Here we goooooooo

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

***

Come Monday, there is a noticeable improvement in the atmosphere down in the Archives. Maybe it’s the illusion of a common goal to work towards, or just an after-effect of a moderately pleasant evening at the pub. Either way, it probably says something worrying about each and every one of them, but Jon can’t bring himself to care.

On a different note, his copy of House of Leaves is already lying on the desk in his office, with a short note written in Elias’s elegant handwriting.

You were right, the note says. I did like it.

Jon re-reads it obsessively before he finally caves and shoves it somewhere into the depths of his desk, along with the book. What does it mean? Did Elias mean it sincerely, or was he being sarcastic? Is he toying with Jon again? Why didn’t he hand it over in person, and share some of his thoughts? Is Jon severely misinterpreting the nature of their relationship? Because it’s not all that strange to exchange book recommendations with your professional acquaintances, isn’t it? And then discuss them?

The most probable answer is that Elias is avoiding him. Which shouldn’t hurt, because Jon has been avoiding Elias, but it still does. A bit.

That is, until they can avoid each other no longer. One of the dreaded interdepartmental meetings is coming up, and Jon doesn’t think he can weasel his way out of it, unless he gets himself sick or injured. And Elias will of course be there, given that he is organizing the damn thing.

Jon gets up earlier on Thursday and puts a bit more effort into his appearance, even going so far as to hanging his mirror back on the bathroom wall. He really needs a haircut at this point, but as he doesn’t trust himself with scissors, he tries to pin back his hair into a somewhat-professional looking bun. It does make him look too much like a hipster, unfortunately, but it’s better than letting it hang loose in front of his face, or pilling it up into a messy ponytail he usually ends up with.

The outcome is—honestly the best he could have hoped for. At least he ironed his shirt properly, and it almost fits him. He almost doesn’t look like an awkward teenager, dressing up for his first real date, or a job interview. Almost.

The meeting begins at 9 a.m. sharp. Jon already feels horribly underdressed – not to mention underqualified, as he is one of the youngest people here. And it’s not at all helped when Elias makes his entrance, looking perfectly stylish, from the subtle pattern on his tie, to the tips of his polished shoes. Jon doesn’t look up as Elias makes his way through the room, pretending to read the papers stacked before him on the table, and praying that no-one hears the frantic pounding of his heart.

“Good morning,” Elias says genially. The pleasant lilt of his voice does something utterly embarrassing to Jon’s insides. “I trust you are all having a productive week. Now, if you please—”

It’s just reports. Jon needs to deliver a report, assert that the Archives are operating without any problems, that he needs no additional funding, has no issues with the other departments. Nothing actually important. In truth, this entire meeting could have been an email, but Elias insists on bringing them all here. Possibly because the forced eye-contact enables him to read everyone’s mind in search of anything unorthodox.

Come to think of it, this is very probably the reason.

The Head Librarian is going through the usual: new acquisitions, outsiders requesting access to the Library, and an unpleasant incident involving a strange book that may or may not have been a Leitner. Jon spaces out, trying to rehearse what he’s about to say, and barely even notices when the man finishes speaking.

“Thank you, Salim,” Elias nods. “Jon?”

Good lord. He shouldn’t have been avoiding Elias. He shouldn’t have waited until now to face him, because his head is empty, his thoughts swirling in unhelpful patterns. Is Elias wearing the same cologne? There is the faintest trace of it in the air. And—and he’s waiting for Jon to speak, probably with that calm, expectant look on his face, distant and professional, while Jon sits frozen, unable to speak.

He looks up, and meets Elias’s eyes.

It’s—he’s seen them before, hundreds of times. There’s no reason for his pulse to speed up. He has seen Elias’s lips, the finely sculpted bones of his face, the delicate web of crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. He has kissed those very same lips, the memory so strong it’s almost a tangible thing, so soft against his own mouth, gentle at first, and then more pressing, insistent, moving deeper, taking everything Jon didn’t even know he had to give—

Elias looks away and clears his throat.

“Jon? The report?”

Oh fuck. Elias can read his mind. And here Jon is, fantasizing about the man sitting three feet away from him, his boss, during a business meeting, surrounded by his co-workers—

“Right,” Jon hurries to say, nearly scattering the papers he had folded so carefully in front of him. “Excuse me. Right—”

He doesn’t look up again, pretending to check the notes he has already memorized, and lets his voice carry on while the rest of him curls in shame. Thank God no-one comments or asks him any questions.

“Thank you,” Elias says curtly. “Ingrid?”

It goes on like this. By the time Keith finishes arguing with Elias about the security measures and rapid personnel turnover in the Artefact Storage, Jon can almost breathe normally.

Of course he nearly misses his name being said again, this time by Ingrid, Head of Research, and his former boss.

“Jon?” she repeats, clear disapproval in her tone. “I was requesting access to the Archives.”

Access? To his Archives?

“What for?” Jon asks.

Too late, he notices the strange quality of his voice, a buzz of static; Ingrid frowns but she opens her mouth nonetheless, about to give him the answers he seeks. Compelled to.

“That is—” Jon hurries to say. “The Archives are still in a state of disarray. We are not nearly done cataloguing everything. If you let me know what exactly you’re looking for, I’ll be able to find it for you.”

Ingrid scowls. “Not done cataloguing? What, pray tell, have you been doing these past months then?”

It doesn’t seem like she noticed Jon’s question, or understood its significance. Does she even know what he is? Do any of them know? Do they also possess strange powers? Are they even aware of what it is they all serve? Is Jon being kept out of the loop, or is Elias keeping them all within their own little corners, feeding everyone bits of information, and then forcing them here, so that they can regard each other suspiciously above the unassuming conference table?

Because there is the faint undercurrent of fear in the air. He hasn’t noticed it before, too preoccupied with Elias, but it’s most definitely present. Every person has their own secrets to protect, and they sit here, afraid of those secrets being exposed in front of their co-workers, while the Eye already sees through them all and feasts on their fear.

He shakes away these thoughts and tries to compose himself.

“I believe I’ve already given my report on the state of the Archives,” he says. “I can repeat it, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Elias interjects. “Ingrid, if you require anything from the Archives, I’m sure Jon will be more than happy to assist you. I’m assuming you can sort it out between yourselves?”

“Yes,” says Jon.

“Of course,” says Ingrid.

The rest of the meeting is blissfully uneventful. Jon takes meticulous notes he isn’t planning on reading, just to keep his focus where it should be, and to hold his thoughts in check. Not an easy task once Elias leans back in his chair, his long, elegant fingers steepled together, observing the proceedings with rapt attention. There is a weight to his steely gaze that feels almost physical. Jon finds himself caught in it once Elias turns to him, and it takes conscious effort not to shudder. Good lord, if that’s what’s going to happen every time Elias looks at him…

He breathes a relieved sigh as soon as Elias dismisses them. That is, until Elias says:

“Jon. A word, please?”

Rosie gives him a warm, sympathetic smile as she picks up her laptop and a stack of reports. But she still leaves the room and closes the door behind her.

It’s just the two of them. Jon, half-standing, awkwardly trying to sort through his notes. Elias, sitting back in his swivel chair, perfectly poised and professional.

“Lock the door,” Elias says.

Jon swallows; his throat is dry as sawdust. But he moves, automatically, takes the several steps around the table, reaches the door, and the key in the lock. Turns it. Swallows again, with little success.

Elias is waiting, silent, his silhouette outlined against the windows behind his back. It’s a bright, sunny day. Almost too bright to look at.

Why isn’t he saying anything? Is he waiting for Jon to speak? To apologize? For what, his errant thoughts? The reckless use of his powers? His inability to concentrate? Or is he simply waiting for Jon to implode under the weight of his own anxieties? Because he’s fairly sure it wouldn’t take long.

What Elias says, however, is: “You look nice.”

Jon startles, then begins to laugh. “What?”

Elias tips his head to the side and frowns. “Although the suit is abysmal. I should introduce you to my tailor. We may then find something that will actually fit you.”

“I can’t afford your tailor, Elias,” Jon says, exasperated.

“Oh, I would be more than happy to pay for it,” Elias says. “Besides, you’ll need it for the next fundraiser.”

“What fundraiser?” Jon is starting to panic.

“I’m sure Rosie keeps you informed about upcoming events,” Elias says. “Have you checked your email?” At Jon’s blank expression, Elias sighs. “You do have assistants, do you not?”

“They’re not in charge of my schedule,” Jon protests. “Or sorting through my emails.”

The corner of Elias’s lip is twitching. He is enjoying this: flustered, wrong-footed Jon, fumbling through his answers.

“I assume you didn’t keep me here to insult my appearance?” Jon asks, trying to wrestle back some control over the flow of this bizarre conversation.

“I complimented your appearance,” Elias says. “It’s just your wardrobe I take issue with.”

“I see,” Jon says. “So, what is it? You want to dress me up in fancy clothes and have me dangle on your arm during the next posh event for all your rich friends?”

“Pretty much.”

It’s just a game, Jon thinks to himself, gritting his teeth. It’s Elias. Everything is a game to him. If Jon lets it get under his skin, he’s already lost.

Elias stands up, every move practiced, elegant. He reaches Jon in a few easy strides. Without the table separating them, Jon feels exposed and helpless. He’s sure Elias knows this.

“This is what I’m talking about,” Elias says, casually smoothing the creases of Jon’s damn suit. The touch of his hands is electric, even through the layers of fabric; it has Jon shivering, his breath catching in his throat. Worse, still, when Elias’s fingers slip upwards, to adjust the collar of his shirt, just shy of brushing the skin of his throat. “It’s too big on you. Or have you lost weight again?”

“My weight is none of your business.”

“Your health is very much my concern.”

“Why?”

“I told you. You’re my Archivist.” Elias’s voice drops into a whisper, warm and possessive. Jon’s indignation is feeble, melts away quickly, too quickly, with every frantic beat of his pulse against Elias’s fingers. “Do you know how damn hard it is to concentrate on my job with you there? When you look at me, when you think about me?”

“Then stop reading my mind,” Jon says. Elias is so close; if he lowered his head, if Jon stood on his tip-toes…

“I can’t,” Elias says. “I need to know, Jon. I need to know everything about you. I’m sure I don’t have to explain what it feels like.”

He’s smiling as he says it, huffing out a breath of not-quite laughter. But there’s an edge of frustration to his tone that Jon doesn’t know how to cope with. And he’s looking at him this entire time, his grey eyes pinning Jon in place, not even searching for anything. As if the sight of him was enough to satisfy whatever urges coursed through Elias’s veins.

“It’s hard to imagine the Beholding cares about this,” Jon says.

Even so, he cannot resist pressing his fingers to Elias’s cheek, just to feel it again; to see Elias’s pupils widen, watch the curve of his mouth as he smiles with wry amusement.

“I assure you, it craves the fear of its servants’ as much as anyone else’s,” Elias says. “More, perhaps.”

Is the Eye watching them now? It’s hard to tell. It’s hard to think.

“What are you afraid of?” Jon asks.

The compulsion rolls of his tongue, easily, as easy as breathing. And Elias shivers when he feels the pull of it, closes his eyes, and leans down, to close the last few inches separating them. To kiss Jon, hungry, drinking in the power he had bestowed upon him. He struggles to resist it, his lips forming words he refuses to voice, in between the frantic kisses he presses to Jon’s mouth.

He loves the struggle. Jon knows this instinctively. He loves it, and it’s exhilarating.

They part, breathless. Jon smiles, Elias’s warm breath tickling his skin, and presses another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling away.

“You never answered my question,” Jon points out.

“Right now? I’m mostly afraid Rosie will figure out what happened and report me to HR,” Elias is joking, but only just.

“Yes, that would be dreadful,” Jon says.

“Get back to work,” Elias says.

“Yes,” Jon nods. “I should probably do that.”

He doesn’t fully process it until he’s back in his office, staring at the wall while the events of this morning play themselves out in his head, in full, loving detail. Everything he said and did. Everything Elias said and did. Everything it could potentially mean.

Oh, this is bad. This is very bad.