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Elias leans back in his chair and sighs with satisfaction.
The day is nearly over, and he's achieved all he set out to do. That morning he'd interviewed two candidates for the junior researcher role within Artefact Storage, and he looks forward to Watching their nightmares tonight. It always pays to get feedback on one’s interview process, after all. Then he'd had a nice, long lunch with the Director of the British Museum. Ostensibly something about arts funding - he'd not really paid much attention - but said Director has recently begun an affair with one of their subordinates and Elias had neatly steered the conversation around to the importance of maintaining a successful marriage. Then, content and a little sleepy on a full stomach, he'd spent the afternoon lazily sending "suggestions" to the various department heads.
Now, it's half past six, and only the most Eye-affiliated academic staff are still working. Elias has no particular interest in what most of them are doing, beyond the occasional burst of knowledge that functions as a digestif. However, as he does several times a week now the countdown to the Unknowing is so short, he decides to check in on the Archives team before he leaves for the day. His bubble bath will wait.
He shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, he's seeing the world through the lens of Basira Hussain. She's in her home, reading a biography of Robert Smirke as she eats pasta one handed, fidgeting and discontent. Clearly done for the day, if the oversized t-shirt and slippers are any indication, and he leaves her to her evening. A search for Tim turns up nothing but itching static, meaning Mr Stoker has once again availed himself to the hospitality of the tunnels beneath the Institute. Elias is not overly worried: Tim's individual temper tantrums are somewhat unpredictable in their manifestation, but the situation as a whole is ticking over nicely. Melanie is, of course, easy to See. Angry, bright, red-hot Slaughter runs through her veins as she sits in the corner of an internet cafe, researching how to access the "dark web". Hopefully whatever she tries next will have a little more elegance than attempting to poison his tea, but he doubts it. Detective Tonner meanwhile is in the woods, three feet deep in a hole in the ground, taking a break from digging to wipe the sweat and mud from her brow and take a pull from a bottle of water. She, like him, is satisfied with a job well done, as the Hunt cares not for who her master is.
That just leaves his Archivist, and his Archivist's faithful sycophant.
Jon's eyes are lost to him. An Eye cannot see itself, not now his Archivist’s powers have grown so much. Fortunately, Jon rarely leaves his office despite the fact that the danger of another kidnapping has largely passed. Mostly, Elias feels it ought to be noted, because of what Elias has Detective Tonner working on. Jonathan can be remarkably unappreciative.
His inability to See through Jon's eyes is something he knew would happen. It has, however, turned out to not be as much of a hindrance as he’d expected.
There is, after all, always Martin Blackwood.
Gritting his teeth, Elias stands up, moves to his drinks cart, and pours himself a generous measure of Scotch. Then he re-seats himself, shuts his eyes, and opens them to see a worm-carcass stained office door, slightly rotten at the edges, being gently pushed open. Good timing on his part, but then, Mr Blackwood’s tea runs are predictable.
Jon is hunched over papers, scowling around the pen he's chewing, his long hair tumbling out of its tie. He looks up at the interruption and gives a tight smile.
'Martin,' he says, something in his shoulders relaxing. 'You- you didn't have to.'
Martin hands one of the mugs of tea over to Jon, who curls his fingers around it, a refuge from the cold and grey. As he takes a sip his posture softens further, and the grim, grey reality of the rest of the room fades a little. He looks beauti-
Elias takes a large mouthful of Scotch.
Then he reminds himself he cannot take a drink every time Martin Blackwood's extremely childish and revolting crush assaults his brain. This body's liver has got to last until the ritual can be completed.
Back in Jon's office, they are stumbling their way through "how's-your-day"s like the worst sort of hopeless teenagers. Elias isn't entirely sure what Jonathan's feelings are about the matter: the last time he got a clear look inside Jon's head, the man was busy accusing them all of murder. However, based on behaviour alone, Elias does have his suspicions and it’s extremely tedious. Frankly, he never thought he'd miss Gertrude, but this is really not suitable of his Archivist.
'How much longer are you going to be?' asks Martin, who has sat down opposite Jon as they drink.
'Oh, you know,' says Jon, a guilty look crossing his face, eyes straying to the side.
'Jon.'
Jon sighs, 'I know, I know,' he says. He tugs his hair again, distracted, and the tie gives up, pinging off to the side, sending his hair cascading down his shoulders. Martin's brain momentarily shorts out, and if it were possible to hallucinate little hearts floating in the air, he would certainly be doing it.
Elias clenches his hand around his glass and gives into the temptation to take another drink. If he concentrates, he can see the stain from yesterday's lunch on Jon's shirt, wrinkled from wear; or the fact that his old-fashioned, ill-fitting glasses and cardigan make him look like Gertrude herself. Or even the fact that the office is grey and smells faintly of mildew and stale human odour, and is filled with towering masses of mess and paperwork. Only if he concentrates. If he doesn't, all of that mundane unpleasantness fades to nothing and instead his view of the world is passed through Martin's filter. Oh my god do you think he'd let me braid his hair he's so pretty - stop it Martin he doesn't think of you like that - maybe we could go to dinner maybe I could make dinner - shit I can't cook - wait no he doesn't - nngh hair.
(He considers forcing some other thoughts into Martin's brain to make the experience more palatable, but he does not currently wish for his surveillance to be noticed.)
Jon, after huffing in frustration, has started to re-do his hair, much to Martin's rapt enjoyment and Elias's sincere boredom. His Archivist’s progression and work against the Unknowing is far more interesting than his hair, for fuck’s sake.
‘What are you doing here so late, anyway, Martin?’ demands Jon, as he finishes braiding his hair and starts patting around on his desk.
‘Oh, er, just finishing up a few things,’ says Martin, swooping his gaze downwards until he spots a couple of spare hair ties at the side of Jon’s monitor. He grabs one, and hands it over. ‘Here you go!’
The tips of their fingers brush in the transfer and something inside of Martin’s stomach feels even more like a hamster in a wheel. ‘Um,’ he adds. He stops himself from pointing out that it’s a bit warm in Jon’s office. (It isn’t.)
‘Ah, thanks,’ says Jon. He sounds entirely normal, although that voice of his does nothing good for what Martin has recognised is a slightly spiralling case of gay panic - why did Jon’s hair tie have to break? - but he looks up at Martin through his eyelashes, all sort of soft, how he never did, until a few months ago. It kills Martin a little, when he looks like this. It’s so easy to imagine that look of Jon’s sent at him when they’re somewhere else, somewhere domestic. Drinking tea over a kitchen table on a weekend morning. Sitting next to each other on a sofa arguing about which documentary to watch. Or lounging in bed, one lazy day having a bit of a cuddle and-
Martin knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this, shouldn’t be presuming. Jon isn’t- Jon would never-
But-
God he wants.
Elias clenches a fist and reminds himself that shooting Martin Blackwood now would not be conducive to his plans. He instead downs the rest of his Scotch and stands to pour another glass. It is a waste of the good stuff, to not savour it, but he’s got another case in the cellar at home.
The… sheer absurd audacity.
The Archivist - his Archivist - is not Martin Blackwood’s to… to… domesticate. Jonathan Sims may be in some denial about what, precisely, he is, but he is not a thing of softness and romance and the twee fantasies of a repressed idiot. He’s seeing and knowing; a weapon of terror wielded by Elias; a key to a very particular door. He may be as much scar tissue and exhaustion as he is man, now, but he does not yet see the truth of what Elias is moulding him into. He will be something better, something more, and something beautiful. Martin Blackwood will never understand the Archivist, not like Elias does. Sooner or later, Jonathan will have to acknowledge that.
He’s brought out of his own thoughts by a sharp reprimand from his Archivist himself, and with a smirk he begins to pay attention once more.
‘-coddling me, Martin!’
A spike of anxiety. ‘I’m not! I’m- I- I didn’t-’
Jon lets out a long breath and scrunches his eyes shut, seeming to deflate. ‘Look. I- That is- sometimes I know things. Just. Out of the blue. And. I know you’re lying.’
‘What?’ Martin freezes.
‘I- I’m sorry- I don’t know how- how to stop it. Or why it happens- Except- except it’s all connected to- well-’ He shrugs. ‘The point is. You haven’t lost the post-it. You can’t read my handwriting. Because I-’ Jon raises his right hand. The thick stripe of burned red skin still stands out bright and angry against his palm and his fingers twitch under the scrutiny. ‘I can’t really read my own handwriting either, actually,’ he says, then shrugs again and lets out a quiet ‘heh’ of almost-laughter before continuing. ‘I should probably give up.’
‘Jon,’ says Martin softly, and shuts his eyes against the tide of memory that is his mother informing him she’d be perfectly capable of doing this task, or that one, if only he’d set it up correctly, stupid boy. Elias licks his lips and slurps up this extra tidbit as due payment for all the egregious sentimentality.
‘I think you might be the only one in this department who still pays attention to what my instructions say anyway,’ says Jon, with another almost laugh. ‘Everyone else just bins the post-its and deletes the emails. Maybe the Eye’ll teach me Semaphore soon and give me a more colourful way to yell into the void.’
‘Um,’ says Martin, his heart crumbling under the defeat in Jon’s voice. He doesn’t regret that these days Jon talks to him sometimes, just a little, but it’s never anything he can do something about.
‘Right, uh,’ says Jon. ‘Anyway. I’ll forward you the info.’ He leans forward and taps at his laptop, pecking away at the keys with a bias towards his left hand. To Elias he looks elderly, ridiculous. To Martin he looks like someone ought to wrap him in a blanket and hold him, and Elias grimaces. He gets increasingly little out of spying on these evening meetings, but it galls him to note that it’s the closest he can get to an honest look into how his Archivist is progressing. He doesn’t envy the Lukases and the Fairchilds and whatever blithering nonsense Maxwell Raynor was always getting up to, but the trust of one's acolytes would occasionally have its uses.
In Jon’s office, the Archivist and his lackey continue to discuss Jonathan’s hand, as if that were a detail of any particular importance. Martin Blackwood is, as Elias supposes he must, bothering Jon about speaking to his doctor or a physiotherapist.
‘I am on the waiting list, you know, Martin,’ says Jon. ‘Now I’m no longer suspected of murder, my GP’s put me in for a referral.’
‘Right, um, yes, ‘course, I didn’t mean to be-’ Martin huffs out a breath. ‘It’s just. Things take time. Which I’m sure you know. Obviously. I’m sure your doctor told you how long it’d be for the referral-’
Jon blinks in a somewhat obviously confused way.
‘Right,’ says Martin again, steeling himself for rejection. ‘It’s just. It’s- obviously not my business. And I don’t want to- to intrude. But the thing is, with my mum, I got quite good at- making phone calls, and at knowing the right questions to ask, and who to ask for, and that sort of thing, to speed things up a bit. So, um, if you want…?’
‘I- I couldn’t- couldn’t possibly ask you to do that,’ says Jon. Even to Elias’s ears his voice sounds revoltingly soft and Elias rolls his eyes. This is not what assistants are for.
‘Right, right, of course, you wouldn’t want me to-’ Martin breaks off and shakes his head. It wasn’t like he expected Jon to let him bully his way into Jon’s private healthcare details, he just wishes Jon had someone looking out for him. ‘I could send you some links? If that’d help? Medical advocacy and advice sort of stuff. Like, it sounds obvious when I say it, but you should absolutely call up your doctor and ask how long until the referral, and then keep calling them every time it hurts more, or changes, until they make you a higher priority. And loads of people don’t think to do that. And you should! Because your hand! Is- is bad!’
‘Oh,’ says Jon softly. He takes the wrist of his burned hand gently within the other. ‘I- I suppose it couldn’t hurt. If you have that sort of thing to hand. I-’ He pushes out a breath. ‘Thank you, Martin.’ His voice is gentle and rich and Martin breathes a sigh of relief.
‘Yeah, well, I know how much you like doing the required reading,’ mumbles Martin. Jon hears him, of course, and shoots him the tiniest flash of a grin, one that makes his heart flutter.
Elias sighs and tries not to grit his teeth, as they’re shockingly difficult to repair, even in this century. He has had, he thinks, quite enough of this ridiculous sentimentality. Whatever personal claims Martin thinks he has to Jonathan Sims, Elias is counting on the Unknowing to help prove just how wrong those assumptions are. The Archivist is his.
He takes one final drink and prepares to do the mental equivalent of “hanging up”.
Then, he hears his name.
‘How many murders do you think Elias would frame me for if I asked for a pay rise to cover private physio?’ asks Jon, with a short laugh.
‘Jon!’ squeaks Martin.
At least one, Elias mentally supplies. Or at least, it would be if he didn’t already have a use planned for Martin. Although if throwing the man at Peter Lukas doesn’t work, then killing him is certainly a possibility he hasn’t discarded.
‘Skipping the queue is a bit against my principles,’ adds Jon, ‘but I would like enough dexterity to, you know, hit a clown.’
‘Hit a-? Jon! Have you ever punched anyone?’ demands Martin.
Jon is silent for a second. ‘Best not to dwell,’ he says. He leans forward to his computer again and begins to type.
‘Wha-?’ begins Martin, but Jon gestures to be given a minute and Martin happily indulges in watching Jon. Elias does not need to See his Archivist’s frown of concentration and be dealt a gentle daydream about taking that face into his hands and smoothing the concern with his fingers but nonetheless that is what happens. He would leave, but he can’t help but be curious about what Jonathan is doing.
The answer, when it comes, he gets twice over. Firstly, Jon turns around his laptop to show Martin a sent email. Secondly, Elias gets an email notification on his own computer, and he opens it up onscreen. The double-vision of the two produces a nauseating effect, and he drops his view on Martin to read the email.
Elias,
Private physiotherapy for injuries sustained whilst working in the services of your patron:
12 sessions x £60 per session = £720Please confirm whether this will be in my next paycheque, or whether I can expense each session as I do it.
Kind regards,
Jon
Elias’s eyebrows raise as he considers this. Jon’s emails are no less polite than they’ve ever been but they’ve certainly become less deferential lately, and this one definitely takes the biscuit. He does not know exactly what Jon thinks he has to prove by showing off like a childish-
Ah. Of course. Martin Blackwood.
The courtship rituals of youth do often involve a certain amount of pointless grandstanding.
Elias opens his eyes in Martin’s head once more to see his Archivist stuffing papers into drawers and a bag as Martin twitters and giggles admiringly.
‘-can’t believe you actually sent that!’
‘What?’ says Jon, though he shoots Martin a little smile that says he’s quite pleased with himself. ‘Besides, you know he’s exactly the sort who’s been voting Tory for years now and is the reason the waiting list on the NHS is going to be months long!’
Martin snorts.
Elias rolls his eyes. It’s almost charmingly naive that Jon thinks Elias gets what he wants by voting.
‘Anyway, it’s a perfectly reasonable request,’ says Jon.
‘Well he’d better grant it!’ says Martin.
Jon blinks. ‘I- I did sort of mean a reasonable request from a normal boss, Martin,’ he said. ‘I don’t actually expect-’
‘Well why not?’ said Martin.
Jon raises an eyebrow as he looks at Martin. Elias echoes the sentiment.
‘Look, we know he’s a massive dickhead,’ says Martin, which will be going in his review. ‘But he’s literally sending you into some… some clown dance ritual. I know he’s a useless idiot,’ he continues, which is also going in his review, ‘but it’s not like he wants you to fail. Like, he doesn’t want the circus to succeed, does he?’
Jon shakes his head and sighs. ‘Honestly sometimes I wonder,’ he murmurs, mostly to himself.
‘What?’ says Martin, narrowing his eyes. He doesn’t think he even knows half of the bullshit Jon’s been through and he’s pretty sure Elias could have prevented all of it, if he’s some all-knowing, all-powerful superhero. Supervillain, more accurately. He knows they’re not on the good side.
Elias purses his lips.
There are many good reasons he has not been particularly helpful. Unfortunately, it is imperative that those reasons remain a secret. He’s known for a while now he’ll need to separate himself from the Institute for a time, to keep himself safe from Jon’s burgeoning abilities, but he cannot have Martin Blackwood’s unexpectedly strong alignment to their patron derail things before then.
‘Elias does definitely want us to win, right?’ begins Martin, his voice dubious, as he tries to think of any single possible reason Elias could have for not wanting Jon to be able to stop the Unknowing. Cold, heavy dread grips his heart as a sudden image of Jon, bruised and bloodied and dead flashes before his eyes, but it doesn’t make sense that Elias would risk the world for-
Elias makes a decision, picks up his desk phone, and dials the extension that he knows by heart.
Through Martin’s eyes, he sees Jon jump at the ringing, look around the room, and hiss ‘Elias!’ at Martin.
‘Well go on then!’ hisses Martin back.
Jon glances at Martin for another long moment, and then puts Elias on speakerphone. Elias raises his eyebrows nearly into his hairline.
‘Elias,’ Jon says, and his voice echoes in Martin’s ears as well as down the phone line. Elias pinches his nose.
‘Jon,’ he replies curtly, ‘might I suggest that you don’t mention our patron in emails.’
‘What, worried the IT department will quit if they realise they’re working for a cult?’ asks Jon. With Martin as his audience he is at his most petulant and Elias deeply desires to remind him of his position. However, that is not the purpose of this conversation.
‘Not overly,’ says Elias. ‘I’ve merely found that the more explicit one tends to be in digital communication, the higher the likelihood the message becomes corrupted.’
There is silence. He mostly sees Jon’s face flatten with irritation and notes Martin catch Jon’s eye and then roll his.
‘Very well, Elias, if that’s all, then I was leaving for the day,’ continues Jon, still the spoiled child.
‘It’s so commendable to see you keeping such a good sense of work-life balance in these difficult times,’ says Elias mildly.
He realises his misstep when he feels a sudden white, hot, defensive rage rise within Martin Blackwood, who opens his mouth. Jon gestures for him not to speak, but Elias doesn’t doubt that the insults will resume shortly. It would have been better for him to avoid commenting on Jon’s working habits in the presence of one so foolish as to worry for Jon’s humanity. Jon is much more suggestible when it comes to the value and importance of his work when he doesn't have a defender.
‘Anyway,’ Elias continues smoothly, ‘I phoned to let you know that if you really are having that much trouble with your injuries, you may expense the physiotherapy appointments.’
There is an extremely satisfying silence.
‘Right,’ says Jon at last, the wind having been knocked out of his sails enough that his peevish nature has momentarily been tempered.
‘You are quite welcome,’ says Elias, and watches with pleasure through Martin’s eyes as Jon grits his teeth.
‘Thank you,’ forces out Jon, without much graciousness, and Martin glances away.
Elias smiles widely, leans back in his chair, and swirls his Scotch around. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Do let me know if there’s anything else you need, won’t you?’
Jonathan’s snort is barely suppressed. ‘Goodnight Elias,’ he says.
‘Goodnight, Jon,’ he replies, still grinning like a snake.
He’s still watching through Martin’s eyes when Jon jabs the button to hang up with more force than strictly necessary and scowls at the telephone.
‘Dickhead,’ says Martin, apropos of nothing.
Jon doesn’t suppress that snort, looking up and over at Martin and giving him a smile, and it’s one that Martin really doesn’t think he’s reading too much into when he wants to call it fond.
‘No arguments from me,’ Jon murmurs in reply.
Elias shakes his head. His motives may not be particularly benign, but they don’t know that. He really would like to do something about Jon’s ingratitude.
‘Are- are you still up for a drink- or- or something?’ asks Martin, suddenly becoming overly interested in the arm-rest of the office chair he’s sitting on. The plastic foam has several divots from long term use and probably the Corruption, and he pokes them with his thumb.
‘Oh, ah, yes, yes, that would be- if- if you like?’ says Jon, and Martin glances up, a rush of hope. Jon’s giving him that soft look that makes his imagination run wild yet again.
‘Yeah. Yeah! That’d be… nice.’ He winces inwardly and tries to figure out what else he could say, but Jon shoves a couple more things in his bag and then stands, grabbing his coat from the hook on the wall behind him. He begins to pull it on and the way he winces as he tries to twist his burned hand is obvious.
Martin leaps to his feet and nearly jumps behind the desk to pull the coat up behind Jon’s back for him. ‘Here! I, um- just- here- I’m- erm- taking your wrist?’ Jon mmms in assent, so Martin ever-so-carefully begins to guide Jon’s arm into the sleeve of his coat, feeling something big and warm and heavy within him. And just like that it’s done, and Jon’s situated, and he turns around to look up at Martin with his big, wide eyes, and he’s practically in Martin’s arms. Only, he’s not pushing out, or snipping at Martin, or even being sarcastic. He’s blinking up at Martin, not moving at all, his mouth slightly open, one lock of his hair already escaping the tie and tumbling over his forehead. He’s just watching Martin, as if he’s quite content here, as if he doesn’t mind standing and staring in this sort of awkward half hug, like they’re about to lean in closer, like they could--
Elias blinks, scrubs his hand over his face, and shakes his head.
That is quite enough of that, thank you very much.
He massages his temples and carefully sweeps all of the revolting sentimentality he’s just experienced into the box in his brain related to other people’s experiences. He has no particular desire to cuddle Jonathan Sims. The Archivist is what is his, and nothing Martin Blackwood says or does can change that.
Considering the Institute budget is a far more pleasant task than what he’s just witnessed, so he sips his Scotch while he opens his spreadsheets and contemplates the task of where to move money around to find another seven-hundred-odd pounds for the Archives. The other departments will most definitely notice it if he tries to deprive it of them, and he’s not in the habit of redirecting his own discretionary spending fund. Unfortunately, it’s not as though the Archives isn’t already significantly over budget, what with all of their “research trips” and Jon’s “absence pay”.
The perfect solution to both get the general feeling of wanting to kiss Jonathan Sims out of his brain and sort out his budget presents itself rather promptly, and he picks up his telephone once more.
Peter picks up on the second ring.
‘Darling,’ Elias says.
There is a pause.
‘We’re divorced?’ says Peter.
There’s another pause while they both take stock to check on the status of their relationship and Elias is forced to mentally recalibrate this conversation slightly.
‘Divorce is only just the beginning of a brand new partnership,’ he says.
He hears Peter sigh and he smiles.
'What do you want, Elias?' says his ex-husband. 'You better not have called me to blather on about that Archivist of yours again. Or that assistant who is allegedly so lonely. What was his name? Matthew? Marvin?'
'Close enough,' says Elias. 'And my, don't tell me you're jealous, Peter dear.'
'Why would I be jealous?' harumphs Peter, jealously. 'We're divorced.'
Elias opens his eyes inside Peter's to see, unsurprisingly, the Captain's cabin of the Tundra. It's as large and empty as ever, with grey mist outside the portholes. He doesn't know if that's inclement weather or Peter calling his patron. He never knows.
Peter's head, too, feels cool and empty of feeling. A beautiful, shining cold stone with no room for him. This compared to Martin Blackwood's florid indulgences is a welcome relief. He doesn't doubt he could Know Peter if he truly wanted to, but he doesn't, especially not now.
'You know, if you wanted to ensure you had no reason to be jealous, there is a slight favour you could do for me,' he says.
He feels Peter roll his eyes.
'Oh, I knew you weren't calling just to- to- check in,' Peter says.
'Would you… want me to?' says Elias, with a delicate frown. He does occasionally, primarily because it annoys Peter. He wouldn't like to think Peter's getting too fond of his company. If that's the case, he'll have to marry someone else.
Peter, fortunately, appears to also have considered the implications of this statement. 'Obviously not,' he says. 'How much do you want?'
'Why must you assume I'm always after money?' retorts Elias.
Peter sits in silence.
Elias scowls and reaches for his Scotch again. 'I'm not only after money,' he corrects. 'I beheld something rather revolting earlier. Is the pleasure of your company too much to ask?'
The fog begins to rise at the edges of the room.
'Ten thousand should cover it,' says Elias quickly, which is technically not a lie. His discretionary budget can always use topping up, after all. 'To the Institute, not my personal account.'
'I'll text Tadeus.'
Elias frowns. 'You can text?'
'It's much nicer than calling,' says Peter. 'Is there anything else, or can I go back to-?'
'-sitting alone in your cabin?'
'Exactly,' says Peter. 'I was having a fantastic time.'
'You know,' says Elias, coaxingly, 'you could go and have a shower.'
There is another pause before Peter grumbles. 'Voyeur.' He sounds just a little bit fonder than he did a minute ago and Elias grins. He knows he's won this one.
'Oh, please,' says Elias, rolling his eyes. 'You know both of our patrons are fed by voyeuristic sexual objectification. Especially if a divorcé is having a lonely… moment in the shower.'
'Fine,' says Peter, 'but I'm hanging up.'
'Good,' says Elias. 'And don't forget the money or I'll have to call again.'
Muttering under his breath, Peter jabs the end call button clumsily, and Elias is then forced to watch while he spends a soul-crushing five minutes composing a text message, letter-by-letter to Tadeus Dahl. Then, at last, he shrugs off his coat, and makes his way over to the small bathroom in the cabin.
It's not huge, but it doesn't need to be. There is a mirror, and a shower, and that's what Elias needs. He swirls his Scotch, puts his feet up on his desk, and watches as Peter scowls at the mirror with all appearance of annoyance, and begins to unbutton his shirt…
(Somewhere across London, the Archivist and his fawning assistant are settling down at a small table for a couple of beers, their knees knocking against each other as they shyly catch each other's eyes and then look away. It’s awful.)
Peter Lukas, meanwhile, is now wearing nothing but an absurd pair of nautical themed boxer shorts: the print with anchors, life rafts, some knotted rope, and a few different sea creatures. Elias hates them immediately and passionately. Peter's eyes twinkling in the mirror says he knows.
'Tasteless prick,' says Elias, and even though Peter can't hear him, he tries not to sound too fond. 'I can't believe I'm going to marry you again.'
Peter smirks at the mirror and rests one thumb on the waistband. Elias grins into his Scotch, pleased with himself once more.
All in all, this is not a bad end to what was generally a very satisfying day - unfortunate moments notwithstanding. He leans back in his chair and sighs, content and full. One more day down. One step closer to the end. Everything is going swimmingly.
(Across London, the Archivist plus one are ordering chips to share, bickering over whether curry sauce or salt, vinegar and ketchup are the best option, their shoulders touching, hunched together in their own little bubble, pretending to be normal humans when one of them is anything but. Their pretence is repugnant, but fortunately for now, Elias does not have to care. Whatever they think they have, it will not be an issue for much longer.)