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"Jon," Elias starts, frowning.
Jon knows that frown. Thin brows furrowed, head tilted slightly to the side, almost sad - Elias's signature "I'm not mad, just disappointed" expression.
"Jon. You do understand, I trust, that I can't answer that question straight?"
Jon snorts. Of course a simple answer was too much to ask.
"All I asked was for you to tell me about the Unknowing."
"And waste a learning opportunity?"
Elias stands up from his chair with a click of his heels against the floor, and circles around his table to stand in front of Jon. He's... almost half a head shorter than Jon is, round-faced and generally unintimidating, but something about him still makes the Archivist take a tentative half-step back.
"Jon, we thrive on ceaseless watching, on seeing the unseen and knowing the unknown. If you hope to do any good in this position, you have to learn to see, and I'm afraid-" he gestures languidly, "-that it isn't something I can do for you."
"So what, you expect me to just-" Jon throws his arms into the air. "Just sit around and hope *something* drops in a crumb of information?"
Elias sighs. "You're impatient, Jon. That will not help you. If you wish to stop the Unknowing, you will need to, at least, keep a level-"
He stumbles across the word.
"A level.. hhuh..."
Elias presses his hand to his forehead, face growing ashen - his other hand darting out, palm open, as he scrambles for balance - and his knees buckle.
It's not a thought-out decision.
It's not... something he's planned to do. It's not something he should do, but before Jon can think, his arms are stretched out - catching Elias before he crumples to the floor.
The man is a monster. A monster that thrives on fear, on the pain of others - a monster that killed two people and allowed the death of more, he's-
He's looking up at him.
Elias's glasses are slightly askew, hair sticking to a cold, clammy forehead. Behind the frames, his grey eyes are unfocused.
Jon feels a thought enter his head unprompted. Postural hypotension, possibly made worse by the lack of the usual morning coffee- he didn't want to know that.
He didn't want to understand that.
Elias's hand is gripping his sleeve for dear life. He's breathing heavily, slowly - for a solid twenty-five seconds before his grasp relaxes, and he takes three steps back to lean against his desk.
"Thank you, Jon." He mutters. No mocking in his tone - no condescension. That's almost worse.
Jon blinks, steps back, and... walks out.
"So... how was it?" Martin asks hesitantly, almost hopeful.
"Anything actually useful?" Daisy juts in, waving Martin off.
Jon does not answer.
When the door to his office finally shuts, he takes a statement file - and lets the static carry his thoughts away.