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Elias Bouchard and the terrible, Horrible, No good Very Bad Day.
Elias woke up with a splitting pounding headache and a queasy stomach. He groaned and attempted to remember why he felt like this. Ah, yes Peter had come home from sea and insisted they celebrate, things had gotten hazy around the time he finished his fourth G&T and they smoked that joint. He blinked up at the ceiling, why was he staring at a white canopy? He sat up, this was NOT his bed. The duvet was seafoam green, the sheets were light gray. The bed frame was mahogany; it was carved in the shape of a prow of a ship. It had a mast sprouting from the headboard that was supporting the canopy, also a crow’s nest, rigging and stairs carved into the side.
“Peter,” He groaned. “I told you not to–”
Peter wasn’t there. He moaned and rubbed his head, scratched his chin and sighed. He smelled bacon cooking, he smelled coffee and suddenly with a feeling like being STABBED directly in his eyes he KNEW Peter was cooking breakfast. He also knew that He, Elias was wearing nothing but that sexy thong from last night.
He grunted and took a step off the bed, tripped and fell forward onto the floor. Stupid Peter was big and tall so the custom bed he commissioned was ridiculously high. He righted himself, found his silk robe hanging off a peg on the back of the door and donned it. He trudged into the kitchen.
“Oh good morning sleepyhead,” Peter said cheerily from their kitchen table.
“Do you have to be like this now,” Elias growled.
“Still feeling the effects are we?” Peter said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes,” Elias grunted and sat down opposite Peter.
Everything was laid out: streaky bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, beans, sausages , tomatoes and kippers. His stomach lurched, but he knew this was exactly what he needed to set it right. So he took a little of each and put them on his plate. Peter came back with a mug of coffee, the cat sat on the floor and stared up at him with wide hungry eyes. He took his first bite... Peter was actually a half decent cook,but the toast was a bit too light for him. But as he ate the food and drank the coffee, his hangover started to fade.
“What do you think of my new bed? You tell me to ‘get a real bed’ and stop sleeping in a camp bed in my bedroom.” Peter said.
“It’s ridiculous, Peter, you are a grown man, sleeping in what? A bed shaped like a boat, is immature and I cannot believe I’m married to such an utter man child,” Elias huffed.
“Ah,” Peter said with an annoyingly smug grin “You don’t have to worry about that last part, I’m filing for divorce.”
The fishy smell of the kippers hit him directly in the face at that moment, and that’s when his stomach reeled and he almost threw up.
He tossed the kippers on the floor and the cat devoured them.
“Really Peter?” He swallowed the bile and glared at Peter from over the table.
“Oh yes,” Peter grinned.
“Shut up and get me some co-codamol or a glass of whisky,” He snarled
“As your majesty wishes,” Peter said.
Elias knew Peter had drunk just as much he had last night, why wasn’t he miserable as… Oh wait, the knowledge stabbed him in the temple, Peter had gone to the Lonely and it had almost immediately sobered him up. Maybe this divorce was a good idea, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with Peter’s smug face on days like this. Peter got him a glass of that Scotch he liked; it helped settle Elias’ stomach. He was reading the Daily Mail, and beginning to feel more himself when he looked up at the clock.
“Oh good lord, I’m going to be late. Bloody hell, Peter why didn’t you tell me!?” He said looking to where Peter had been sitting and noticing, only a cloud of fog and a faint sound of chuckling.
He gulped down the nearby coffee and scurried off to the shower. For the rent he knew Peter was paying for this place, Elias would have hoped the water wouldn’t start out so cold, and then with warning be scorching hot. He went from shuddering to yelping in short order. With time being what it was, he only had time for the most basic steps of his skin care routine. However he managed to shave, dress, brush his hair and get himself looking… Wait, was that shaving cream on his collar? He scowled as he wiped it off. He took the Tube to his Institute, barely bothering to scan the thoughts of his fellow passengers to see if any of them were thinking about him, his head still throbbed dully. Then the Eye gave him an image of this middle-aged slob with a patchy stubbled face, wrinkled suit , sickly green and with such bags under his eyes, slumped but staring vacantly. Some management schlub or… No it was him. No wonder everyone was ignoring him, he looked ghastly. Ah, well he could freshen up in his ensuite at work. The thought comforted him a little. Besides, with the Archivist in America, and Martin reading Statements, things should go pretty smoothly.
He was up on the pavement, his beloved Institute in sight, He allowed himself a soft smile. There were some workmen busy with something, he wasn’t paying attention, it was out of the corner of his eye. There was an alarmed shouting. Ah, yes they were attempting to raise a grand piano to the roof… wasn’t that the cursed one he’d just gotten from--- they were shouting about the rope fraying and… he moved with the speed of much younger man, there was a crash, a discordant noise and a cloud of dust. It landed exactly where he’d been standing… he would have been crushed. He looked up to the top of the building and saw Melanie scowling down at him. Oh, great another murder attempt. Don’t let her know… or see how unnerved he was. He smoothed down his hair. He grinned up at her and waved cheerily. Then he turned to go inside.
He decided to take the lift rather than the stairs to his office.
Tim was in the lift when he entered.
“Could you please press—“ He asked.
“No, fuck you.” Tim growled.
He pressed the button for his office floor.
“Tim please, That sort of language is against Institute policy as I have told you before” He chided.
“I don’t give a fuck, you twat.” Tim added and made a very rude gesture.
“We do not allow—“ He started
“It’s not like you’ll fire me, just fuck off to your fucking office and watch us suffer, you useless bastard,” Tim replied.
Elias glared at Tim but then Tim got off the lift whilst giving him the finger. Elias sighed deeply, putting his face in his palm.
Rosie was sitting in reception smiling, that was good.
“Hello Rosie, Sorry I’m late.”
“Husband back from the high seas?” She asked with a slight smile
“Quite,” He said then in his nicest tone, asked: “Can you get me a cup of coffee, please?”
“Of course,” She said.
He went to his office, stopping in the ensuite to get himself looking good. By the time Rosie showed up with the black coffee he was looking and feeling more like himself.
Now to see where Jon was in America. Apparently Jon was in a diner and staring at a bizarre breakfast item called: biscuits and gravy. Elias shuddered picturing hobnobs in onion gravy. Jon was just staring at it… it was very early in America and apparently Jon hadn’t fully woken up, he was looking at the dreaded diner menu with pictures of vaguely beige pancakes, waffles and oh lord was that beige vomit on crumpets? No, that was the caption informing him biscuits with gravy, he felt ill again. He took a few more bracing sips of his coffee and began to work on the spreadsheets for this month's budgets. It helped steady him as he drank the coffee, when he’d drained the cup, the nausea was gone.
Martin was supposed to read a statement today, He should check on that. He concentrated and found himself looking out through an old motivational poster on the break room wall. There was Martin, he wasn’t reading a statement the tape recorder wasn’t even on. He was in fact doodling in a notebook, writing Martin K Sims, over and over again in a looping hand along with hearts, poorly drawn scribbles of cats and owls getting married. The Eye sent him the full text of that poem, not that he wanted it. More importantly, Martin was daydreaming again on Institute time, not reading a Statement. Sighing, Elias stood up, straightening his suit, and tie. He'd have to talk to Martin about this. He nodded to Rosie as he left his office and proceeded down to the archives. Elias heard shuffling footsteps behind him, he side-stepped Melanie who was in fact holding a length of wire.
“Would you believe, I’m trying to repair that busted piano?” Melanie said with an unconvincing grimace.
“No, and no one else would either,” He said with a grin.
Melanie walked past him muttering darkly.
Twice so far, he’d have to tell Peter about it after they had a wager on. Oh, wait Peter was divorcing him, his heart sank he’d have no one to tell about this.
Basira was sitting in a chair reading a book about Coulrophobia, she shrugged and went back to it.
Martin was still in the breakroom, listening to the soundtrack of Hamilton and browsing social media on his phone.
“Martin,” He said upon entering the room. “Is this what you’re supposed to be doing?”
“No,” Martin said anxiously. “I’m sorry, it’s just with Jon gone and…”
“I don’t want to hear excuses Martin, I just want you to do your job, think of what Jon would say if he saw you slacking like this,” He said smoothly.
Martin blushed and put down his phone: “I’m sorry, you’re right Elias I need to find the right statements to read…”
“May I suggest case number 0092008?” Elias added.
“Right…I just have to find it..” Martin stumbled.
“Turning off the music would help,” Elias said.
“Oh, right sorry,” Martin got up and shuffled over to the portable speaker, turning it off.
“Do you want my help?” Elias asked again, turning his head and smiling in a way he knew no one liked.
“O-oh, no, no I’m sure I’m fine,” Martin stuttered.
“Very well,” Elias added, nodding.
Things were getting better, soon Martin would be scurrying off to record a statement. He could order some lunch, he was starving and knew there was a lunch place nearby that did a really lovely coronation chicken sandwich.
That’s when Tim staggered into the break room, reeking of vodka, he glared at Elias:
“Piss off!” He shouted and then threw up, all over Elias’s shoes and suit.
The stench made Elias’ stomach turn, He stiffened, ignoring Martin’s chorus of nervous apologies, he trudged out. He did NOT feel like that sandwich now. He went to the nearest restroom and was sick in the toilet. He splashed water on his face and shoes, took off his ruined blazer, and took the lift up to his office.
“Rosie…” He sighed. “Please call the dry cleaners.”
He put his ruined blazer on a chair and took off his shoes.
“Yes, right Elias,” She said.
“Now please,” He sighed.
“Of course,” She said and picked up the phone.
He went into his office, got the bottled water from that drawer on the side table and gulped it down. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt and collapsed in his office chair. He stared at the skull of Barnabas Bennett.
“Stop that, just because you’re dead, doesn’t mean you get to grin at me like that, Bennett.” He growled and turned away.
He looked back down the archive break room. Martin wasn’t recording a statement: he was laughing so was Melanie, Basira and Tim. They were all laughing at him, mocking him and laughing. This was absolute, complete, bullshit, and he would be taking it out of their wages, the only thing he could do without causing unnecessary amounts of trauma. There was a sofa in his office that had tasteful matching throw pillows. He picked up one, went into the ensuite and yelled into it for a bit. Composing himself again, he went back to his office, made himself a whiskey and soda to calm down and morosely looked through some more spreadsheets and schedules. The whiskey helped. He asked Rosie to order him that sandwich, as his appetite had returned. He watched Jon in America, and noticed to his delight that Jon was being followed by Trevor Herbert, Julia Montauk and an agent of the stranger. He was feeling good. Maybe this day wouldn’t be a waste. He smoked his daily cigarette out the office window. By the time it was time to go he was feeling better. He’d sent Tim the dry cleaning bill and his suit would be salvaged, besides he had a spare suit at the office which he had changed into. He got a cab home, Peter was sitting on the couch with the cat when he entered the apartment. The events of the day weighed on him. Peter was reading one of those blasted Discworld books, not that it mattered. Peter read them for the jokes, the social commentary sailing over his head.
“Oh Hello luv,” Peter said.
“I’ve had an absolutely horrid day, Darling,” Elias sighed, sinking down beside Peter.
“Don’t care about that, divorcing you.” Peter replied with a grin.
Elias stroked the cat moodily and huffed.
Peter gave him a sideways glance and then casually took one of his big pale arms and looped it around him. Elias snuggled into Peter’s side.
“What’s for supper?” Elias asked, the cat curled his arms.
“I ordered a curry,” Peter remarked.
“I don’t want curry,” Elias huffed.
“Then don’t eat it,” Peter said. “I mean you will anyhow, I got that garlic naan you like.”
Elias scowled at him and mumbled: “Thank you. Now Darling put down that awful book I’m going to tell you about today.”
Peter sighed deeply: “If you insist, my stinky little man.”
“Really Peter?” Elias grumbled.
“Yes, really,” Peter said and undid Elias’s tie pulling him onto his lap.
“Fine,” Elias nuzzled into his chest, then looked up to Peter as endearingly as possible. “Are we still divorcing?”
Peter grinned slightly: “Probably not. Depends which one of us will open the door for the delivery man.”
“Alright,” Elias relaxed.
Maybe the end of this day wouldn’t be so terrible, but that depended on whether any of that Merlot he liked was left.