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…”