Work Text:
"Jon?”
“Mmf.”
The light clicks on, and Jon is not happy; he doesn’t open his eyes, but instead presses them shut, harder. It can’t possibly be morning, can it? Hadn’t he just–
“Hush,” Elias says, gentle as a lamb. Jon hears the click of his shoes as he enters the office, the soft breeze of an open door, AC buzzing just beyond. “Just wanted to see if you’d gone home. It’s eleven. PM,” he adds, as an afterthought.
Eleven–? Oh, lord. Jon groans. His head feels stuffed, and while his back is beginning to feel mighty sore, his sleep had been so utterly deep and peaceful, with neither dream nor thought. Enveloping blackness and the weight of heavy eyelids. Clearly, he needed the rest, if the deepest sleep he’d had in weeks was a two-hour nap at his desk.
“Why–” he yawns, unable to help himself, and tries to hide it behind a sleeved arm. He should be embarrassed, alarmed, but can’t quite find the energy to be either. He rubs at his eyes. “Why’re you still here?”
Elias laughs at that, a little.
“You know me,” he shrugs. “Always burning the midnight oil, as it were. Anyways,” Elias says, shifting his coat from one arm to the other, “I don’t think your train runs at this hour, correct? You can sleep in the storage room, if you’d like. I can steal you a better blanket from the research break room. It’ll be our secret.”
“Oh,” Jon blinks, attempting to wake himself up. It’s not working—his head feels so pleasantly heady and full. Elias’s voice, too, is soft, hypnotic, almost. Unwilling to break the reverie of midnight. Jon is still so very tired, but he doesn’t quite mind the interruption. How nice of Elias, to let him stay. He nods in response, not exactly trusting his verbal faculties.
“Wonderful then. C’mon, up, up.” Jon nods again, standing slowly. He wavers on his feet, once, and after a moment of steadying himself against the desk under Elias’s watchful eye, makes his way to the storage room. Elias breaks off from his path, but returns as promised, blanket under his arm.
Jon is sitting awkwardly on the edge of the cot, stifling a yawn from behind his hand. His suit jacket is folded over a metal chair in the corner, but the storage room contains a slight chill – even if Elias weren’t here, he’d still keep his shirt and trousers on. And socks, of course. He eyes the blanket eagerly.
“I’m sorry about, well,” Jon glances about, takes the blanket given to him and holds it on his lap. It’s soft, but thin. His fingers trace the holes in it. He is less eager, now, and knows that he’ll take back his jacket, and fold in on himself under both. Still, it’s better than the desk. “Erm, all this. I thought I’d found some sort of–” he can’t help but yawn again. “–thread between statements and couldn’t, ah, help myself.”
Elias has his hands clasped before him, and looks down at Jon in paternalistic patience. “No issue at all, Jon. And I appreciate the dedication, if a little unorthodox.” He smiles fondly. “Just be sure to take care of yourself as well. Light?” He’s near the door, hand hovering over the switch.
“Er, off please.”
“Good night, Jon.”
“Good night, Elias.”
Despite the thinness of the blanket, Jon sleeps well, and as he himself settles in to bed, Elias watches Jon slumber. A tiny orange light from the alarm and a sketched eye Elias remembers pencilling in, ten-odd years ago, keeps his Archivist in low-light view. Jon has pulled his jacket over himself, and the blanket over that, doubled over for warmth. His head rests on the corner of the thin cot pillow, the rest of it held tight and close to his chest.
It’s... sweet, Elias thinks. He’s done quite a bit to the poor man recently, and he supposes seeing Jon actually at rest, not even a lingering nightmare, puts him at rest too. He clicks off the light, and dreams of Jon.
Embarrassingly, Jon ponders, hours later at his desk, is that the fact that someone was with him, as he crept off to bed, was what truly gave him peace of mind. True, he’d been absolutely knackered only twenty minutes beforehand, but his sleeping habits were terrible – generally once he was up, he was up. But then again, when was the last time he’d felt safe? The last time someone had gently closed the door for him, turning out the light with a soft goodnight?
He sips the first of many teas Martin will bring him today, and grimaces.
Nothing more than stress. Of course his body, his mind, would latch onto this sort of childish want. Or need, his mind supplies, but he shoves it out of the way. Never mind. He’s not going to take comfort in Elias, of all people, saying good night, of all things.
The rest of the day goes by as usual – to be fair, while utterly rested, Jon senses himself to be snappier than normal (or, perhaps, the same, but he certainly notices it more); excess energy and slight embarrassment providing a nasty combination to his assistants. They give him a wide berth.
Elias does not.
“Knock, knock,” Elias says, sans knocking, as he opens Jon’s office door. “Not sleeping in here, I presume?”
Jon’s face heats up, and he fiddles with his pen in irritation. “No,” he answers, mulishly. There are papers scattered all around him. It’s messy, cluttered, everything that he hates and that he assumes Elias hates too. He clears his throat, quickly putting his desk into some semblance of order. “No, and it won’t happen again, it was clearly unprofessional-”
“Really?” Elias crosses over to his desk, looks about the mess with a mixture of boredom and satisfaction. Jon stops fiddling with his things, attempts to look both apologetic, but not too apologetic. Elias eyes Jon. The boredom disappears. “I admire dedication. I know myself, and many others, have spent long nights here. This Institute... breeds that sort of thing, I’ve found.” He shrugs. “So I’ve no qualms with an overnight. Though,” he says with a quick smirk, “it won’t garner overtime.”
“Well, we couldn’t have that, could we?”
Elias grins at him. “Anyways. I just wanted to stop by. See how you were doing.”
Oh. Huh. Jon is surprised, and he knows he doesn’t hide it well. Elias is generally hands-off, all things considered, and rarely takes much interest in Jon’s more normal affairs, paranormal scenarios notwithstanding.
Elias raises an eyebrow. “Oh, please, you think me so cruel? To not even ask after my own employees?” But the slight grin hasn’t left his face; he’s not taking this too seriously. Or he is, and is hiding it for Jon’s own sake. Fine, then.
“Well,” Jon huffs, tugging at the cuff of his shirt. “Paranoia about insect women and Tim’s moodiness aside – not utterly horrible. Decent, even.” He pauses, ponders. “The sleep certainly helped. Been working after hours for so long that it’s rather more a home than my own flat.”
Elias nods, the perfect picture of sensibility and understanding. “We could do something about that, you know.”
“Hm?”
“If you’d like to stay here more often. I understand, after Martin’s... issues, with Prentiss. That you might prefer to stay close to the Institute. Safety in numbers. And paperwork.” He smiles, toeing a stack of files next to the desk. “That storage room truly isn’t used for much of anything important – I can gather some new furniture. An actual pillow. A non-moth-bitten blanket.”
Jon’s eyebrows raise, and he give Elias a skeptical look. “Really? You’d do that?” he asks, wryly.
Elias simply shrugs and waves a hand. “It’s no trouble at all. You’ve certainly earned the right to rest – I’ll have a key made as well, for added security.”
“Huh.” Well this he didn’t expect – who knew that Elias had it in him, to be so concerned. And surely it came with strings, but Elias had already mentioned it, really – Jon was a workaholic. May as well use him as free labour, after hours, without the wasteful affair of the tube.
If he were a regular employee in a regular workplace, it’d be hell; but as it was, knowing himself, and being here, close to his tapes and papers...
“Well. Thank you, Elias. I mean, I can’t say how often I’ll use it but... I suppose it’s, well...”
“A comfort?”
“...A comfort, yes. To know it’s there.” One of Jon’s legs swings beneath his chair. He pays it no mind, thinking instead of a room all to himself, near all his obsessions, close and cloistered, clean blankets. Rent-free and blissful reprieve from shouting neighbours and traffic.
“Well!” Elias hands clap, once, and Jon is taken out of his reverie. He blinks, surprised. “Now that that’s settled. I’ll let you know when that key’s been made, but for now, feel free to move things out as you wish.”
“I’ll – I’ll do that, yes.” Elias takes his leave, and Jon pays no mind the muttering tone of Tim beyond the door, Martin’s gentle, reassuring tone. Instead he conjures up images of a dark room lit by a singular, warm lamp, blanket over his knees, reading whatever it is he’d like.
Granted, yes, he could do all that at his own flat, but – well, he’d been truthful before. He’d been living there for years and there were still an odd assortment of things left boxed, pictures on the shelf with stock photos of happier families, waiting to be retired. Empty walls still beige, simply all too much too deal with at this point in his career. But a singular room... he feels a happy shiver run through him. Why not have something nice, all to himself?
Things progress at a fast rate. The next week, when Jon peeks inside the storage room, he’s pleased to see the thin cot gone, replaced by a futon. Underneath is a low storage container (Jon checks; there’s nothing inside), and beside, a stiff cardboard box that contains two pillows, sheets, and a heavy quilt. It’s... a little different, than what he thought Elias might buy, he thinks, holding the quilt up before him. Cozy, he supposes. Homey. An assortment of pale blues and greens threaded together by stars and suns and moons. But the light colours are, he has to admit, a welcome reprieve from the harsh lighting of the Archives and the dark moodiness the Institute has to endure. Cute, almost. He’d had a handmade quilt, made by his grandmother, when he was very young; he supposes that if she’d made him one when he was a little older, he might like something like this.
Perhaps he’ll stay here tonight, he hums. He folds down the futon, making the bed, corners tight and tucked and ready for him in the evening. The quilt he lays almost reverently over top, tracing the constellations with a hand. He does wonder about it, though – he was sure Elias would go for something utterly plain and devoid of any semblance of style, but. Maybe there was a sale, he scoffs.
Still, he’s content. He’d been moving things around the past week, and, seated on his new bed, he likes the cleanliness of what he sees: files in their proper place, storage below, soft quilt and pillows to calm his shivers.
Elias comes to visit him before bed; he does wonder, vaguely, how Elias knows when he’s at his most tired – but as his head nods and his eyelids droop, there he is, full suit as always, even in these late hours.
“Jon,” he practically purrs, low and soft, a dim energy to match the hour. “Perhaps it’s time to rest, now.”
Jon blows out his cheeks in irritation. He’s right, of course – it’s a bit past nine. His back aches; so does his head. And eyes, swimming from scouring paper after paper, flicking through screen and scraps. Elias is right, unfortunately, but he finds there’s a flicker of excitement when he thinks of his waiting room.
Elias’s hand rests on the back of his chair. “Will you be staying in, tonight?”
“I – I believe so, yes. Thank you, by the way – I’m, well,” Jon laughs. “I think already it has more taste than my own flat, honestly.”
“To your liking, then?”
Jon nods as he collects his things, phone and charger, briefcase, and – he hesitates, briefly – a statement he hadn’t yet gotten to.
Elias notices, grins as they both make their way out of the Archives. “What a bedtime story. Very spooky.”
“Oh, don’t you start with that word,” Jon answers back, rolling his eyes. “I’ve gotten enough of that from Tim, thank you.”
“Well, you’re a brave soul, I’ll grant you that. For -”
“The story? Or for dealing with Tim?”
Elias gives an honest, surprised laugh at that, and Jon is thrilled.
I should come down later, next time, Elias thinks to himself, after leaving Jon to it; later, when he’s already in bed. To –
He stops himself. To do what, exactly? Check in on him?
It’s rare for Elias to have even a singular moment of self-doubt, but he isn’t sure this even is doubt. Mainly, a – a wondering, at his own thought process. Something niggling at him from behind all his carefully-laid machinations and ministrations. Something like... fondness, perhaps.
Elias lets out a displeased hum. Fondness wasn’t part of the plan. Fondness wasn’t useful.
But.
It is interesting. Jon is interesting. And doesn’t he deserve a little interest? A little of... whatever this was, between the two of them. Machinations of a different sort, wherein he... Elias stumbles for a moment in his thoughts. He drums his hands against his sides, thinking. Wherein he cares. Jon certainly needs a bit of caretaking in his life, doesn’t he – God knows the man is quite willing to throw himself off whatever new lead he’s got, and Elias would very much like to keep an Archivist around for good, this time.
(But, he has to tell himself, to his own chagrin, this is different, isn’t it. Not just keeping him from bodily harm, but to encourage (ugh) self-care, a state of mental well-being. A push, in a certain direction.)
Not that he’ll need to do much else, having given Jon his own room and all. And blankets, and pillows – quickly, Elias looks in on him; and, yes, there he is, tucked in for the night, curled tight around one of the pillows, held close to his chest.
Oh, how darling he would look with some sort of stuffed toy instead.
The thought comes to him unbidden. Elias bites his cheek in despair but the idea has already taken hold, has already morphed into some strange new Thing that he doesn’t want to name.
He quite likes Jon, yes. Jon is sharp and witty and talks back. Jon is subservient. Jon is ruthless and gentle. Elias needs him, for his beautiful future. He wants him to be safe. He wants him to be more than safe. And he wants to – to do that. To be the source of comfort.
Comfort is not a word anyone had every used to describe him.
Comfort is not in Jonah Magnus’s or Jonathan Sims’s future.
He’ll have to dwell on it longer – but perhaps an intermission is in order. Like Jon, he has been working awfully hard; he deserves it.
“Jon?”
“Mm? You can come in, Martin,” Jon answers, barely looking up from his notes. “Yes?”
“I – er – right.” Martin enters, hesitantly. “Just wanted to update you on the Burrows case – Tim’s been looking into it on the copper end, but I’ve, uh, lost my connection with, um, the Anders guy.” Christ, but he looks terrified, Jon thinks as Martin stutters and stumbles before him. Why -
Oh. Right. This would be the point he’d usually snap at Martin, imply something degrading about his schooling or work ethic.
And yet.
“- so what I’m trying to do here is make contact with his former roommate, but, y’know, that’s an issue because of all the credit scams -”
Well, he’s been sleeping so much better, hasn’t he? An actual schedule, now. If he doesn’t go home, it’s working until dark (unhealthy, but... healthier than working until daylight), then taking the quick walk to his room, statement in hand, tucked away from all the awful things outside. Granted, sometimes they follow him inside – yes, the statements are a bad idea right before sleep – but it’s only metaphorical. And only disturbs him a little bit (which, he supposes, should disturb him more).
Martin’s finished explaining whatever it was before him. Jon blinks at the silence. “R – right,” he coughs. “Thank you for the update, but. Look, there are... limits to what we can reasonably do, right? See where Tim gets, but other than that – don’t kill yourselves trying to get an answer here, if there’s none to be found.”
Martin’s eyes are like saucers. “Oh! Well, uh, okay. Um, thank you?”
“Will that be all?” Jon tries a smile. It’s not the worst thing in the world.
It’s not uncommon for Elias to sneak in a visit before nightfall, now, all hushed words and a raised eyebrow at finding Jon still at his desk.
Jon has to admit that sometimes... sometimes, yes, he waits for Elias to come – he barely knows why, and shutters any attempt to know, but there’s a thrill at being found out, so to speak; of the lights of the Archives off from lack of use, except for his office, the only light in the darkness. And then the clicking of Elias’s shoes down the stairs, the both displeased-and-pleased hm at what he finds.
And it’s not like Jon is really working at that point either – he’s found that when it gets late, when he stays up, there’s a certain fuzziness to his thoughts. Nothing terrible or spooky, just, perhaps, relaxation. Complicated words become tough to parse; the numbers fade from his usually fine memory. Instead, he swings a leg back and forth, filters through his papers looking for the exciting bits, but they never stay too long.
“Isn’t it your bedtime?” Elias will ask, and at the beginning – the beginning of whatever this was, this... mentorship, friendship, something oddly more – his hackles would’ve raised at the phrasing. But now... well, it’s quite nice, isn’t it? Yes, it is his bedtime. But he’d rather not go there alone.
“Mm,” he continues to swing his leg, sitting on the other, still somehow better than his usual posture. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Elias laughs, a chime in the silence. “It’s – oh dear,” he mimes checking a watch, “Most definitely dark out. And with everyone gone home, too. I do think you’re rather done for the day, Jonathan.” He comes closer, peers at the mess of papers on the desk – there’s an order, but only Jon knows it. “You’ve done good work today, I see.”
A tiny thrill sparks in Jon’s spine. “Th – thank you,” he answers. “Right. I should – yes, I should be going-” The compliment has set him off-course, the fuzziness in his brain not computing with the need to Impress His Superior. Instead, he stands too quickly, a file dipping over the end of the table, spilling a trail of paper near his feet. A half-full mug of tea threatens to be knocked over, but Jon saves it in time.
“Take your time,” Elias says. He leans against a bookshelf, arms folded. He makes no move to help, which Jon is thankful for – it would be almost more embarrassing that way. “I’ll walk you down. I have a gift for you.”
That grabs Jon’s attention – he feels his cheeks colour as he stands from kneeling, a litany of possibilities running through his mind.
Elias has bought a gift because he’s not sure how much he can push, here – but this is a good enough excuse to see what Jon might like. Elias dips into Jon’s mind, already so tired and empty but with the most base of emotions. It’s easy, to see what Jon thinks, with the words I have a gift for you.
Grandmother. Confusion. The bedding, the quilt, the soft comforts of that room at night. Sex, imperceptibly, but it’s shuffled over back to bed, darkness. Comfort, reading, a hand on his shoulder. Pastels and praise and something soft to hold.
A colourful thinker, Elias muses, glad for the state of Jon’s mind on these sorts of nights. Quite helpful.
“Shall we?”
The gift in question, Elias supplies, is a book – older, but not a Leitner, Elias assures him. Delicate blue and gold filigree, and soft, used pages. “From a personal collection,” he tells Jon – Jon, who’s dressed now in his pajamas (ratty t-shirt and flannel pants), quickly thrown on while Elias waited outside the door, because he’d told Jon to do so. The meaning of this becomes clear as Elias waves to the bed.
“Get in,” he says. “I’d like to read to you.”
Jon brain goes blank for a moment. “You’d – what?”
“Read to you,” he answers, shrugging, as if reading to your subordinate while he’s in bed is the most normal thing in the world. His raised eyebrow says, get with the program, Jon. “We don’t spend much time together, which I do fault myself for. You stay so busy, all the time – I thought this might be a nice calm-down for us both. End of a long day, and all.”
There’s really no room for argument there, Jon supposes. It’s strange. It’s very strange, and if he worked anywhere else, well. HR would certainly be interested. But as he gets into bed, covering his legs and chest with the quilt, he finds he does very much want. This. Whatever it is.
Elias seems pleased. He allows himself a soft smile, before he pulls over a chair next to the bed. “It’s A Wrinkle in Time,” he says, showing, briefly, the cover to Jon. “I hope you haven’t read it before?”
Jon hasn’t.
And this is a children’s book.
His face colours. Now is the time to really protest, to ask questions, to know, but what if – what if there’s more to know? What if he lets this play out, to let himself want and receive?
Jon shakes his head. “I haven’t – always meant to, really.” He adds, in a smaller voice. Elias’s happiness in his answer is clear – Jon sees the tiny squint of his eyes, the gentling of his shoulders.
“Lovely, then. If you’re all ready?”
Jon is, wherever Elias takes him.
And so Elias reads to him. Not every night – Jon sometimes does go home (‘Really Martin, no need to worry’) – but plenty of them. And when he stays, they fall into the same routine each time, Elias making his way downstairs to find Jon a little tired, a little less apt for sass. Agreeable, and pliant too, as Jon finds – Elias has certainly become more physical, in insignificant ways, but still more than than ever before. He might stand by Jon’s chair, hand on the back, as Jon finishes up his research, or perhaps guide him out the door, fingertips lightly resting on his shoulder. Leading him by the elbow, or nudging into him as they make their way to Jon’s bedroom, laughing at something Jon has said.
He likes seeing Elias laugh.
He likes it when Elias pays attention to him.
It’s – it’s both a crush and a not-crush, Jon thinks, mulling it over during the day, when he’s more awake and himself. He thinks of him often, thinks about his hands and smile and wispy, greying hair. Wonders what it’d be like to kiss him, but wonders, even more, what it would be like for Elias to kiss him – for in this pseudo-relationship they’ve found themselves in, Elias is still the boss. He dominates quietly and with certainty, leaving room perhaps for Jon to make slight choices (he gets to choose the next book, the shape of the nightlight Elias promises him) but ultimately, totally, in control.
There’s little sexual about his thoughts, Jon assures himself – not in this whatever they are they’ve found themselves in. When he thinks of kissing (which is rare, he also assures himself, falsely), they’re chaste – warm, dry, like putting on a sweater right out of the dryer. Cozy.
In his office, Jon presses his fist to his mouth and wiggles a little. Cozy, yes – that’s what he wants. Something other than all these scary things, all the time. That’s not so bad, is it?
Peeking out past his computer, Jon is pleased to see the office empty; Tim is still out in the field, Sasha had told him she’d be in the library most of the day, and he’d sent Martin earlier to organize the files from ‘98. Humming, he clicks open a new window, swinging his legs. There’s a moment of hesitation before he can even type in what he wants, but surely he’s put in good work for today. He’s due a break.
Jon clicks the first link that pops up, and wiggles again when he sees all manner of blues and purples and greens pop up – stuffed toys, all immensely soft looking. Cats, bunnies, dogs; frogs, bugs (he avoids the spiders, however cute they might be), even plants, each of them so gentle and pleasantly designed.
There is, of course, the niggling in the back of his mind, at how weird he’s being, how childish, a cruel voice, but lately he’s been getting better at shoving it away. Elias has given him a room with a soft quilt and reads to him at night, had offered to get him a nightlight, for God’s sake (Jon had chosen a moon); if Elias didn’t care, is in fact encouraging this sort of thing... well, even if they weren’t in whatever it was they were in – Elias is the most professional person he knows. Jon clicks on a cat plushie and sighs wistfully at the pale gray and purple hues.
Elias could never be wrong about such a thing.
“It’s a little bare, isn’t it?” Elias asks Jon, pausing with his finger between the pages. He’s looking around the room with a careful eye. Jon matches him with frank assessment, wide-eyed, with nary a wrinkle between his brows (it’s how Elias likes to see him, nowadays).
He shrugs and pulls his knees closer to his chest, hugging them. “I, um. I think it’s quite nice.”
“Still, though,” Elias hums and puts the book down. He smooths down a crinkled corner of the bedding, rests a hand on Jon’s knee. “It’s rather plain. Isn’t there anything else you’d like?” Now, he knows what Jon wants – he’d clicked Buy Now immediately after Jon had, with high regret, clicked away from the toy site. True, it was quite impulsive – Jon was fickle and his mind easily changed, but. Well. He can indulge himself, surely? And if Jon didn’t want it, no matter, he’d buy the next thing he’d like.
But for now, what Elias really wants, is for Jon to say it. They’ve been dancing around this topic for so long, and Elias knows that Jon and him are thinking the same thing, that this would cross the line.
And Elias very much wants to cross it.
“Hm? Anything at all?” Jon is looking down at his hands. He picks at a fingernail, nervously. “You know I do like to indulge you, Jonathan. This has all been,” he gestures to the room, the book. “Quite lovely for me.”
“Mrm...”
Elias keeps his unwavering gaze on Jon, who is now biting his lip.
“Well... maybe...” A glance to the book. Another middle-grade fantasy. A hand gently tracing the pattern of stars on the quilt, a square of baby blue. “Something to, um, hold, I guess.” Elias can barely control the smile on his face and Jon shrugs again, clearly trying to hide both shame and the childish need to tell and want without inhibition. Jon glances at Elias, who gives him an encouraging nod and a squeeze to Jon’s knee. Jon sets his mouth, courage regaining. “I’ve sort of had my eye on a, ah, st-stuffed toy, perhaps.”
“That can be arranged,” Elias nods, sagely. “You had a specific one in mind?”
“Oh! Um, yes, actually – I can - ” Jon grabs his phone from the bedside table and Elias crowds in close beside him. Jon’s hair tickles his chin.
He breathes it in. Vague hints of coconut, maybe something flowery. He knows Jon purchases the cheapest shampoo he can find on the shelf, paying absolutely no attention to what it might do to his thick hair. And still, Elias just wants to bury his face into it, drag Jon close and never let go.
Instead, his hands twitch as he controls himself, looking down at the bright screen displaying the same kitty that’s already on it’s way. “Oh,” he breathes, feigning surprise. “Well that’s just adorable.” Jon shivers in pleasure next to him. “So very you. I can definitely make that happen.” Jon turns to thank him, when Elias thinks, oh, to hell with it, and presses a kiss to Jon’s temple.
Jon freezes. So does Elias, for a second, before he regains his composure and settles back onto his chair. Silence except for the hum of a fan outside.
“...I just thought you deserved a goodnight kiss,” Elias says, the words honest in his throat. “For telling me.” He can’t see Jon’s red cheeks in the dark, but he knows that Jon is burning up.
A soft oh is Jon’s response – the harsh light from the phone dims. Subconsciously, Jon taps the screen again. The cat stares up at him. “I just... didn’t expect it. It was... nice.”
“Just nice?” Elias pushes. He has to.
Soft shuffle of sheets, and even softer voice (and oh, how Elias loves it, the normally deep register taking on such shy and gentle tones). “I, um. I liked it. Very much so. Thank you, Elias.”
The screen goes dark again. Lit only by the soft tones of the lamp next to him and curled in his blanket, Jon has never looked so innocent. Elias’s heart does a funny little flip. He’s in trouble, isn’t he? And yet, he continues to to dig that grave.
“Well. I’m very glad,” Elias responds. What a situation – what an absolutely absurd situation they’ve found themselves in, and yet – “I should, ahem, I should be going. Let you get some rest. It’s past your bedtime, after all.”
“Okay,” Jon says simply, kindly. “Can you turn out the light before you go?”
“Of course, darling.”
Darling!
And a kiss!
After Elias leaves Jon’s energy returns in a rush – he kicks his legs and wiggles his body and presses his fists to his mouth in pure happiness. A giggle escapes him. A perfect evening – and soon, a gift! Elias didn’t even care that he wanted a stuffed toy, hadn’t batted an eye; had in fact seemed happy with him for even mentioning it. Oh, wondrous days – will he even be able to sleep tonight? He doesn’t think so, but no matter – these things are dreams enough.
Jon wakes the next morning with the strangest sort of hangover and groans, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. He’s certainly cozy, warm by his toes, the light of his moon highlighting the room. His body feels nice, but the rest of him, his mind... he keeps his hands over his eyes. Christ, but he’s embarrassed. Did he seriously ask Elias – Elias! His actual honest-to-God boss! - for a stuffed cat??
He drags his hands down his face. Oh God. He did. And – and then Elias had lent over and given him a little kiss on the crown of his forehead. And had squeezed his knee. And all this, after he’d finished reading a chapter of some children’s fantasy novel, like he has for the past month.
And then Jon continued to have the best sleep he’s had in years, all thanks to these little... interventions, by Elias.
They’re insane. The both of them. It’s the only reasonable solution.
But it’s an insanity Jon isn’t willing to give up – he wants to protest himself, at least provide some sort of push back, but he knows himself too well.
And this... he sighs, irritated but utterly pleased, this sort of thing will continue, won’t it?
“How do you feel about visiting my home, Jon? For the weekend.” Elias asks after they’ve finished their usual Thursday meeting. He’s tucking a folder away neatly in his desk drawer, and says this in a perfectly perfunctory tone; like he’s asking something with no greater missive than what’s the weather like?
“Er -”
“I admit it might be a strange request, but I feel you’ve been so cooped up, down there. Might be good to stretch your legs a bit, hmm? Besides,” he adds, with a satisfied smile as he adjusts a cuff link, “Something special came in the mail last night.”
“Oh!” Jon can’t help himself – immediately a surge of excitement runs through him, and try as he might he can’t quite tamp it down. “I – that is -”
Elias laughs. “It’s alright, Jon. I’m glad you’re happy.”
Jon snorts. “Yes, well.” He thinks to add in some self-deprecating comment, but doesn’t bother. Sod it. He can be excited about the stupid toy, yes, and he really would like to see how Elias lives. “I’d – I’d like that, actually. Might be rather relaxing.”
“I’d like to think so. I’ve a personal library and a litany of recipes I’d like to try. Though I can’t say how good I am at actually cooking anything.”
“Well, given that you’re my employer, I’ll say right now that they’re perfect. No notes.”
“The burning smell?”
“A delightful, under-utilized French technique. Really gives the whole table an air of mystery.”
Elias laughs out loud. “Delightful, then. Does tomorrow evening work? I can drive us both.” At Jon’s nod (he’s already thinking of what to pack), he continues. “Perfect! Oh, this is going to be very fun, won’t it Jon? I’ll have to find some activities for you to do. Really make the most of things. Of course, not too much,” he muses as he pulls out his scheduling book, presumably penciling Jon in (who wonders, briefly, what this is being considered as in those hallowed pages – babysitting? The thought of which makes him feel weird and not entirely bad). “You’ll have all the quiet time you’d like, and afternoon naps if need be. But still. Perhaps some colouring books. And reading, of course. And time in the garden – I think that would do you well.”
Jon can feel his face burning at these casual proclamations of Elias, of having his weekend just be... taken over, his free time scheduled, like he’s – like he’s some needy little boy. Who needs naps. And an hour in sunshine.
And Christ, he thinks. It’s not like he doesn’t need those things. Elias is giving him the strangest and yet most basic care in the world, and it’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for him since he was a child. He blinks back a single, prickling tear.
“I’d – I’d love that, actually,” he admits with a sigh of relief.
A self-satisfied grin fills Elias’s face. “Wonderful. Tomorrow, then – we’ll leave at 6:15.”
For the first time in a week Jon goes home to his flat. It’s about as cold as he expected, but still somehow more monotone and sad than he’d assumed. Beige blankets, standard white sheets, flat pillows. IKEA furniture, and not even the fun kind. He sits down on his bed with a sigh as he begins to lay out his clothes.
Pathetic, really, that a single room in the Archives holds more warmth than the place he’s lived in for years. And for what? Why in God’s name hadn’t he bothered to... live in it? Enjoy it?
Work, his mind supplies. Of course. Always work. But also his own natural inclination to deny himself... well, himself. His own oddities that veered from his esoteric obsessions. For Christ’s sake, he doesn’t even have a plant in his home. And he likes plants! Georgie never expected him to keep one alive and by God he did, dammit! For years!
A sigh escapes him as he folds another shirt. No matter, now – Elias has decided to take on that role with gusto, and he’s surely better at caring for Jon than Jon himself.
He smirks – well, it’s certainly cheaper for him this way, isn’t it? Elias does love to indulge and spoil him, and it surely makes up for his meagre Archivist pay.
The rest of the night is spent in a better mood – Jon orders in, not much feeling like operating the whole mechanics of oven and stove, and later curls up in bed. Tomorrow, there’ll be something soft to hold close as he sleeps, and he bites his thumb in delight at the prospect.
Elias’s house, as it turns out, is more manageable than Jon had imagined; it’s large, certainly, compared to all the others in his own section of the city, but it tucks away cleanly and professionally against all it’s other twins. Dark brick, healthy wooden slats leading to the front door, shining golden doorknob. Ivy crawling tastefully around windows lit by sombre, orange lamps, matching the light of a nearby lamppost when they arrive just before dark.
“This must be gorgeous around Christmas,” Jonathan wonders aloud as he shuts the car door behind him, eyes wide in frank wonderment.
Elias nods in agreement as he fetches his keys from his pocket. “You’ll have to come visit, then – truly beautiful, when the snow falls.” Jon follows Elias up the steps; there’s no one else on the street, and he thinks: in a cold, slumbering white blanket, if anyone would even exist besides himself and Elias. If he’d even ever want them to.
Elias opens the door; Jon enters.
He has to wonder if it’s the childishness in him, this weird play-acting he and Elias do, that makes him antsy to kick off his shoes and rush around Elias’s home, or just the fact that he is here – in such a darkly luxurious place, corners filled with history, occultism, clever danger enough for him to chew over for hours upon hours. Perhaps the latter, but Elias combats this by placing a gentle hand on his back, indicating for Jon to toe his shoes off right next to Elias’s own; and Jon studiously follows Elias, in purple stocking-ed feet, a far cry from Elias’s own academic grey. Jon keeps his hands clasped before him, brought up to his chest, in order to be polite; to not touch anything he shouldn’t.
He can’t help but wonder what his gift will be. He wants to touch something so very badly.
Elias gives a brief tour, directing his gaze towards kitchen and bathroom, the door leading to Elias’s small plot of land (“A garden – we’ll breakfast out there tomorrow morning, won’t that be fun?”), before turning them both into the room with the warm light that Jon had seen from the car. It is, like the rest of Elias’s house, nothing that one would call small, but simply a room that holds itself well despite the amount of sheer items it contains. It is overwhelming only when Jon focuses, shelves upon shelves of books and volumes, trinkets and things which are probably too expensive to be called such, a couch and love seat crowded by the fireplace, an armchair and desk squeezed into the back, everything rich with greenery and gold and bronze.
“I’d no idea you lived like this,” Jon huffs out, gazing in wonder about the room.
Elias laughs. “I do pay myself a decent salary. But sit, sit,” he gestures, and Jon dutifully sits on one end of the couch. There’s a blanket draped over the back, delicate knit. He pulls it over his lap and, surprised at his own abandonment of shame, brings up his feet to curl into the corner. “I’m sitting,” he says, simply, and Elias gazes at him, still standing, with an expression unguarded and fond.
“Wait right here,” he says, after a moment.
Jon nods excitedly.
While he waits, he tucks the blanket under and around his legs, perfectly snug and ensconced. He fiddles with his fingers, tugs at his sweater, all of a sudden buzzing with more delight then nerves; he can’t quite believe he’s here, with Elias, (in Elias’s house!), waiting for a gift just for him.
He can hear Elias puttering around upstairs – oh, down the stairs now, so strange not to hear the click of Elias’s fancy shoes across hardwood flooring; briefly Jon sees him cross from landing to the kitchen. So strange to seem him stripped of his suit jacket and vest, simple shirt tucked into trousers. His tie is loosened at the neck.
He’s wonderful like this, Jon thinks. Sweet, and almost awkward about it, despite how much control he’s had over Jon these past few months: both of them circling each other in perhaps not the finest of dances, but a dance nonetheless – newly partnered, discovering one another.
Elias returns before Jon can ponder any longer, small plate in one hand, a bag in the other.
“A small appetizer before dinner,” he tells Jon, setting down the plate.
“Oh!” Jon exclaims, delighted at the spread. It’s a simple affair: a mix of cheese, fruits, two small squares of chocolate at one corner. The fruit is cut into little shapes, and a familiar, funny feeling bubbles up in Jon’s stomach. He hadn’t heard Elias chopping anything in the kitchen; he must have done this before Jon had arrived. “It’s so cute,” he murmurs, before popping a strawberry into his mouth. Elias, with a tiny moment of hesitation, runs a hand through Jon’s hair as he chews. Jon hums at the feeling and leans into the touch.
“And now, I believe you might like this,” Elias laughs, ruffling his hair one last time. He sets the bag on Jon’s lap, and as he does so sits next to Jon; their thighs touch, and Jon, pleased, scoots closer to Elias still. It’s a simple gift bag, cream-coloured and plain, and filled to the brim with pastel tissue paper. With gentle hands Jon lifts out each sheet, taking his time in uncovering what’s beneath.
It is, of course, exactly what he’d asked for – delicately he lifts the cat from the bag, brings it close to his chest; the fur tickles his chin and hands. With barely a mote of hesitation he brings it to his face, breathing in deeply. There’s a hint of cologne, probably from being near Elias, and a vague, newly laundered smell.
“She’s perfect,” Jon says, voice cracking just a little. “Thank you.”
Elias’s hand, resting on Jon’s shoulder, squeezes tightly. “Of course! You deserve something soft. After all you’ve done – all you do.”
Jon, heavy with sudden emotion, moves closer to Elias – close enough to lean his full weight on Elias’s shoulder. This is... it’s perfect. It’s strange. There’s a whole host of words he could call it in his head, but right now – isn’t Elias right? Doesn’t he deserve this, after everything? A rest. A chance to be someone else – maybe not even someone else. Himself, as he once should have been. Himself, as loved. He brings the kitty to his chest, holds it close.
“We’ll breakfast together, in the morning?”
“Of course – pancakes, fruit, whatever you’d like.”
“And then reading?”
“All the reading you want; my library is yours.”
Jon’s eyes close in satisfaction; Elias rubs soothing circles in the centre of his back.
“And – and then lunch, and then... lord. It’ll only be Saturday – there’s so much to do.”
“Well, you can do anything you’d like, Jon.”
“Anything?”
Elias kisses Jon on the forehead, on his nose, a chaste peck at the corner of his mouth. “Always.”