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Peter had a bloodhound’s nose for suffering— Elias’ suffering. If he wasn't the one to cause it, he was sure to be the one to make it worse, to revel in it. Oh, yes, he'd dote and smother, fret and fuss, all of it with that insufferable grin on his face.
“Ih'tshuh!” Elias kept his eyes shut, scrubbing away the itch from strands of pomaded hair that had long since broken loose.
And, as though Elias’ misery had reached a threshold that had summoned him, Peter answered: “Bless you, dearest.”
“Ugh.” Keeping his face buried in his hands, Elias leaned forward until his forehead touched his laptop. The edge of his desk dug into his stomach, the newest entry in a list of discomforts that had begun with a sore throat that morning and lengthened gradually throughout the day.
Peter's shuffling footsteps made the floor creak and when he spoke again, his voice came closer. “Not feeling well, are we?”
Elias peered through a gap in his fingers to give the Beholder some quarter. Peter, of course, had no immediate designs on his life, but it never hurt to be thorough.
When he failed to answer, Peter rested a hand on his back and gave a low whistle. “You know what you've got?”
“One person too many in my office,” Elias said into his palms, peering over the tips of his fingers to better glare at Peter. The light from his laptop stabbed into his eyes, sending a spike of nausea downward from his temples.
“A fever,” Peter replied. The thin gloss of concern in his voice only put a shine on the sadistic glee beneath it.
Elias’ sinuses burned. He took a tremulous breath through his mouth to no avail. “Aht'sch! Eh'kscuh!”
He had to curl in on himself to keep from slamming his forehead into his laptop (oh, Peter would have just loved to witness that), and the subsequent ache ran around his ribs and down his back and made him shudder. No, he didn't need Peter's insight, nor the Beholding's, to know that he was running a temperature. The body aches and chills were proof enough.
Peter cocked his head as Elias reached for the box of tissues Rosie had discreetly delivered him earlier in the day. “Don't tell me you've lost your voice now?” he asked hopefully, and then laughed. “Wait, you couldn't!”
“Do you need something?” Elias asked finally, satisfying himself with the social faux pas of blowing his nose without leaving the room. His voice came thin and pinched, exhausted despite his best attempt at some bravado.
“Yes,” Peter said, smiling broadly, “but it appears I'm so overcome with concern for you, my dear friend, that I've entirely forgotten what it was.”
“I don't have time for this.” Elias turned his blurry gaze back to his laptop, where a disordered spreadsheet awaited him.
Peter was quiet for a few blessed moments, allowing Elias to paw through a pile of receipts and expense reports, most of which bore Tim's handwriting— deliberately messy, oftentimes completely incomprehensible.
But Peter's presence, quiet though he was, kept Elias' shoulders tense, his brow furrowed. Whatever Peter's game was, he had no patience for it, and yet, there was no escape.
“Ehk'tSCH!”
“And I suppose reimbursements can't wait a few days,” Peter said mildly, handing Elias a tissue.
“No, Peter, they can't.” Elias scrubbed his nose without any regard for the irritated skin above his lip. “If I submit these late, then Tim will know his efforts to delay me have succeeded, and I simply can't reward his childish outbursts with even a hint of success or he'll— Ah.” A burn ran through Elias’ nose, breaths teasing the back of his throat.
“Oh, don't leave me in suspense now.”
“EHT'SCHUH!”
“Bl—”
“Don't.” Elias fixed Peter with a watery glare, shoving the tissue so hard to his nose that it hurt. “He’ll devote all his efforts to annoying me, and I can't have that.”
Peter leaned in, wrinkling his greatcoat against the edge of Elias’ heavy wooden desk, and pressed the back of his hand to Elias’ forehead. His pale eyes glimmered with some faint amusement. “You're missing something rather obvious, you know.”
Jonah Magnus, James Wright, Elias Bouchard. All the sort of cool-blooded men who paled when they got angry, who trembled with it and spoke very softly.
Normally.
All the blood rushed into Elias’ face, supplementing the fever pressing insistently against Peter's hand. “Do forgive me,” he said with venom, scowling at his spreadsheet, “Rosie neglected to inform me I hired you as an advisor.”
“Oh, don't be like that.” Peter withdrew his hand and Elias’ whole body shivered at the loss of contact and it hurt, ached in all his joints and made his head throb. “I'll even tell you what it is… for a price.”
“Peter— hh'ekSCHUH!” Hot tears streamed down Elias’ cheeks, irritating his feverish skin. Worse than the discomfort, he hadn't managed to duck away, and now a wash of droplets made rainbows on his laptop monitor. Disgusting… “What is it?” he asked stiffly. The lack of Beholding buzzed somewhere deep inside himself, teaming up with his headache and congestion to make his head spin. Feed and be fed… And Elias bore witness to only his own display of misery. Such paltry melodramas were of no interest to the Eye.
Peter laughed. “I hope that wasn't an attempt to compel me! I didn't feel a thing.”
Whether it was, Elias couldn't say. “Peter.”
He was a man who could eat a loss no matter how bad it tasted, who knew the value of biding his time. Still, it stung, somewhere deep beneath the misery and feverish confusion, beneath the headache and the burn in his sinuses.
He reached out with a shaking hand and shut his laptop, dirtied screen and all. His eyes watered, spilling yet more tears down his cheeks. “What's your condition?” he asked, face pressed to his handkerchief.
He'd rendered himself all but powerless for the moment, burying mouth, nose, and eyes into the gray cotton. A shudder ran through him at the emptiness and he forced himself to peer over the top of the handkerchief. Unlikely as it was that Peter had wanted him dead (at the moment), there was no point being careless.
Peter, for his part, stood as benignly as ever. Anyone would have thought him a kindly old fisherman, save for the uncanny hunger evident in that smiling mouth. “Isn't it obvious?” he asked, and chuckled gently, as though Elias’ sniveling was as endearing as the antics of a beloved grandchild. “I am terribly worried about you, my friend. But I know, I know—” here, he raised his hands in apparent surrender— “you have such a hard time accepting help. But I insist, you simply must let me look after you in this time of weakness.”
“Eager to play the voyeur, are we?” Elias said into his handkerchief. It had already grown damp and clammy with fever-sweat and the run-off from his tortured nose, and he couldn't help the shivers that ran down his spine.
And Peter smiled.
Elias made a last effort to claim the information from Peter's psyche, but all he earned for his efforts was a wave of giddiness. Peter gave no indication that he'd even felt the attempt. “Well?”
“If you're so eager to p-play nursemaid—” A tickle flared in his sinuses and retreated, eliciting a gasp. “Oh, for God's s— AHK'KSTCH! Dammit…” Sweat ran freely down his temples and hair hung in his face and his tie pressed on the base of his neck and his suit clung to him— yes, he was in a real fever now, perhaps the worst he'd ever had away from the comparative safety of a sickbed. “ Nnh— just… tell me.” He couldn't draw a full breath; his heart raced. “Please.”
“You are in a bad way.” Peter laughed quietly. “Just call out sick.”
A large chunk of Elias’ psyche crashed to the floor, sending spiderweb cracks running through a few of the pillars holding up his self-control. He stared dully at Peter as the fever worked its way through him and his thoughts struggled to move through the oppressive heat.
Strategically… it wasn't the worst move. It was generally better to be underestimated than overestimated. Although, he'd have to find a way to keep tabs on Jon.
Well, when all the paths forward were excruciating, he might as well choose the one that allowed him to go to bed in the foreseeable future.
—
The chill air of the Archive bit into his skin, drawing shivers down the length of his body. Still, he kept his arms by his sides, clinging to his last scrap of dignity. Peter had helpfully angled him toward a mirror before steering him toward the Archives, and there had been nothing for Elias to do but slick his hair back (though his pomade had long since lost its grip) and carry on.
He could do nothing to mitigate his pallor or the deep, irritated pink of his nostrils, nothing to correct the dark circles under his eyes or the seams of blood on his chapped lips.
But he could keep from curling in on himself like some defeated, helpless little mortal. And so he strode down the hallway, with the fluorescents burning his eyes and shivers rippling the muscles of his back.
Rounding a corner, he found Tim and Jon staring at each other like alley cats, both of them stiff, defensive.
When he came within earshot, something struck him hard across the back, forcing an expulsion of air from his lungs that turned into a coughing fit.
The distinctive buzz, sticky salt on his skin, foreign-foreign-foreign skimmed across his psyche— No doubt Peter thought he was being clever.
“Er…” Jon's voice. But what was he… Dammit, why couldn't he just see? “Elias?”
“Jon…” Elias choked. Somehow his forearm had found the wall. He straightened up with a pang of discomfort that echoed through his entire body. “Tim.”
“Did you need something?” Tim asked, unimpressed as ever. “Or did you just come down to give us all the spooky flu?”
Slipping into the dimwitted persona of Elias Bouchard took less effort than he'd feared. “I just came down to tell you…” Ah, and just when he thought he couldn't possibly feel any worse, a wave of dizziness passed over him: not vertigo, but the dangerous, stomach-turning giddiness that always accompanied a fainting spell. “I'm not feeling well. I've come down with something and I'm going home for the day.”
“Really?” Jon asked.
“You don't have to sound so surprised, Jon.”
“Just… didn't think that was something that could happen to you.”
“Well, it is and it has,” Elias said stiffly. Frantic breaths washed over his cracked lips and the world began to gray at the edges. He stumbled back and hit something solid, and Peter’s fingertips dug into his shoulders.
“Huh!” Tim snickered, making no effort to keep his amusement hidden. “Best wishes for the recovery you deserve.” He turned to go, leaving Jon staring down Elias in apparent fascination.
Peter's hands burned on his shoulders, contrasted by the damp chill of the Lonely on his back. Sweat or condensation stuck to the back of his neck and a few icy droplets snaked beneath his collar.
Beneath it all, the strength of Elias’ patron kept him upright. He hadn't been abandoned, no, but he couldn't reach it, either. All he had was his foundation, and the feverish tremors running through him threatened the stability of even that small comfort with every passing moment.
“Jon.” Elias sighed, projecting stuffed-shirt exasperation as well as he could. “I haven't lied to you yet. This would be an awfully stupid place to start.”
“Right.” Jon straightened, still examining Elias curiously. “Well, ah. I hope you feel better soon. I suppose.”
The image of him faded as he walked away and the Lonely’s rushing waves grew louder and louder in his ears…
“My dear Jonah…” Barnabas. Fingers in his damp curls. “I came as cast as I could when I heard of your condition.”
Jonah opened his eyes. Barnabas’ blurry face greeted him, dark at the edges except for where the candlelight lit his features in shades of yellow. “You…” was all he could manage before he started to cough.
“Oh, don't speak, Jonah. Just rest, please.” Barnabas reached for him again, ran his fingers down the side of Jonah's face.
With his eyes slipping shut, Jonah forced his hand up from under the covers, intertwined his fingers with Barnabas’.
If he had to be ill, at least he was in good company.
When Elias opened his eyes (Jonah's eyes), it was Peter who greeted him. He sat a few feet away from the bedside with an ear-to-ear smile that spelled nothing but misfortune. Whatever had kept him from killing Elias, be it fondness or pragmatism, contained no hint of Barnabas’ tender concern all those years ago.
He hadn't propped Elias’ head up, either, and pain spread out through his tortured sinuses, culminating inevitably: “ik'STCH! HK'TSCHUH! HH'ETSCH!” He curled in on himself, driving himself upward, out of bed, knees buckling.
“Elias, Elias.” Peter caught him and sat him on the edge of the bed, leaving him to nurse a running nose by sniffling and hoping for the best. “Stay in bed. You're very ill, you know.”
Peter—”
“Just tell me what you need and I'll fetch it for you.”
“Anything you desire, Jonah, I'll get it for you. Any book, any diversion. Anything.”
Elias sniffled and fixed him with a baleful look, but there was no getting around it. Even just sitting here, his head spun and his heart pounded. “...tissues.”
“Oh.” Peter’s smile sharpened, his eyes turning colder. “You can do better than that.”
Elias sniffed. “Will the great and magnanimous Peter Lukas please fetch me some tissues?”
“I'm not sure I like ‘magnanimous,’” Peter said thoughtfully, but he got up anyway. From outside the room, he shouted, “Maybe ‘his Loneliness’.”
Slowly, painfully, Elias got back in bed. His head throbbed with every slight motion. He stacked the pillows clumsily and fell back against them.
“Look at this, Jonah.” Barnabas opened his handkerchief to reveal an orange, peeled and sliced. “Please share it with me. You know they're terribly tart; I can never eat the whole thing by myself.”
Jonah’s fever had only just broken that morning, but he managed to sit himself up without assistance.
His hands shook, though, and Barnabas pressed an orange slice to his lips for him. Sweet liquid trickled down Barnabas’ fingertips and Jonah chased it with his tongue.
“Here we are!” Peter's bulk filled the doorway. He'd taken off his greatcoat to reveal a thick sweater mottled with oil stains. Of more interest was the tissue box in his hand, which he flung carelessly in Elias’ direction.
“Thank you,” Elias said drily, promptly burying his nose in a handful. He blew his nose, propriety be damned, and fell back against the pillows. “What happened?”
“You fainted.”
“I gathered that.”
Peter sat on the edge of the bed and rested his palm on Elias’ forehead, clearly enjoying the mockery of domesticity. “That little Archivist of yours rounded the corner and your legs went out. I caught you of course, and I took you home. But, you know, it was the funniest thing. I got turned around on my way to the front door, and I'm afraid a fair few of your employees saw me carrying you.” Peter ruffled Elias' hair, smiling down at him.
He could have shifted his hand a few inches, wrapped it around Elias’ exposed throat, pinned him there.
He could have taken a pillow, held it against Elias’ face.
He could have done any number of things and might at any moment, and for all Elias knew, the only thing keeping him at bay was the promise of mutually assured destruction.
“I'm going to try to sleep now,” Elias said primly. “I suggest you leave me to it.”
If Peter was disappointed at Elias’ lack of reaction, he didn't show it. He nodded shortly and stood up. “I'm sure I'll find a way to occupy myself.”
Barnabas’ hair stood up at odd angles, the obvious product of many a long night awake at Jonah's bedside. But his weary smile was as genuine as any Jonah had ever known, and tears glimmered in his eyes despite it. “I was terribly worried about you, my dear Jonah. When I received word that you'd collapsed, I nearly wept.”
Jonah was already slipping back toward sleep, but he offered Barnabas a smile even as his eyes slipped shut. “...glad you're here.”
That kind of naive trust was far behind him now. He’d shed all that childishness in pursuit of greater things. There was no point in missing it.
In missing him.
Jonah Magnus had made his bed. All he could do now was lie in it.