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.”