#honk twice if you want me to stop spamming the tag

[karuvapatta]

Nothing like this was supposed to happen, but someone mentioned Jon and Elias dancing, and I. I couldn’t resist. I am weak. I also don’t know how I’m going to edit this into a cohesive story, but??? That’s a problem for the future.

Do let me know if you’re enjoying this fic, though! :3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

***

For some infernal reason, Elias makes them suffer through an office party.

His assistants flat out refuse to come, but Jon is a department head, and should make at least a token appearance. They’re celebrating an anniversary of the establishment of the Institute, and Jon very much does not care which one it is—

--one hundred and sixty years—

But at least the wine is nice.

Elias drags him around and introduces him to his benefactors: Peter Lukas and Simon Fairchild and some others, old men with more money than common sense. Jon shakes Peter’s hand and feels the cold, creeping fog curl around his feet; looks into empty eyes and can’t see or hear anyone else—

Elias’s hand curls around his bicep, proprietary and way too presumptuous.

“Do not startle my Archivist, Peter,” Elias says. “He’s rather shy.”

They all laugh at Jon as if he were an object, paraded around for their approval. Well, Jon couldn’t care less about it, so he smiles through clenched teeth, makes whatever small talk he deems unavoidable, and excuses himself at the earliest opportunity.

He sulks at the top of the balcony and watches the colourful crowd milling below. How many of them are of the Beholding, then? How many serve other Powers? There are patterns there, he can feel the shape of them, but they don’t make sense to him yet. And wine makes him unsettled, overly warm; he can feel his inhibitions melt away, stupidly texts Wish you were here to Martin, because wouldn’t it be nice to have a shoulder to lean on?

Mostly, however, he watches Elias. He seems awfully close to Peter Lukas; even now, they stand together, caught in a whispered conversation, Elias with his hand on Peter’s shoulder, leaning a tad too far into the man’s personal space for it to be accidental…

They both look up, and catch Jon staring. Jon shudders; the men just laugh.

Thankfully, some of his former colleagues from Research are here. They ask polite questions about his new position, but are mostly just content to discuss old stories and their current projects. They miss Sasha; Jon lets her know via text, and receives a heart emoji in response. It’s almost pleasant. Easy enough not to wonder how many of them are aware of the Eye’s watchful gaze.

But he does wonder. He can’t help but wonder.

Do they know they can’t leave? Everyone’s acting like nothing is amiss, and it’s driving Jon insane. There’s a buzz in his head that he’s trying to drown out with more wine, that prickling sensation of constant surveillance, the underlying awareness that all these happy, smiling, innocent people are doomed, that they have already signed their freedom away, that there is nothing Jon can do for them…

He lets the conversation drift around him and then, eventually, away. He doesn’t seek out company afterwards, content to sleepwalk through the Institute halls, paying no attention to anyone and receiving none of it in turn. It is peaceful. It is terrifying.

“Archivist.”

The voice is vaguely familiar. Peter Lukas, his mind supplies – captain of the Tundra. The fog thickens around them, muffling sound and light. He can still see people, they are still there, but Jon doesn’t know them. Doesn’t care to know them. Certainly no more than they care to know him.

“Captain Lukas,” Jon says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His voice drifts through the mists. Peter laughs.

“You know, I could very easily take you right now,” he says. “Snatch you right from underneath Elias’s thumb. Wouldn’t that serve him well?”

Jon shrugs.

“Can’t imagine he’d care.”

He can’t imagine anyone would care. Jon could stay here forever. Probably should. It’s not like he’s making much of a difference out there – all of his actions only serve to make the situation worse.

Except Elias would care – he might care about the failure of his pet project. But he can replace Jon easily, can he not? Sasha would make a great Head Archivist. She’d get the position she had always wanted, that should have been hers in the first place, that Jon had stolen from her. Tim won’t have to suffer Jon’s entitlement and paranoia, won’t be looking at him as if Jon was going insane, won’t have to struggle with that seething rage… and Martin… Martin deserves someone better. Someone who will treat him right, and not as a punching bag or a source of emotional support.

He can feel the cold, damp fog seep through his clothes. Its tendrils creep along bare skin, leave him shivering. But that, too, passes; he stands still, numb to the mist that will swallow him whole. He can see nothing, hear no one…

“How are you doing this?” he asks.

Peter Lukas is a shadow in the fog, his voice coming from somewhere far, far away.

“I’m not doing anything to you, Archivist. You’re doing it to yourself.”

“But why?”

He knows why. It is one of the Powers, feeding on his fear, the way it did to Naomi Herne, Carlita Sloane, Andrea Nunis… their statements float through his memories, each one stark and clear, even though everything else slowly sinks back into the fog. They made it through. And Jon took their fear and committed it to tape, picked it apart and studied it, filed it away with all the others, fed on it, and for what? What good does it do? It cannot help him now. It didn’t help them. It never helped anyone.

And if he stays here, it never will.

Jon shakes his head, his hands. He is shivering now, chilled to the very bone; he can barely feel the tips of his fingers, where they’ve gone pale and cold and numb.

“That’s not a very nice trick to pull at a gala, of all places,” he says irritably.

The fog is melting away. Or perhaps it was never there in the first place. But he can see people, real people, moving about them, exchanging idle gossip, laughing, flirting. There’s music playing, an honest-to-God string quartet that Elias always insists on bringing to these events if no one manages to stop him in time.

“I disagree. There’s something deliciously ironic about it, wouldn’t you say?” Peter grins. It’s not a very pleasant grin; his eyes remain lifeless, cold.

Jon wants to argue, but his teeth are chattering. Low temperatures never agreed with him, and it’s been even worse recently. Has he lost weight? It might explain why even his suit was hanging a bit awkwardly off his frame, much as the rest of his clothes. Huh. He had attributed it to stretched fabric, but perhaps…

He feels the warmth of another person, stepping up smoothly on his right to place a hand on his shoulder. For a brief moment he feels the brush of fingers on the nape of his neck, just above the collar of his ill-fitting jacket; warmth blooms beneath his skin, like a ray of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day. He has to forcibly hold himself still not to burrow into that heat, push his way all the way into its nice, secure embrace, and soak up everything it has to offer.

Because it’s Elias. Of course it’s Elias.

“If you wanted to dance, Peter, you could have just asked,” Elias says. His tone is pleasant, almost playful, but narrowed eyes and stiffness of his posture betray the irritation he must be feeling. “No need for such underhanded tactics.”

“But you love them so,” Peter says. His smile, when he addresses Elias, is a touch more genuine than the bland expression he has for everyone else. Jon is trying very hard not to consider the implications of that, mostly because he is still shivering and it’s taking all of his willpower and whatever remains of his dignity not to cling to Elias’s warmth like a swooning maiden. Peter gives him a short, unreadable look, and turns back to Elias. “I will see you later. Take better care of your pets in the meantime.”

“I do not recall asking for your advice, but thank you nonetheless,” Elias says smoothly. “Shall we?”

The last question is directed at Jon. He finds himself nodding numbly, content to follow Elias’s in their not-quite embrace, up and until he notices where Elias is leading them.

“No,” he says.

“It’ll warm you up,” Elias says.

“I am not dancing with you.”

“Whyever not?”

Because I hate you, Jon thinks aggressively, making sure to stare directly in Elias’s eyes. Out loud, he says: “Because you’re my boss, half of the Institute is here, and I don’t want to fuel any more inane gossip.”

Elias sighs dramatically. “You care way too much what other people think of you. I, for one, think it is a splendid idea.”

And of course he manages to manoeuvre Jon exactly where he wants him: the middle of the dancefloor, among other couples, who are swaying to the music with varying degrees of skill or a sense of rhythm. And of course Elias’s hand slides down Jon’s back, to rest below his shoulder blade; his other reaches for Jon’s hand and tugs it upwards, curling warmly around stiff, frozen fingers.

“Elias,” Jon whispers urgently. “I can’t dance.”

He doesn’t know what to do with his free hand, or his legs, or the rest of his body. Their new position puts them awkwardly close, facing each other, even if they have to angle their heads for their eyes to meet. Elias has him more or less trapped in the cage of his arms, and if his self-satisfied smirk is anything to go by, doesn’t intend to let go any time soon.

“Just follow my lead,” he says, smooth as you please.

And then, suddenly, they are moving.

Elias shifts his body weight forward, barely giving enough warning before Jon has to scramble backwards, to avoid colliding with his leg. He clutches onto the fabric of Elias’s suit, and stares down, trying desperately to mirror the movements of Elias’s legs. Which are, annoyingly, a bit longer than his own, their stride much longer. And smoother. And more self-assured.

“Look at me, Jon,” Elias murmurs.

He’s moving backwards now, and Jon has to race to catch up with him. His gaze never leaves Jon’s face. Miraculously, they don’t collide with anyone; he wonders if Elias is keeping an eye on the dancefloor from a higher vantage point, like one of the portraits or any of the Eye-shaped embellishments.

“This isn’t helping,” Jon gasps.

He steps on Elias’s foot; Elias barely seems to notice.

“Try to relax,” Elias says. “Let me lead you.” He pulls Jon closer, much closer; the distance between them is now scant few inches. His steel-grey eyes are hypnotizing to look at, even as Jon’s thoughts scatter. “Trust me.”

Jon isn’t cold anymore. He is fairly sure he must be burning up, from shame and mortification. And he can’t hold Elias’s gaze, not from up close, so he shuts his eyes instead, and considers his options. Make an utter fool of himself by causing a scene? Continue to stomp on his boss’s feet at this very public event? Or actually try to dance, blend in with the crowd, and pray no one is paying attention?

Of course, that would require putting his trust in Elias Bouchard, which is just about the last place Jon ought to be putting it. He knows this. He isn’t stupid. But so much of his life is already in the man’s hands; it’d be a strange place to draw the line.

He exhales, slowly, deliberately, praying that some of the tension bleeds from his muscles. He shifts his posture, leans back in Elias’s embrace and rests the weight of his back more securely against his hand. He loosens the death grip he held on Elias’s fingers, allows their fingers to lace together. And he tries to respond to Elias’s movements, tries to feel the rhythm of his breathing, the changes in his posture and the way he gently steers Jon’s body with subtle movements of his hands.

He still can’t look. He cannot look, he feels too awkward, but otherwise it is almost—nice. To surrender in this manner. To the rhythm of the music, to the flowing motions, to Elias himself. He feels light on his feet, possibly because Elias is half-carrying him now, as they glide their way across the dance floor. He will probably regret this later, but “later” feels like a foreign concept and, for now, Jon simply lets go.

There’s a pleasant haze in his mind, so unlike the cold, creeping fog from earlier. It clouds his senses nonetheless, to the point where Jon barely registers that something has changed; music stops and they stop with it, their breaths quickened, Elias’s pulse racing beneath Jon’s touch, Jon’s own heart not falling far behind. The hand at his back dips ever so slightly, fingers splayed wide, almost at his waist. Elias’s suit is rumpled at his shoulder where Jon has been clutching it earlier; he smooths it now, as best as he can, and tries not to shiver when Elias exhales against his ear, whispers something that might be Jon’s name.

Jon opens his eyes.

This was a mistake. This was all a horrid, unforgivable mistake. Elias’s mask of smug self-satisfaction seems to have slipped away; there’s colour in his cheeks, his lips remain slightly parted, and his steel-grey eyes seem vulnerable and open in a way Jon has never seen them before. It would be easy, so very easy right now to look deeper, to see past Elias’s carefully maintained defences, to see him. All of him. And there’s a hunger gnawing at Jon now, the burning need to examine Elias’s thoughts and emotions, to have all his secrets uncovered, to peel away each and every layer of his mind until he is laid bare before Jon… and the worst part of it is that he knows, in this very moment, that Elias would let him.

They part so suddenly that Jon can’t tell who moves first.