enough pleasantries, Mr Sims,” he said.
“You haven’t said anything yet, Master,” Jon said.
“And yet you’re already bored,” Bouchard said, the corner of his lip twitching. “I take it the lab requires your constant supervision?”
“It requires some supervision,” Jon said, and immediately felt the urge to bite off his own tongue. It wasn’t his place to criticize the way Master Bouchard managed his department. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” Bouchard said. “And do not lie to me, please. I much prefer impertinence to dishonesty.”
“That is a relief,” Jon said. “I’m a notoriously bad liar.”
Bouchard chuckled lightly. It accentuated the lines on his face, particularly around his pale eyes, and the upturned curve of his mouth. And it wasn’t really fair how much that look suited him.
“Well,” Jon cleared his throat, and adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Is there anything you wanted to discuss with me?”
“Indeed there is,” Bouchard said. “Have you made any progress with your training?”
All of a sudden Jon realized how relaxed he had felt up until this moment. But now his posture stiffened, and a weight pressed down on his chest.
“No,” he said. “I have not and you know it.”
Was it disappointment, then, in Bouchard’s solemn expression? It had to be. He had every reason to be disappointed with Jon. Impertinence might have been acceptable but incompetence was decidedly not. And Jon really wasn’t proving himself in that regard, was he?
“And why do you think that is?” Bouchard asked.
“I don’t know,” Jon snapped, frustration boiling over. “I am trying, I really am. I just—I don’t know what it is I’m doing wrong.”
He rubbed his chin and covered his mouth with a hand, eyes fliting around the room, trying to focus on something, anything that wasn’t Bouchard’s knowing gaze.
A long, heavy silence followed. His master was clearly waiting for Jon to come up with a decent excuse, or at least a reasonable explanation for the numerous failures; for all the wasted hours and sleepless nights. But it ought to have been clear by now that Jon had nothing to offer. So what was he still waiting for?
“Jon,” Bouchard said, after Jon remained stubbornly quiet. And that—he almost never addressed Jon by his name. It was improper, it implied a level of familiarity that they decidedly did not share; Jon flinched in his seat. “If I may offer a suggestion?”
That startled a laugh out of Jon, bitter and somewhat unpleasant. Now, after all this time, Bouchard wanted to help? “Of course,” he said.
“Will you do as I say?”
“I—” Jon hesitated, but it did not last long. He was past the point of desperation – or, come to think of it, pride. “Yes. I will.”
“Good,” Bouchard nodded. “Then take off the bracelet.”
“The—what?”
“You heard me.”
“I did hear you,” Jon said, incredulous. Was Bouchard toying with him, again? “I just—I can’t do that, Master. You know I can’t.”
“Why not?”
The bracelet had been his near-constant companion for the past twenty years; Jon touched it now, seeking reassurance from its presence. He felt the familiar intricate pattern, the faint pulsating rhythm of it, the subtle way it shifted and reacted to his touch. And—how could he explain it? Why would he need to? It was embarrassing enough that he had to wear it at all, and now Bouchard was expecting him to admit to this—this weakness?
“Because I can’t control my magic without it,” Jon snapped.
Bouchard looked as if he was waiting for something. It seemed like he would be willing to wait a long time for—what, exactly? For Jon to have a miraculous breakthrough—
–wait.
“I—I can’t control my magic,” Jon repeated, slow and incredulous. “Really? That’s it?” He turned towards Bouchard, who was watching him intently. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did,” Bouchard said. “You didn’t listen.”
“I did listen! I just didn’t understand—” Jon’s voice drifts off. His hand is wrapped loosely around his wrist, covering the bracelet. “And now you want me to take it off?”
“Yes,” Bouchard said. “You have been relying on it for, how long now? Several years?”
“Twenty,” Jon said flatly.
At that, Bouchard went still. He stared at Jon with wide eyes, as if he was seeing him for the first time. It occurred to Jon that it was the only time so far he had seen the man genuinely surprised.
“I’m sorry—twenty years?” Bouchard said. “Oh, Jon… what happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Jon said. He was feeling slightly nauseous. His tea had cooled down in the meantime but it was still refreshingly bitter; he took a long gulp to settle his stomach. “How would taking it off now possibly help me?”
“You need to get used to relying on yourself again,” Bouchard said after a moment. “Your own willpower, your own self-control. It is not something that can be exercised for half an hour twice a week.”
“Oh, and it’s that easy?” Jon snapped.
“No one said anything about easy.”
Jon set down his half-empty cup with too much force. Lukewarm tea sloshed inside and spilled partially onto the saucer beneath.
“Thank you for the advice, Master,” he said stiffly, pushing himself upwards. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
Bouchard measured him with a cool gaze, eyebrows pinched together. Perhaps Jon had gone too far this time – he expected the man to lash out, to discipline him, or just end his apprenticeship altogether. But Bouchard merely sighed, and shook his head.
“No, that is all. You may go.”
Off Jon went, and tried to tell himself that what he felt was relief, and not disappointment.
I know we all laugh at Jon for taking one look at the Arachnophobia statement (MAG016) and going “DRUGS. POPPYCOCK. HUMBUG.” but like-
This is early s1 Jon who has stated out loud that he believed his colleagues might try to haze him, who is afraid people might knowingly try to get to him.
Jon’s prissy, high and mighty attitude after the statement ends might just be him performing confidence to the people he knows has free access to the tape - his fellow archive workers. Especially after his earlier slip ups (wondering about hazings and oh, wanting to personally screen every new statement before the research department can even start working on them).
If you think about the statement as a fake planted by a coworker who wants to humiliate him, it’s chilling. It has so, so many details that run parallel to Jon’s own life, that we can safely presume nobody at the archives should know about given how private Jon seems to be.
Even disregarding the obvious - that would be the supernatural childhood spider trauma - there’s the lonely, workaholic existence, the smoking, the childhood wandering, the feeling of having your body controlled by an outside force, a goddamn cat named after a military rank.
Who knows what other details fit perfectly with Jon’s life that we as the audience don’t know about.
And the statement giver is looking into getting psychiatric help. He’s trying to establish if he’s in need of anti-psychotic medication. To the audience this might seem as a pretty grounded and potentially positive way to try to move past the trauma of the spider haunting.
But to Jon? Who is holding a piece of paper in his hand with something that could represent proof that someone is looking into his life? It might as well be calling him insane.
Jon was deeply marked by the Spiral by the end of it all, wasn’t he.
Also, like, reminder that Jon, deep down, knew the statement was real because he wasn’t able to make a digital recording of it.
His two alternatives in this situation was to be in denial about it and direct his unease and ire at his immediate surroundings… or accepting and internalising that the cause of his childhood trauma is still out there, killing people just like him.
You know what - I read your tags and I could literally hear in my brain the tone of Grandma Sims going “don’t be ridiculous, Jonathan”
The way she might sigh, or roll her eyes, or-
And like
I think that is especially impactful because I absolutely think Jon cared about her opinion, in lack of any other. He didn’t rebel like a lot of us do when we’re young - he never tried to distance himself from the things his grandmother stood for. He did the OPPOSITE. He tried to emulate her. He tried to live up to her expectations.
He berated himself when he made mistakes, because that’s what she would have done. He faked being a full decade older to make himself seem more authorative and experienced, because in his grandmother’s home, that’s how you got to have a say in important matters.
She worked hard, she pretended to be fine to onlookers, she did things even if they were painful, she didn’t ask for help and Jon looked at her and thought “that’s what an adult is”.
hnghgk. come to think of it, this reading of Jon’s grandmother would mean that a lot of his best traits – his moral sense, his sometimes overboarding empathy, how he handles deep loss and insurmountable odds by carrying on and just trying to do the best that he can with what he is given – are echoes of her, things he learned and admired about her
It was getting late. He really ought to have been readying himself for bed right now, or doing something otherwise productive. Yet there he sat, staring at nothing, with his arms looped loosely around his legs and a blanket pulled around his shoulders.
The books and journals he had read on the subject hadn’t been particularly helpful. Prolonged use of restraints, particularly in the developmental age, had been reported to have adverse effects, the long list of which Jon had jotted down in his notebook and underlined those which – he felt – applied to him. But all experts in the field stressed that the response could be varied, and unique to each case, and… well. He wouldn’t know until he tried, would he? It really boiled down to that.
He felt for the clasp on his inner wrist. The bracelet – it seemed to him, now, that it peeled away from his skin like a living thing, that there were fine, linear strands of silvery white that had burrowed their way inside his body, and were reluctant to let go…
It slipped down onto the floor. Jon shut his eyes and held his breath.
Nothing happened. Nothing happened, nothing would happen, if he could just—
His lungs needed the air, but each muscle in his body remained seized with tension. Nothing happened. Nothing was going on, just this—this feeling, he could get through it. He would—he would—
The pain was getting worse, burning in his chest, even as it felt like great pressure was squeezing it from every direction. Could he not breathe without the damn thing? Was it a side-effect of the bracelet, or was he just doing it to himself? None of the literature mentioned suffocation as the possible cause of death…
Jon gasped. The air rushed into his chest, blessedly cool. Strangely enough he felt like he could taste it, static electricity on his tongue, pinprick sensation on his fingertips, ringing in his ears. And his vision went blurry, or—no, he could see well enough, colours and shapes and light and darkness, but they did not add up to anything he might recognize, no patterns, no objects, nothing, just an endless, incomprehensible stream of sensation.
There was—the window, he had left cracked open. The street outside, two men arguing, their voices muffled but somehow perfectly clear, adding to the cacophony in his ears. And the walls, which, which he could see right through them, the kitchen on the opposite side of the wall that wasn’t his kitchen, Mrs Calloway preparing dinner for her husband and children, who were waiting in the dining room, always hungry, always waiting, always wanting… the man in the apartment upstairs whose name Jon didn’t even know, who lost his job a month ago and had been slipping further and further into darkness and apathy with only liquor to ease the way… Mr Patel downstairs, who had received the diagnosis two days ago and was wondering how to break it to his wife… and others, others, so many others, their voices slipping through the cracks, a hundred thousands secrets and tragedies, in this building alone, and even more of them outside these walls, pressing in from every direction, relentless, a tidal wave of human misery that was threatening to swallow him whole…
He barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up. He knelt on the floor, heaving, hands holding onto the porcelain, clammy with sweat. He didn’t want to know these things about his neighbours. He didn’t want to know them about anyone. And now his stomach hurt, and his chest hurt, and his mouth tasted vile, and he could smell vomit, but at least—at least he knew where he was. He knew who he was. He knew all those things and more.
The tiny bathroom flooded with light. Jon looked up, uncomprehending. The electric lightbulb above his head flickered, shone brighter, searing white across his vision; and then it shattered, raining down glass, and he was plunged into darkness once more.
For the longest time, Jon could hear nothing but his own laboured breathing. Eventually, he tried to push himself upright. His arms were trembling; his legs felt too weak to carry his own weight. He clung onto the doorframe and waited for his head to stop spinning.
The lights were out in the living room. Hadn’t he left them on? No, he was pretty sure he had. Good lord, his head ached like it might split open at any moment. It was difficult to form coherent thoughts—
Someone was knocking at the door. Jon—Jon looked, and looked, and tried to think, but it was increasingly difficult to…
He opened the door.
“Mr Sims?” asked the man outside – Calloway, his name was Calloway. He had a torch. He was pudgy and balding and worried that his wife had an affair, it’s been so long since they—no, this wasn’t—this wasn’t right. Jon shouldn’t be thinking those thoughts. They weren’t his.
“Mr Calloway,” he said, rubbing his face. “Has something happened?”
“Power is out. The fuse blew out in our apartment. Yours too, I’m assuming. I will have to go to the basement and check on the switchgear…”
The ringing in Jon’s ears persisted. But there was something comforting about the darkness, now that Mr Calloway pointed the torchlight away from them both. Jon didn’t have to look him in the eyes anymore.
“What happened?” Jon asked.
“Probably the kids down on the second floor, mucking about with magic again,” Calloway grumbled. “I shall have to speak to—”
Magic. Oh—oh fuck.
“Excuse me,” Jon said weakly. “I—I really don’t know much about electricity at all. Would you like me to call the company?”
“Call them how?” Calloway said after a pause. “No, it’s no trouble. I will take a look.”
“Thank you,” Jon said. “I—I shall go and. Look for candles in the meantime.”
He shut the door and exhaled, a slow, measured breath. All right. The bracelet was still on the floor by the couch, where he had left it; it reached out to him in some intangible way, its silky strands weaving themselves around his limbs. And—it was worrying, strange, how readily they pulled him back. How they wrapped around him in a cocoon, shielding him from the world. Shielding the world from him.
