Work Text:
“I cannot believe this is what it takes to incapacitate you.”
“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” you manage to say between gasps for air.
It’s not an especially clever line, but considering you’re sitting on the floor and hyperventilating just a little bit, you’re proud you managed to get it out all the same.
You’re waiting for Elias to laugh at you. You know he will. You know you deserve it. Some scary avatar you are, some powerful and menacing servant of a dread god you are, you’re fucking cowering on the floor because—because—
“Alright, up you get.”
You almost jump ten feet in the air when cool fingers rest gently on your shoulder, and look up at Elias, startled that he’s. Well, startled that he’s doing anything but laughing in derision at your useless stupid idiotic fucking dumb state.
“That’s enough of that,” he says, and one hand hooks under your armpit to help haul you to your feet.
“What…”
“Hush, take a deep breath, and sit down.”
You plop down into your desk chair and are surprised enough by this sudden turn of events that you almost forget that you’re panicking.
Oh, you remembered.
“ Breathe, ” he instructs before you can start to spiral again, and you dutifully allow yourself to take a few deep breaths. “Now. I understand that it will be a little difficult for you to get yourself back into working order, so I’m going to help you with that.”
“Why?” you try to ask.
“Because,” he snaps. “I don’t think you need to be privy to my every thought and consideration. I want you to stop panicking and you weren’t going to be able to do so on your own, so here I am.”
“Here you are,” you echo dazedly.
He sighs. “Can you get a pen and paper?”
“Don’t know where that is,” you say.
“You’re lucky I carry a spare planner,” he says in absolutely the most put-upon tone you’ve ever heard and reaches into his inner breast pocket to pull out, of course, a spare planner. It’s so distinctly Elias that you nearly laugh. “Here,” he says as he drops it onto the table in front of you.
“What are we doing?” you ask him. You don’t really understand what’s going on as you look from him to the planner.
“We’re scheduling.”
You do laugh at that. “We’re what? Why?”
“Because you’re having a panic attack, and bureaucracy is comforting. And because I can see inside your head, and I am telling you that it’s not as bad as all that, so the best course of action would be to get it out of your head and on paper.”
You look at him skeptically, but at least momentarily, he has distracted you enough that you can think for a second, so you look down at the planner, open it, and pick up the little pen that comes with it.
“What is bothering you the most,” he asks gently.
“Fucking everything, ” you reply, and that probably wasn’t the right answer because you feel like you need to start gasping again.
“Alright. ‘Fucking everything’ is not exactly the clearest point to put on a to-do list. Try again.” His voice is… surprisingly calm, and the tone makes you relax a little bit.
“Um, I—um.” Oh good, even with every fucking advantage in the world you can’t be coherent. God you’re such a failure—
“Not a helpful thought,” Elias says. “Why don’t we break this down. Hierarchy of needs, correct? First things first. Have you eaten today?”
You stare blankly at him.
“I’ll take that as a no. Right, take your pen and put ‘Brunch’ at 10:30.”
You take a deep breath and follow his instructions.
“One thing sorted out. Your next issue is your work, correct?”
“I—yeah.”
“What do you need to do?”
“I need to… I need to finish looking through statements and research on tulpas. And then I need—”
“One thing at a time. Write that down, tulpa research. We should be back by 11:30, so you can start at 11:45, or around then, and I don’t think that will take an especially long time, do you?”
“No, it’s just—I have most of the stuff I just need to compile it by name and—and hand it off,” you reply, and you begin to write that down. “I think it would take me until… 12:30?”
You look up at him for reassurance and he just shrugs at you. “You would know better than I.”
“Right,” you say more firmly this time. “12:30. Then, there was some issue with a failure of proper reshelving? I think it was some undergrads again. So I need to. I need to talk with a few other librarians, and get someone to deal with that.”
“How long will that take?” Elias asks.
“Talking to them? Fifteen minutes or so,” you absently write down ‘talk w/ librarians.’ “Then I need to. Figure out how to deal with people. Reshelving improperly, but—”
You take a deep breath. That’s an abstract. You’re not working in abstracts. You’re working in concrete little notes that you can write down in this improbably small planner. “I need to. Brainstorm ways with other people in my department to keep this from happening again.”
“Good. That could be as short as ten minutes, couldn’t it?”
“Yes,” you say. “Yes, that shouldn’t take too long at all.”
“And then?”
“And then I need to… start research on multi-eyed mythological creatures, or creatures with a deadly glare or piercing gaze. Because you want a new tattoo.”
“That is not why.”
“That’s part of it, Elias, don’t lie to me.”
“How long do you think that will take?” he says, ignoring you. “That’s a large task. Maybe you should break it up.”
“Right,” you reply. “Right, so I don’t have to freak out when it comes up. Well, I think I’ll start with European myth. Northern European myth. Then Mediterranean. Then Eastern European, and then North African—I’ll just write down the order.”
“Any rhyme or reason to this order?” he asks.
“No, it’s pretty arbitrary, but I want to have one all the same. It’s…”
“Comforting. Yes.”
You decide not to look up at him. You can hear his smug smirk without having to see him.
There’s a steady rhythm to your work from that point forward. A gentle flow of conversation, task, comment, follow up. His hand is between your shoulder blades and his thumb is rubbing circles into the base of your neck. You don’t think he’s realized he’s doing it. All the same, you’re grateful for the contact, grateful to have something anchoring you to this world, warm and steady and present.
“And then the last thing I need to do is see if there’s… anything particularly supernatural about the increased number of spiders around the Institute, lately. I volunteered for that one; you know I like spiders.”
“I do, though why will forever elude me.” He straightens up from his position of leaning over your desk, though his hand doesn’t leave your back.
“I just think they’re cute!” you say, smiling up at him. “Anyway. I think that at most that will take half an hour, so that takes me right up to 5:30.”
“Do it tomorrow,” he tells you. “You don’t need to stay late. I doubt that the Mother of Puppets is going to take over the entire Institute in a single night.”
“Unless that’s what she wants you to think.” You sigh, content, as you strike ‘investigate spiders’ from the bottom of your list. You look it over. Really, there’s hardly anything to worry about at all. “Well. That’s…”
“Yes, I told you it would be,” Elias says, seeming to know how you want to finish that sentence. “Not so terrible when it’s laid out on paper. I’m well aware that everyone enjoys mocking my penchant for scheduling, but as you can see, it is… therapeutic, I think.”
You so don’t want to admit it. But… “Yeah, it… yeah, it is.”
“Well. It’s 10:17, and you haven’t eaten yet. I’ll take you out for brunch, there’s a place just a few blocks away that will indulge your sweet tooth.”
“Oh, my sweet tooth,” you say as you stand. His hand slips off your back as you do and you try not to be so pathetic as to miss it. “Well, it—I suppose it is scheduled, so it wouldn’t do to start deviating from the plan this early.”
“Quite right,” he replies, and offers you his arm. “Shall we go? Perhaps we could talk about those creatures you’re going to be studying later today.”
You link your arm with his. “I knew that was about a new tattoo. Honestly, Elias.”
“Only in part, my dear. I think you’ll derive some enjoyment from the process, too.”
“Yeah, yeah, just get me back here by 11:30.”
“Of course. You have a schedule to keep; I would never dream of disrupting it.”
You don’t lean into him; that would be unbearably transparent, and you had no intention of telegraphing your emotions any further than you already had.
(Of course, he was the one coming to make sure you didn’t spiral into an anxiety attack, so how’s that for transparency?)
“One of the servers has a deliciously crippling fear of being seen failing,” Elias tells you. “And as a result, he messes up quite often. Lovely little thing to whet the appetite.”
You hum pleasantly. “I trust your taste more than mine, here.”
“As you should.”
You smile at him while some part of your brain berates you for being obvious obvious obvious. He’ll know. He already knows, of course, but you’re not supposed to show it. That was the game.
His lips quirk up in response, just the slightest bit.
You pull your gaze away from him and focus on where he’s leading you. It wouldn’t do to stare; that would only make him more cocky.
“Thank you,” you murmur as you look at the ground. You’re being sincere, and that’s the worst part.
Obvious, obvious, obvious.
“It is my pleasure.”
(He, too, is being sincere, and that is— transparent blatant obvious obvious — the worst part.)