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It’s a late Saturday afternoon, and Jon is standing in his bedroom and seriously reconsidering all his life choices. As if he’d needed another reason to do that.
He should be digging through some more statements regarding the Unknowing, or even taking a nap, but no. Instead, he’s dreading the fact that in the evening he’ll be attending a god forsaken fundraising event for the Institute. A fancy event, with all the big-name patrons present, and hosted at one of the Lukas family’s houses, no less. (He does wonder what kind of leverage Elias has on them to be able to make that happen.)
He’s still mad at himself for letting Elias talk him into it. He tried to refuse, he really did, but then Elias started going on about shirking his duties as Head Archivist, and being a bad example for his assistants, and Jon did not like the veiled threat in his tone.
So, sure. He’ll humour Elias. Hardly the worst thing he’s had to go through.
(Famous last words, he knows. But what can you do?)
Rather uncharacteristically, Jon spends hours agonising over what to wear to the function, like a nervous teenager before their first date. Nothing in his wardrobe feels formal or fancy enough. Jon might not know much about grandiose patron events, but he’s quite sure one does not show up in a well-worn tweed jacket with elbow patches.
Elias offered to get an outfit for him. Jon debated with himself for approximately two seconds before giving him a resounding no. He’s not exactly keen on having Elias control yet another aspect of his life, thank you very much. Their relationship is… strange enough as it is.
(He can’t avoid the recollection of storming into his office, demanding answers. An argument with words he can’t recall, because the next part is too stark in contrast: Elias getting close to him, voice soothing and condescending, do calm down, Jon, and touching him. A light hand to his elbow, as if he was trying to calm down a wild animal.
And that’d been the last straw for Jon, and he was furious, and he was about to slap his hand away–
The next moments are fuzzy. What he does know is that suddenly he was kissing Elias, with a strange kind of desperation that shocked him, and when he finally pulled back Elias wore an air of supreme self-satisfaction.
He wanted to turn heel and run, push down this abrupt bout of irrationality. What the hell are you doing?!, he screamed at himself. He’s a murderer and a monster and you hate him!
And though that was true, he still let Elias strip him off his clothes and rove possessive hands over his body. He still sat, perched on the edge of his desk, and shivered as Elias fingered his soaking wet cunt and whispered dark praise in his ear.
He left the office without any of the answers he’d sought, and hoping against all hope that Rosie wouldn’t take note of his tousled hair and burning cheeks.
It’s happened more than once. Jon doesn’t want to think about that.)
In the end, after he’s exhausted himself racking his brains for a solution, he finds it. Tucked away in the back of the closet, almost completely forgotten, is a beautiful, silky dress that Georgie gave him years ago. He’s only worn it the one time, to some highbrow gathering Georgie charmed her way into – and his, by proxy.
As he expected, it fits just right. (It’s not like he’s any less scrawny now than he used to be.) Jon curses the fact that he’s no longer staying with Georgie – she has a full-body mirror, and he very much doesn’t. He makes do with his bathroom mirror, critically examining the deep neckline that exposes his scarred shoulders. The fabric is a lovely deep green that Georgie had said “matched his skin tone”; Jon can’t really attest for the veracity of that statement, but the colour does seem uncomfortably appropriate.
He takes a cab to his destination – outside London city proper, of course. Good thing the Institute is footing the bill. When he arrives, Elias is waiting for him outside.
“Good evening, Jon.” Jon mumbles something in response and makes to walk inside, but Elias stops him. “A moment, please. I have something for you.”
Oh. Great. Jon is overjoyed at the prospect.
Elias takes something from his pocket, presenting his closed hand to Jon before opening it with unnecessary theatrics. In his palm sits a set of elegant, dangling earrings and a necklace in the shape of an open eye. The golden metal glints in the light, a perfect match for Elias’ lapel pins.
“Really,” Jon says, deadpan. “A little on the nose, isn’t it?”
“Of course not.” Elias brings the chain of the necklace around Jon’s throat and clasps it shut, his hands lingering a moment too long. “You’d do well to properly display your allegiance. We don’t want the other powers getting ideas, now do we?”
“As if they don’t already know where my allegiance lies,” Jon grumbles. Everyone always seems to know about the Archivist. Doubtful that they need the reminder.
Still, he acquiesces. After all, he’s already been irrevocably claimed by the Eye. Wearing its mark hardly seems like it could worsen things any further.
(Though he almost regrets his agreement when he sees the look in Elias’ face as he puts on the earrings.)
“And I still don’t get why I have to attend,” Jon continues, swallowing past the nervous knot in his throat. “I’m not keen on being paraded around for anyone’s amusement, and especially not yours.”
“Don’t worry, Jon. You look quite dashing; I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” Elias himself is wearing a bespoke suit. Dark grey, probably more expensive than Jon’s entire wardrobe combined. His tie is the exact same shade of green as Jon’s dress, even though Jon had not shown him his attire beforehand. He tries not to think too much about it; easier to chalk it up to coincidence.
Elias is the very picture of composed elegance, as always. Jon feels rather inadequate next to him. Still, intimidating as it might be, it’s just a public function. Social awkwardness has nothing on an army of murderous worms; Jon figures he’ll do alright.
_____
Well. Perhaps he spoke too soon.
As he expected, Jon is completely out of his element here. Nearly everyone in attendance is a complete stranger; most seem to be various researchers and scholars, but Jon feels the presence of numerous avatars, too. He figures he can tell who’s a Lukas from the way they skirt around the edges of the crowd and mostly keep to themselves, and he’s pretty damn sure that was Simon Fairchild he just saw, loudly chattering away about something or other.
It does strike him as odd that so many avatars from various Entities are willing to fund the Institute. Makes him wonder what exactly Elias is offering in return.
Speaking of him – for his part, Elias seems completely at ease. He makes amiable conversation with the Institute’s patrons, without bothering to tell Jon who exactly each different person is. After what happened with Jude Perry, he isn’t exactly in a hurry to shake hands with any avatar who comes along – but, well, what else is he to do? Jon greets each stranger and tries to inject as much casual politeness into his words as he possibly can, nervously smoothing out the fabric of his dress just so he has something to do with his hands.
At a certain point, Elias calls for his attention. “Heads up, Jon. You’re about to meet someone very important to the Institute.”
That “someone” turns out to be a very tall, broad man with a full beard and pure-white hair, though he doesn’t look that old. This must be Peter Lukas, Jon realises. He certainly does match the description in those few statements about him. Statements of people who were preyed on, terrorized, and isolated by the Lonely.
Despite himself, Jon shuffles a little closer to Elias. At least he’s a type of monster Jon’s familiar with.
“Peter,” Elias greets, a cordial smile in place. “How delightful to see you.”
“Elias. I’m sure it is.” They shake hands; the tension between them is so palpable that Jon feels the urge to step away. An urge that only intensifies when Peter’s attention turns to him; his expression remains perfectly jovial, but something about his look unsettles Jon. He does not offer to shake Jon’s hand, and Jon isn’t very inclined to do so himself. “You’ve brought your Archivist along.”
“Of course I have. He is an essential part of my Institute; isn’t his presence more than warranted?” Elias’ smile widens, and he places a hand on Jon’s bare shoulder. He isn’t sure whether he wants to lean into it or squirm away, so he settles for smoothing out his dress once again. It’s becoming something of a nervous tic, to his great irritation.
“Sure, sure. I bet it has nothing to do with your wanting to show off your pet project.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Peter. Especially since you’ve brought your own, too.”
“I have indeed! And he’s coming along so nicely, I’m sure you’ve noticed. Might want to reconsider our wager, hm?”
Wager? Pet project? Jon is about to protest, his wariness of Lukas be damned, but he gets distracted when someone else comes up to Lukas’ side. Wait, not someone – he knows who it is. “Martin?”
“Jon!” Martin’s hair is impeccably combed, and he’s wearing a nice suit in a soothing shade of grey-blue. It clashes so strongly against his usual, fluffy jumper-wearing self that Jon has to do a double take. “I, uhm, didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Hello, Martin,” says Elias. That deeply, deeply irritating smirk is back on his face. “Jon, Martin is here as Peter’s guest. With the workload at the Archives somewhat lightened, he’s been assisting Peter in some of his personal work. It’s always sensible to keep your patrons satisfied, after all.”
Martin is assisting Peter Lukas? Jon hadn’t– he hadn’t known about that. Why hadn’t he?
(If he were to be honest with himself, the answer would be simple. Jon has spent the last few months either kidnapped, abroad, or locked in his office – or Elias’. Would he have at all noticed if Martin wasn’t in the Archives the entire day? When did he even see him last?)
The thought that Martin has been spending time away – with an avatar of the Lonely, no less – bothers him more than he’s willing to admit.
“Right.” Jon is snapped out of his thoughts by Martin’s voice. He seems embarrassed, for some reason. Was it something Elias said? “Peter, I thought I should tell you – Harriet Fairchild was looking for you.”
Lukas groans. “Oh, the Fairchilds are such a pain to deal with. Awfully social lot.” He gives them a cheerful wave of his hand. It doesn’t do much to assuage Jon’s distrust. “Seems we’ll have to catch up later, Elias.”
“So it is.”
Lukas doesn’t as much walk away as he seems to just vanish into thin air. Jon blinks in confusion; beside him, Elias stays fixed on the empty space where Lukas had been standing a second ago, as if he can still see him. Maybe he can.
“Martin, if you’ll excuse us, I’m sure someone must also be looking for me and Jon,” he says. It’s phrased as a polite request, but the dismissal in his voice is crystal clear. Jon wants to deny that, ask him to stay – seeing Martin is probably the only comfort he’s had all night – but then Elias’ fingers tighten, almost imperceptibly, and the words die in his throat.
“Oh. Yeah, sorry. Go ahead.” Martin’s eyes are firmly fixed on Elias’ hand, the one resting on Jon’s shoulder. The corner of his mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly, before he turns and walks away, presumably to go join Lukas. Jon finds himself rather wishing he wouldn’t.
He lets Elias lead them back into the crowd, weaving through groups of people without approaching anyone in particular. They keep walking, and Elias’ hand moves from Jon’s shoulder to his waist. He allows it. At this point, objecting hardly seems worth the effort.
Elias leads them up the elegant marble stairs, to the second floor. There aren’t nearly as many people here; some seem to be Lukases hiding from the crowd downstairs, and a few others are scattered about in small groups. Elias takes him past all of them and out onto the balcony, into the cool night air. The temperature has dropped more than Jon had been expecting, and his dress doesn’t exactly offer much in the way of protection against the chill. He refuses to let his discomfort show, but he’s sure Elias notices anyway.
They stand to the side of the balcony, in a little alcove framed by austere pillars. It’s not quite secluded, but it is outside the lines of vision of everyone inside. Jon stands close to Elias, too close for comfort, and his heartbeat quickens. Being alone in a darkish, out-of-the-way spot with Elias of all people is probably not the best idea. Uneasy, Jon reverts to his favourite defensive tactic: asking questions that will probably get him in trouble. “Why is Martin working with Lukas? And don’t give me a flimsy excuse. I can tell it’s important.”
“Worried about him, are you?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Well, you needn’t be. They get on quite well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” They’d called Jon and Martin pet projects. And it’d sounded like they were squabbling. Almost like… huh. “Wait. Were you and Lukas using us as props to get at each other?”
“Jon.” His tone is stern, and it pisses him off. As if Elias has the moral high ground here. “If you only knew how much more than that you truly are.”
“I don’t know, because you won’t tell me.”
“All in due time, my dear Archivist.”
“You keep saying that,” Jon growls, twisting out of Elias’ grip and grabbing him by his stupid green tie. Elias lets him, an amused expression on his face, and somehow that makes Jon even angrier. But… they’ve danced this dance before. He knows where this is going. Does he want it? (Does that even matter?) “I’m fucking tired of it.”
His lower back hits the railing as Elias promptly pushes him up against it, taking his wrist in an iron grip. Jon lets go of the tie, and he hates the way his breath catches in his chest. Elias isn’t the tallest man, but he still towers over Jon as he presses in close, forcing his legs apart. “Honestly, Jon. Must we go through this every time? This kind of attitude gets you nowhere.” His other hand comes up to Jon’s face, cradling his jaw and stopping him from turning away. “It would be so much simpler if you just asked for the things you want.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” Jon breathes out, and he means for it to sound resolute, but the quiver in his voice betrays him.
“Oh, Jon. You never were a good liar.” Elias leans in to kiss him, light and slow, clearly teasing. When he pulls away, Jon makes a noise of frustration and tries to chase his lips, but Elias’ grip on his jaw doesn’t let up. “Patience. Stay still for me.”
It’s a clear order, and Jon obeys. Elias slides a finger along the edge of his ear, lightly tugs on the dangling earring, and smiles. “Seeing you wear the Watcher’s mark so openly holds a special kind of appeal. Maybe you ought to do it every day.”
“Like hell I will.”
“Pity. Not that it’s needed, of course. Either way, it’s quite clear who you belong to.” He’s right, but Jon is determined to cling to the little acts of rebellion he can still manage. “But they do go so well with your dress. You look even more fetching in it than I’d thought.”
So the tie really wasn’t a coincidence. Great. “You knew about my dress.”
“Obviously. I wouldn’t have let you wear it if it hadn’t been adequate.” His hands bunch up on the fabric of the skirt, and Jon can’t stop himself from yelping as Elias hikes it up to the waist. He snags a finger on the elastic of Jon’s boxers and tugs. “Off with these.”
Jon’s eyes widen in panic, and one of his hands flies to keep his underwear in place. This isn’t what he had in mind at all. He’d thought he could steal a kiss or two, take out his frustrations in this strange, terrible way he’s found, but… not more than that. “Wait– here? But there are people inside, they could walk out at any moment–”
“Yes, they could. Are you going to pretend that the thought bothers you?”
“Of course it does!” he bristles, even as he feels a flash of heat coursing through his veins at the idea. Fuck.
Elias looks incredibly smug as he slides the boxers down Jon’s legs. Elegant, clever fingers ghost along his inner thighs, and Jon’s shiver has nothing to do with the cold. “As I said.” A finger slides along his slit; when Elias brings it up, it’s slick and glistening in the moonlight. “A bad liar.”
Whatever caustic response Jon had ready is lost as Elias slides two fingers inside him and strokes, slow and deliberate. One of Jon’s hands is still being held tight to the railing; he clamps the other one over his own mouth, desperately trying to stifle the noises that threaten to escape him. Elias leans down to kiss along his neck and bare shoulders, teeth grazing over scars left by Prentiss and Daisy and Michael, licking paths between them. And then he bites down right under his jaw, hard, and Jon gasps in delightful pleasure-pain. It takes him a moment too long to register that it’s most definitely going to leave a mark, and Elias is moving down toward his collarbone, and if he bites there everyone will see it when they go back inside.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarls, pushing him away, and his blood boils when Elias just chuckles in response. He adds another finger inside Jon, keeps up that same unhurried pace, and Jon maybe wants to run away or maybe he wants to snap and demand he just fuck him already.
Elias’ eyes go half-lidded, and his fingers slow to a near-stop, thumb brushing feather-light over Jon’s clit. The absolute bastard.
“Say it, Jon.”
Jon takes his hand away from his mouth to fist it in Elias’ lapel, baring his teeth at him. “No.” Elias looks utterly unimpressed, and god, Jon wants to punch that little smug smile right out of his face. “What’s the bloody point?”
“The point is that I’m telling you to. So, if you please. Say it.”
He swallows, throat bobbing, Elias’ unrelenting gaze following the movement and keeping him pinned in place. It pains him to admit defeat, but there are three fingers inside him right now and they’re not enough and he’s going out of his damn mind. “I want you to fuck me,” he spits out. The words hang in the air, but they’re clearly not what he’s waiting for; Elias raises an eyebrow at him, encouraging, and. Well. Jon is letting his murderous boss finger him in a balcony right outside a fancy sponsor gathering. It’s not like he has any shred of dignity left to protect. “Please.”
“Very good,” Elias praises, and it sings through Jon’s body. His voice is always so pleasant, always makes his heart beat a little faster against his own wishes, but like this? Lower and huskier and praising him? Jon can barely take it. “You’re going to come for me, then I’ll give you what you want.” And he finally, finally speeds up, thrusting against the sweet spot inside him and rubbing at his clit with his thumb, and Jon squirms and bites his own hand until he comes and his legs go weak. Elias holds him upright, keeps fingering him through his orgasm until it becomes too much and Jon weakly bats his hand away.
“There we go.” Elias slides his fingers out of Jon, and he whimpers at the loss. Elias holds his hand up, examines it, then hums in apparent appreciation. Jon’s mouth is hanging half-open, and he gives a muffled squeak when Elias takes advantage of that to shove slick fingers into his mouth. “You can clean off your own mess, can’t you?”
Jon shoots him his best attempt at a glare, but it unsurprisingly falls flat. Should just bite your fingers off and be done with it, he thinks, furious. But who’s he trying to fool?
He sucks and licks them clean and moans as he tastes himself on them, and pretends not to love it when Elias gives him a look of approval.
God, why does he keep going along with this? Why does he let Elias, of all people, do these things to him? Why does he like it?
Then his mouth is empty once more, and Elias is stepping back so he has enough space to turn Jon around. He braces himself against the high railing, looks out over the – thankfully deserted – front gardens. He couldn’t have predicted he’d ever be so grateful for the Lukas’ antisocial tendencies.
Then he imagines he’s on a balcony in Central London, overlooking a busy street, and his arms almost give out. Good lord.
Elias pulls Jon’s hips flush against his, and oh, Jon can feel the bulge in his trousers even through three layers of fabric. He’s still in his stupid stylish suit, and Jon’s dress is hanging low around his feet once again, and he thinks somehow that’s even filthier than if they were both naked.
He hears the sound of a zipper, and though he can’t see it he knows what Elias’ cock looks and feels like. His heartbeat races as he recalls riding him in his own office chair in vivid detail, hands braced on Elias’ shoulders for support, panting in exertion and pleasure–
“As delightful as that image is, I’d rather you focus on the present moment,” Elias says, voice dripping with condescension, and Jon’s face burns. He keeps forgetting all of Elias’ focus is on him and he can see everything. The mere thought makes him clench down on nothing, and he whines in impatience as Elias leisurely hikes his dress back up.
“Get on with it already!”
“Since you asked so nicely.” And immediately Jon regrets asking, because Elias pushes inside him in one quick movement and he’s stuffed full all at once, mouth open in a silent scream of shock. He should– he wants to ask Elias to slow down, to give him a moment to breathe, but then Elias is thrusting into him at a ruthless pace and the words get stuck in his throat. Instead, only a high moan pours out, unbidden, and loud.
“I thought you didn’t want to attract the guests’ attention. Changed your mind?” Elias taunts, and Jon snaps his mouth shut, mortified. How is it any fair that Elias still sounds so unaffected? He fists a hand in his long hair, messing up the bun Jon had carefully tied it into, and tugs, forcing him to arch his back. It hurts, and his arms are already aching, and he loves every second of it. “Or perhaps you want the attention of one person in particular.” Unbidden, Jon’s mind supplies an image of Martin. He doesn’t know why. (He does.) “Mm, exactly. I noticed the way you looked at him. And the way he looked at you. Very prone to jealously, isn’t he?”
“What – ah – what are you talking about?”
“Playing dumb doesn’t suit you.” He twists his hand in Jon’s hair, using the grip to pull him up to his chest, unconcerned with Jon’s protests. Mercifully slowing down his pace a little, long slow thrusts that make Jon’s toes curl in his shoes. He can feel Elias’ breath ghosting over his ear when he speaks next, voice hardly more than a whisper. “If only he could see you now. Do you think he’d be angry at me, for getting to have you when he couldn’t? Or would he be too busy watching you get fucked?”
Jon keens at that, overwhelmed by the spike of arousal that shoots through him. Martin seeing him like this– he doesn’t want to think about that, except he really, really does, and he doesn’t know how to handle that.
But there’s something else there – even distracted as he is, Jon catches it. It’s just so hard to focus through the haze in his mind, so incredibly difficult to do anything but feel Elias’ cock dragging in and out of him and his fingers rubbing at his clit…
But this is important, Elias keeps mentioning Martin and Jon has to know why. Is it just to fluster him? No. He must have an ulterior motive, he always does. Jon needs to find out what it is, Martin can’t end up like Gertrude or Leitner, he can’t. Jon won’t allow it.
“Why is–” Elias pinches his clit, and Jon chokes on his own words. Focus, this is your chance, “Why is Martin so important? What do you want with him?” he manages to gasp out, voice laced with power. The static scratches at his throat and takes shape, the insatiable need to know mingling with how good his body feels and leaving him dizzy.
But the compulsion doesn’t find its mark. Elias moans and his hips snap hard into Jon’s, punching the breath out of him. “Trying to catch me off guard?” he asks, letting out a winded chuckle. “I’m afraid your newfound powers don’t stretch that far, Archivist.”
The tug of the compulsion whiplashes back into Jon’s mind, and the sense of denial physically hurts. His hands tighten on the railing as he whimpers and gasps in a strange sort of ecstatic agony, and Elias tuts at him.
“Settle down, Jon.”
In a swift, fluid movement, he pulls out of Jon and turns him around, slamming him back-first onto the railing again. Jon yelps, light-headed and out of balance, holding on with a white-knuckled grip, taken by the fear he’s going to fall over.
But then Elias’ hands are back on him, wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him in close. “No need to worry – I wouldn’t let you fall. You can trust me.”
No, he can’t, he knows he can’t, but he still moves his shaking hands to Elias’ shoulders, relishing in the sound of approval he gets in response.
Face to face, everything feels more real, somehow. Jon looks up and quickly averts his gaze again, unable to stand the sheer intensity in Elias’ green-gold eyes.
“Be good for me, and I will give you a taste of the Beholding’s true power.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before he pushes inside Jon again, and Jon is still trying to process what Elias just said but he’s too overwhelmed. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to get a hold of himself, but when he opens them again something has changed. Confusion overtakes him, because… he’s looking at Elias, at his smirk and his uncharacteristically ruffled hair, but he also sees himself. His own hair in complete disarray, glasses askew, flushed cheeks, and he thinks he finally gets what Georgie meant when she said this dress was the perfect shade of green for him. The golden necklace gleams against his skin, calls attention to the darkening spot on the side of his throat.
Jon desperately tries to focus on either image, but they overlap and overlay each other in a way he can’t possibly comprehend, each perceptible on its own and both at the same time. His attempts to make sense of what is happening crumble completely when Elias looks down, and Jon can see the easy slide of his cock in and out of his cunt.
It’s too much. He is being watched and watching at the same time, one indistinguishable from the other, creating a feedback loop of white-hot pleasure that quickly crescendos and multiplies upon itself. He thinks Elias is saying something but he can’t make out the words over the sound of his own heart nearly thumping out of his chest, blood rushing in his ears; he barely has the presence of mind to bury his face against Elias’ shoulder in a feverish attempt to muffle himself. And then it reaches a peak, and his nails dig into Elias’ shoulders as he comes harder than he ever has in his life. He’s vaguely aware that he’s trembling and pleading nonsense under his breath, but it’s nigh impossible to feel anything other than his orgasm overtaking him, body electric like a live wire.
Tears spill out his eyes when the connection is finally interrupted, and all at once he’s inundated with relief and grief at the loss. He couldn’t possibly take one more moment of it and yet he wants it back so badly, and the terrible dichotomy is sweet torture.
Only then, as the spasms finally die down and he is once again more or less aware of where his body begins and ends, does he realise that Elias is still fucking him, and the nebulous wave of pleasure shifts into the razor’s edge of overstimulation and it’s too much, it’s all too much, he’s absolutely going to lose his mind.
“Ah– Elias, please, I can’t– Elias–”
“You can, and you will.”
Jon would argue further, but he’s currently incapable of articulating any complex thought. Elias’ rhythm falters at last, hips stuttering as he chases his own climax, and he guides Jon away from his hiding spot so he can kiss him. Jon melts into it, unable to do anything else but try and weather the onslaught of sensation, but then Elias rubs at his clit again and he breaks. He might be screaming into Elias’ mouth as a third orgasm is ripped out of his raw, abused body; he barely notices when Elias groans in his ear and spills deep inside him.
The world seems to spin around him for a good minute. Jon pants, eyes shut, slick and come dribbling down his thighs.
“My darling Archivist. You did so well.” Elias’ voice prompts him to open his eyes once again. There’s a handkerchief in his hand; Jon slumps against the railing, utterly exhausted, and hardly registers anything at all while Elias wipes away the mess between his thighs, weakly whimpering when he brushes against his clit.
Elias isn’t all that dishevelled. There’s the faintest tinge of red to his cheeks, perhaps; but his tousled hair is promptly smoothed back into place, and he casually fixes his tie while Jon watches, still half-delirious.
“You look a mess, Jon. Get yourself presentable. You wouldn’t want everyone to know what you’ve been up to, now would you?”
No. No, he really wouldn’t. (Right?)
Deep breaths. It’s easy enough to smooth out the wrinkles in his clothes, tug everything back into its proper place. He combs his hands through his hair, letting it down fully, praying it’ll be enough to hide the bite mark under his jaw. The bite mark that he knows is there because he saw it through Elias’ eyes. Christ.
The walk back inside fills him with dread. He expects every eye in the room to turn on him at any moment. To his immense relief, no one pays them any mind as they return downstairs.
“There you are!” It’s Lukas’ faux-friendly voice again. In all honesty, Jon’s too out of it to even be properly wary of him. “I was starting to think you’d run off somewhere.”
“Please, Peter. Would I pass up the chance to have a chat with you?”
Lukas says something in response, but Jon’s attention wanders before he can make out what it is. He lets the conversation – argument? It sounds like an argument – become background noise, until someone touches his arm. Oh. It’s Martin.
(The thoughts he’s just been having about him are still fresh in his mind, filling him with shame. He shouldn’t be thinking of Martin like that. He has no right.)
“Jon, are you okay?” There’s worry etched into the lines of his face. If only he knew why Jon is dazed. Jon hates to think of what expression he’d be wearing, then. “Do you… want to go get some air? With me, that is.”
Elias and Lukas seem too distracted to ask either of them where they’re going, at least. Jon is nebulously aware of walking out onto the first-floor balcony besides Martin. Once again, the cold bites into his skin, but even that isn’t quite enough to cut through the haze in his mind. Martin… Martin is talking to him, he thinks. “Oh– what was I thinking, you’re going to be cold...” Jon watches in vague confusion as he shrugs out of his jacket and holds it out to him. “Here. You need it more than me, I’ll be in long sleeves anyway.”
With jerky movements, he takes it, feeling the soft fabric under his hands for a moment, before putting it on. The sensation of warmth and comfort is so immediate and grounding that it shocks Jon. Predictably enough, the jacket is too big for him, but he finds he doesn’t mind. It feels like a tether holding him in place and bringing him back from whatever mental spiral he’d just been going on.
And, though it’s a somewhat irrational thought, he can’t help but to notice that the grayish-blue shade of it matches nicely with the deep green of his dress. “Thank you, Martin.”
Martin gives him a quick nod. “No big deal.” It does feel like a big deal to Jon, though. “You look very nice, by the way. If, uhm, you don’t mind me saying.”
A wave of fondness washes over Jon, and he offers what he hopes is a grateful smile in response. Martin’s compliments feel very different from Elias’, somehow. He won’t voice it aloud, obviously, but he rather thinks he’d like to hear more of them.
They stand in companionable silence for a while. The second-floor balcony extends over their heads, inviting comparison between what it was like up there, just a few minutes ago, and what it’s like to be here. With Elias, it’d been anxiety and excitement in equal parts, the fearful thrill of getting caught, the uncertainty inherent to being so close to Elias so willingly. Right now, though, it just feels peaceful. Martin’s jacket is so warm. And it smells like scented candles, for some reason.
But the silence can’t go on forever. He has questions, as he always does. At least with Martin he doesn’t have to be afraid of the reaction.
“Peter Lukas? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You haven’t been around to tell, Jon.”
“Ah. Right.” Stupid question. Off to a great start. “You know what he is, right? It might be, well, it might be dangerous.”
“What, more dangerous than the monster boss we already have?” Martin shoots back, with surprising vehemence. Then he seems to catch himself, and sighs. “Look, it’s… it’s fine. I asked Elias to lay off Tim and Melanie in return, and he’s actually keeping to his word. So it’s fine.”
“Oh.”
Jon wants to kick himself. Surely there must have been some way to get a sliver of leverage over Elias, right? To help his assistants? He hadn’t even thought of that. All this time he’s been letting Elias do whatever he wants with him, and hasn’t even demanded anything in return. Stupid.
“Melanie and Tim are always angry. Can’t exactly blame them for that. And working with Peter isn’t exactly fun. I’m just… so alone all the time.” He wrings his hands; Jon wants to pretend it’s just because of the cold night air. “And I’ve been worried about you. Everything that’s been happening. The way Elias was– I mean, you do know we can’t trust him, right? You know what he’s done.”
The images come to Jon’s head unbidden. Kneeling on the tasteful office carpet. Bent over Elias’ desk. Pressed up against the unlocked door, drunk in the acute knowledge of the rest of the Institute staff, always present just beyond the thin wood.
“I’ve been trying to get answers.” It’s not even a lie, strictly speaking. (Or it didn’t use to be.)
“Any luck?”
“Not really.”
“Figures.” Martin chuckles, but there’s no real humour behind it. It grates on Jon’s ears. He used to be so cheerful, to the point where it annoyed Jon, because in his mind nobody had any business being that friendly all the time. He seems so different, these days. Muted, somehow. It’s a natural reaction to everything that’s happened, he supposes, but… it’s more unnerving than it should be.
Jon wants to hold his hand. It feels imperative to know what it’d be like. Martin’s hands are so much bigger than his, and he’s sure they’re soft and warm. All he has to do is ask.
He stays quiet until Martin speaks again. “We should just leave right now. I’m sick of this place, honestly.”
Jon blinks at him in surprise. “What about Elias and Lukas?”
“What about them? They looked entertained enough. I’m not really keen on standing around and watching them squabble.” He shakes his head, brow scrunched up. “Ugh. And I thought listening to Peter complain about Elias was bad.”
“…You’re right.” Jon hopes the awe he feels right now isn’t showing in his expression. Out of everything that’s happened tonight, he thinks having Martin notice Jon’s unasked-for affection is probably the most embarrassing. “Let’s go.”
_____
Later, when he’s once again alone in his flat, Jon examines himself in the bathroom mirror. God, he’s definitely wearing a turtleneck tomorrow. He stands on tiptoes so he can see his hips, his hands as he traces the fingerprint-shaped bruises left there. It stings, and he shivers.
He banishes the dress to the back of his closet once again. The sight of it is too vivid a reminder he’s not sure he wants to have.
Before he finally goes to bed, Jon contemplates Martin’s jacket, draped over the back of a chair. It looks like it belongs there, for some strange reason. He’d, well, “forgotten” to give it back, and Martin hadn’t said anything either, so… he figures he can just go find Martin tomorrow to return it. And thank him again, and maybe stay and chat a little. It’s high time he starts doing things properly, after all.