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.