Work Text:
“Do you dance, Jon?”
He very nearly drops his glass of champagne when Elias slips in from the crowd. The night’s been dragging. This suit is uncomfortable and just a little too tight, product of pulling it free from the closet when it hasn’t been touched since his days at university. And, of course, there’s too many people, and so much mingling. Social chattering for grants and funds, and Jon… isn’t one to throw himself to the sharks like that.
That is, he supposes, why Elias has been busy the entire night.
He doesn’t know Elias well. He’d spoken to him less times than he could count on one hand prior to his promotion to Head Archivist. Honestly, he’s almost intimidating. It’s funny, in its way; Jon’s used to being told he’s the intimidating one, straight from his early days in research. But there’s something about Elias that just oozes it, something beneath the surface Jon can’t quite scratch that makes him vaguely uncomfortable to find the man being so… normal.
But maybe that’s just his own inability to connect with people. Who knows.
“Not really,” he admits, lowering the champagne flute. It’s sweet, with bubbles active enough to make his upper lip tingle when he goes to take a drink. And it’s just about his favorite thing at the party tonight, which, considering he doesn’t drink, is a far reach. “Fundraisers, not… really my thing.” He doesn’t know why he says that. He just does.
“Fair enough.” Elias gestures a server over with a flick of his hand, and selects a glass of red wine for himself. “You did seem a bit uncomfortable, but I thought perhaps it was,” he lowers his voice, “the catered dinner. You never know who prepares those things.”
Jon almost smiles. He doesn’t know Elias well, no, not beyond the man’s recent interest in him after his ascension to Archivist, but there’s… familiarity, he supposes, in being with his own Institute’s staff. Better than standing useless, awaiting the night’s end. He supposes. “All seems to be well, in that regard,” he says, and then, because he’s unable to help himself, “why did you invite me tonight, Elias? There are… numerous people at the Institute who would have done better tonight than me.”
“Because you’re my Archivist, Jon.”
There’s something in the way Elias says it that causes some sort of visceral reaction; it’s like missing a step on the stairs, swooping deep into his stomach and then casting away as he finds his footing again. Jon watches Elias from the corner of his eye, and he just looks so… well, so very pleased.
He wonders if it’s praise. It still settles across him as though it might be, encompassing and warm. He takes another drink of his champagne, and realizes the alcohol’s likely the reason for the flush and nothing else. “Yes,” he agrees, “but… only just.”
Three weeks on the job, and Elias has no reason to speak of him with pride in his voice. Jon, rationally, knows this. He pushes on.
“Besides, it’s, I don’t know, Tim got a promotion, too.” For campaigning, Jon’s certain Tim could have managed better. Tim could talk people into anything. Or out of anything, he thinks with a grimace.
“Tim, Sasha, and Martin got a promotion because you chose them, Jon.”
“I didn’t–”
“Well, Tim and Sasha, anyway,” Elias clarifies, and Jon still huffs a little at the implication Martin would have been his prime choice of assistant. “But I didn’t choose them. I chose you.”
The feeling comes back full-force, and Jon nearly sways from it all. He absolutely has had enough of the champagne, and he finds himself finishing off his glass, anyway. The burn chases all the way down to his chest, and he clears his throat. “And I’ve mentioned my thanks–”
“Once or twice,” Elias says, playful.
“– nevermind my uncertainty as to why you picked me–”
“We’ve been over that, too.”
Jon stops, and forces himself to take a breath before he can spin himself further away. “In any case,” he says, reasserting his point, “I’m a terrible plus one to things like this, Elias.”
“Well, then.” Elias finishes the last of his drink, and sets both of their glasses aside. He offers a hand, and Jon stares at it blankly. “Let’s try to fix that, shall we?”
“What?” he blurts, and Elias just smiles.
“Participation is required, Jon.”
“I just said I don’t dance.”
“You said ‘ not really,’ implying that you can, to some extent.” He extends his hand further, and looks smug when Jon fumbles and seethes. (He’s right.) “Let me show off my new Archivist. If you’d be so kind.”
“I…” He looks back at the expanse of floor being used for dancing, and tries to swallow back the worst case scenarios. Making a fool of himself; worse, making a fool of Elias. Tripping. Falling. Tripping and falling over other people.
“Don’t worry,” Elias says, kind. “I won’t let you fall. Although it would make an event of the night.”
Jon shoots him a dry glance, moreso because it’s like he’s plucked the very idea from his head and brought it to life. Then, Jon sighs, and nods, once. “Fine,” he agrees, not very able to tell his boss ‘no.’
“Delightful,” Elias praises, and Jon tentatively reaches to place a hand in his. His skin is warm, but then, so is everything, and Jon’s going to sweat right out of this suit before he makes his way back to his solitary corner, he’s certain.
He has danced before. Once. Georgie had made them take lessons for a wedding that she had dragged him to, and now Jon doesn’t know if he’s annoyed or grateful that she had made him commit this skill to memory. If she hadn’t, he probably wouldn’t be out here. But if she hadn’t, he… may still be subject to this, and he would be terrible on top of it.
Not that he makes any promises for his coordination now– or lack thereof. He feels a little out of practise, but not incompetent; either way, Elias doesn’t seem to mind. He’s just smiling, looking down at Jon like he’s fascinating, and– Christ, Jon doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He catches Elias’s eye as they slow dance and his face flares up warm. He’s blushing, of all godforsaken things, can feel it spreading against his skin as Elias smiles like he knows a secret Jon doesn’t, and Jon doesn’t know if he is desperate to know, or desperate not to.
Elias pulls him into an underarm turn that Jon really does stumble through. Uncoordinated and indignant, he can’t quite look at him again. The urge to stalk from the dance floor and grab another flute– or three– of champagne grows with the heat simmering beneath his collar.
The hand that settles against the small of his back is unassuming, and gentle; at the same time, it’s also so heavy-handed that Jon feels trapped in the space between Elias’s palm and Elias’s chest. The embarrassment flares again, Elias smiles something like the sun, and Jon’s breath catches in his throat.
He looks away, and pretends Elias doesn’t laugh when their dance comes to its natural end.
“Very well done, Jon.”
It’s praise for certain this time, and it settles so deep beneath Jon’s skin he can feel it shuddering through his bones. He… needs to go sit down.
“You, too,” he mutters, lacklustre as hell.
“Do try to enjoy yourself,” Elias says, and then glances off into the crowd. “It’s not so bad when you let yourself see the fun in it. If you’ll excuse me.”
Jon nods once, jerky, and watches as Elias strides off easily into the crowd.
He… doesn’t really know what’s just happened.
Turning, he tugs at the knot of the tie to loosen it, in plans to step out for some air. It’s too hot. So, he grabs another glass on his way out, and relishes in the cool air when it finally rushes across his overheated face as he finally steps outside.
He lingers there, letting the heat die beneath his skin. If he can’t seem to shake the feeling of Elias’s eyes on him, well… he really has had too much champagne tonight, he’s sure.