Work Text:
“I’m very proud of you, Jon.” It’s the first thing Elias says to Jon when they meet again on the ruined streets of London, the Eye staring down at them both.
If Jon were anyone else, he might be able to summon anger. Certainly Martin or Basira would have tried to kill Elias already, even knowing how futile the effort would be. But Jon only feels resigned to the inevitability of this moment. In amongst his ever-present awareness of the whole world’s terror, there is a connection pulled taut by Elias’ presence, painful and intimate.
With a click of his tongue, Jon focuses on the sensations of his body — laboured breathing, empty stomach, slow pulse. He refuses to lose himself in the Ceaseless Watcher's promises.
(He is already losing himself. Time and time again, he’s felt that euphoric laughter rising in his throat like bile. One day, he thinks he will dance through the world, drunk on fear. But— not yet.)
“I don’t see what there is to be proud of. It isn’t as though I was an active participant in bringing about your nightmare paradise. You made it very clear that I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
Elias smiles. It’s the insufferable smile that Jon remembers, hints of bliss softening its edges.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t enjoyed yourself.”
“I haven’t enjoyed myself,” Jon tells him, tone flat.
“Oh?”
“The world is a living hell, and I— I’m tired.”
“You’re powerful,” Elias retorts. “If I were a religious man, I might call you our messiah.”
Jon has to take a moment to fully process that, taken aback by Elias’ fervour. Then he starts laughing, and he can’t quite seem to make himself stop. He laughs until his ribs ache, until he has to pause for breath or risk passing out. Elias’ head tilts in something like bewilderment.
“Do you hear yourself, Elias? Only you would go to all this trouble to destroy the world for our— your god, and then say you’re not religious.”
Jon breaks into laughter again, with the distant sense that he might be having a panic attack.
(Somewhere, someone is screaming.
Somewhere, everyone is screaming.)
Jon is shaking, and he hates the vulnerability of it. He meets Elias’ eyes in defiant terror.
“Well,” Elias starts, seemingly thrown off-balance. “I’ve always been more concerned with my own goals than with outright—” He cuts himself off when Jon only laughs harder. “Honestly, Jon,” he chides, but there’s something strange to the slant of his mouth. If Jon didn’t know better, he might call it concern. The idea makes Jon’s laughter waver, and he swallows. He hadn’t realised his eyes were so damp already; tears are spilling down his cheeks.
Elias takes one step forward, reaching out to grasp Jon by the elbows. One of his hands reaches up and brushes across the wet skin of Jon’s face. It’s a perfunctory touch, all the tenderness of a statue, and Jon hates himself for wilting into it with relief. He hates himself for a lot of things, really.
“You’re everything I hoped for,” Elias murmurs, as though that’s supposed to be a comfort.
“You used me.” The accusation is hollow on Jon’s tongue; there’s no point saying things they both already know, but he has nothing else to give. “You trapped me, and now—”
“Now you’re the prince of a new world,” Elias says, brushing the hair back from Jon’s forehead. Jon laughs, humourless, his gaze turning to the eye-flecked sky above.
“I didn’t want to do this. And I didn’t choose to, either, before you start that again.”
“No,” Elias allows. “I forced you along this path. But my, aren’t the rewards splendid?”
Elias’ hand moves down to the space above Jon’s heart. He is like marble, smooth and cold and utterly undeniable. Jon shudders, and Elias’ fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.
“What do you want from me, Elias?” The question is flat, resigned to the certainty that Elias Bouchard — Jonah Magnus, but it’s so hard to think of him by that name — is the kind of man who always wants more. Jon can still feel Elias’ voice on his tongue, luxuriating in greed.
“Perhaps I just want your happiness.” Elias’ smile makes no effort at sincerity.
“No. What do you want?” With the terror that fills the air, power rises easily to Jon’s tongue. Elias inhales, swaying on his feet; it’s like the only thing keeping him standing is his grip on Jon’s shirt. A petty part of Jon wants to step backwards and send Elias tumbling to the ground.
“I wanted to see you,” Elias says, very quiet.
“You can see me anywhere you want. Try again.”
Elias pauses. For the first time that Jon has seen, he seems to consider his words before saying them. It’s calculation, rather than contemplation, but at least it's something.
“I’m lonely,” Elias says at last. The simplicity of the answer startles Jon into another bitter laugh.
“… What do you get the man who wants for nothing, I suppose.”
Elias makes a sound of acknowledgement, even agreement. His free hand rises to cup Jon’s cheek; Jon’s fingers curl around his wrist, but he can’t bring himself to pull him away. It’s as though Elias’ palm was sculpted to fit the sharp lines of Jon’s jaw. They fit together too perfectly — not like the comforting imperfection of Martin’s warm touch against Jon’s scars.
“You’re lonely too,” Elias says, infuriatingly matter-of-fact.
“I’m not alone.”
“Did I say that? No, you’re certainly not alone. In many ways, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Elias smirks at Jon’s discomfort, at his struggle to find any words of protest. “All that power coursing through your veins, and yet you’re surrounded by people who are so terribly vulnerable.”
Jon swallows, and Elias’ hand moves downwards, his thumb pressing against Jon’s throat.
“Is it a struggle to be around them, knowing what you could do? Or do you just feel guilty for the way their fear sustains you? How you feel alive when you have to watch one of them get hurt?”
Elias caresses the line of Jon’s jaw. His gaze is appraising, like an artist assessing a finished work to decide if it’s worthy of display. Every eye above is fixed on the two of them.
“Tell me, Jon; how much do you scare yourself?”
“I—” The words seem to stick in Jon’s throat. He wants to avert his gaze from Elias, but he can’t look away from monstrous things anymore. “Just… stop. You’ve won. You don’t need to—”
“Tell me,” Elias repeats, no compulsion in his voice.
It takes physical effort for Jon to exhale, too quick to be a sigh and too slow to be a breath. His knuckles have gone pale from how tightly he still clings to Elias’ wrist. Maybe it will bruise, Jon thinks, though he doubts he’s that lucky.
“I’m terrified,” Jon admits. Every syllable hurts like he’s tearing his heart from his own chest.
Elias gives him a distant look, and Jon fully expects him to reply with something patronising.
“I know. I was too. I was apart from all others, and that scared me for a while. No wonder the Lukases took a shine to the Institute, Peter’s tempestuous loyalties notwithstanding.”
Jon cuts himself off before he can voice a question. It tastes like bile when he tries to swallow down his curiosity. He knows better than to selfishly sate his own hunger, he tells himself, and he can almost believe it.
Elias, of course, isn’t fooled for a second.
“Go on, Jon,” he says, a goading edge to his tone. “What do you want to know?”
Everything, Jon thinks, the thought shivering between them like a whisper in the wind.
“Would it hurt you?”
“You know,” Elias muses, “I genuinely have no idea.”
Jon’s questions killed Peter Lukas, so perhaps it’s in his power to do some damage to Elias. It’s a weak justification, but it’s enough for Jon to let his tongue sharpen, vindictive. Something vicious within him wants to pry Elias’ ribcage open to get to the secrets beneath.
He doesn’t remember what question he asks, in the end, but it’s one that wounds them both.
The breath catches in Jon’s throat as Elias’ low voice begins to wind its way through an answer. Individual words are unimportant, though they etch themselves into his memory. What matters is the feeling, a feedback loop of emotions laced together like hands outstretched in empty air.
Jon can feel the way his gaze rakes across Elias’ skin like claws, raw and bleeding. It’s satisfying, but the taste of blood only whets Jon’s appetite.
Another question falls from his lips. He reaches for Elias’ heart, eyes all-consuming.
Staring into Elias is like staring into a magnifying glass pointed at the whole world. It’s the overload of watching through every CCTV camera, listening through every microphone. It’s an undercurrent of other people’s fear and guilt and shame pouring into each chamber of his heart as everyone hides their dirty secrets and prays for mercy that will never come.
“Steady,” Elias says, horrifyingly gentle. “We’re in no hurry.”
“Shut up,” Jon hisses through gritted teeth. He is pinned in place as an entire planet’s terror forces its way through the dark pits of his pupils. It’s the worst thing he’s ever felt, and it’s beautiful — a symphony of screams, of sobs, of stoic expressions shattering under strain.
(Jon doesn’t even notice when he wavers on his feet, falling forward into that ruthless embrace.)
This has happened before, or something like it. Distantly, he remembers how he’d felt in the hours after the apocalypse began, before Martin managed to coax him back to himself with anchoring touches. The human mind isn’t meant to parse this much information. There’s a high, true enough, but it hurts like dying, like his brain cracking itself open in his skull.
It’s different, with Elias. His glass-grey eyes are the focusing lens through which Jon sees everything. He directs Jon’s gaze until all that awful input becomes very nearly manageable.
“It’s too much,” Jon gasps. “I can’t—”
“I know,” Elias murmurs, a guiding hand at the nape of Jon’s neck. “But you will anyway.”
It isn’t anything so pedestrian as an order, just a simple statement of fact: Jon will watch, and he will listen, and he will know. He stared into Elias, and the Eye stared back. There are some choices that cannot be unmade.
Except—
“Jon,” a soft voice says, distinct from all the noise that lodges like stained-glass splinters in his mind. The voice has Forsaken's icy touch: a terror of being alone again, that he is not enough to keep people safe, that this time he has lost Jon forever.
Oh. Fuck.
Jon can’t switch his awareness off, that isn’t how it works — he is an inextricable part of the Ceaseless Watcher’s workings, and it hurts to look away. So he sees the resignation on Martin’s face in crystal clarity. He can’t pull away from the image of Martin clutching a tape recorder like a lifeline, as he’s done every time Jon has wandered, entranced, into the wastelands of London.
“I—” Jon swallows. It takes a world of effort to pull himself away from Elias, like he’s trying to leave his own shadow behind. “I have to go. Martin—”
“I’m glad to see you keeping such a close watch over him. Genuinely, I am.” Jon flinches, and above them, the eyes blink as one; Jon tries to pretend it has nothing to do with him.
“He’d be thrilled to hear that, I’m sure,” Jon mutters. Elias smiles, all teeth.
“Well. Until we see each other again, Jon.”
“Yes,” Jon agrees quietly, as Elias stands up and steps away. “Until then.”