Work Text:
Or maybe we go Somewhere Else.
Jon only registers pain after that: a tearing, shattering ache, his entire being filtering between molecules of air that shake with the sound of his own voice until he abruptly crashes up against something, or someone. There's an infinite second where he thinks he's escaping dying, fading, and then he feels the Beholding tighten its grip on his soul and suddenly he's… he's somewhere else.
"—did you try drinking with Daisy again? Jon?" Basira's voice is concerned, wary. Jon sits up straight in his chair— his chair, he's at his desk—and looks up at her.
For a moment she must really See him, because she goes pale and quiet and takes two quick steps back. Jon doesn't move for a moment, letting his awareness expand, learning as much as he can about what just happened. This world is… it's his world, before everything went wrong. Back when only most things were wrong.
His own memories and the ones of this world's Jon overlap like misaligned copies of the same photograph, almost the same but not quite. His entry into this universe effectively killed the Jon whom Basira had just been speaking to, flinging open the door in his mind and crushing his consciousness to nothingness. Jon doesn't feel as upset about that as he should. Tim is still dead, Sasha is still dead, only the clothes Tim died in were different, and not-Sasha wore her hair in braids rather than loose. Jonah Magnus still lives, still poses as Elias Bouchard, is still pretending to be imprisoned. Or was, at least… he’s obviously felt the balance of power shift and is on his way to discover what it is that he cannot see. Melanie and Georgie are the same. Jon turns his gaze sharply away from where they lie entangled in Georgie's bed, but not before he sees that Melanie is a red-head and the Admiral of this world is a tiny tuxedo kitten. This Daisy and Basira seem identical to the women Jon knew, at least at a passing glance. Martin—
Jon turns his gaze upwards, and the air leaves his lungs in a rush. His eyes go wide, all of them, and Basira curses and stumbles backward, fumbling for her gun. Jon ignores her, leaping to his feet and sprinting out of the office. Basira is shouting after him, louder than Jon would have thought she could, demanding that he come back, asking if he's still Jon. He doesn't spare the time to answer. Drawn by the noise, Daisy turns the corner, and the Hunt is a thick miasma around her. Jon simply looks at her, Sees her for what she is, and she flinches away enough to let him pass. He imparts the knowledge that Basira is unharmed, and in return Daisy does not chase him. One monster to another. Jon meets no one else as he races to Elias's office and slams the door open, taking two steps into the room before he falters. It's somehow worse to see what he already knew.
Martin is slumped facedown across his desk. The cassette player at his fingertips is still whirring gently, and there’s a mug shattered on the floor next to the desk. Lady Grey tea drips from some of the shards and pools beneath them, slowly seeping into the hardwood. Jon Knows the statement that Martin was recording, and when exactly he had stopped. Knows how Martin's head had spiked with such excruciating pain that he had spasmed helplessly, knocking the last of his cold tea to the floor. Knows the press of confusion-loss-panic-fear-pain that had twisted his mind too far, too fast. Knows that Martin's basilar artery gave out under the strain, and that if he moved Martin’s head, he would see a pool of blood underneath his nose and mouth. Knows that neither version of Martin survived, and that the last thought of both was a half-formed desire to see Jon again.
Jon stares at Martin's still hands—big, but never clumsy, always so gentle around Jon's hand or arm or waist—and feels lost. He doesn't know how long (he does, six and a half seconds) it takes for the tears to start falling, or how long (twelve minutes and eight seconds) it takes for them to stop as he stands there, paralyzed. This is his chance, he realizes bitterly. He's somehow come back here, to interrupt Elias's half-finished game. If it all has to happen again… he’ll do it right this time. He'll drag the entities into the abyss himself. There’s no one to stop him now. No one worth stopping for.
Thirteen minutes and twenty-two seconds later, Elias arrives. He freezes in the doorway, trying to take in what he’s seeing. Jon turns, all of his eyes fixing on Elias in sharp wariness.
“Oh.” The word is reverent, and Jon recognizes the delighted, worshipful, hungry expression on Elias's face. It’s a more intense version of the way Martin sometimes looked at Jon in his most human moments. But Elias isn’t looking at Jon’s humanity.
“What have you done, Jon?” Elias’s voice is tight with excitement, with anticipation. “Tell me.” The compulsion is stronger than anything he’s ever used on Jon short of the ritual statement, an undertow trying to rip him off his feet and drag him away. But an undertow is nothing to the entire ocean, and Jon shrugs it off without batting a single eye.
“No.” Jon watches the way Elias shivers all over, pupils expanding to eager voids, breath coming faster. It could be fear. Jon Knows it isn’t. He approaches Elias and feels for the first time as though he looms over the taller man. “I won't tell you. I'll show you.”
Elias's knees go weak at the first press of Jon's mind against his own, but to his credit he manages to keep his feet as Jon shows him how the few remaining entities leave their scars on his battered body. Elias bites his lip against the feeling of Peter Lucas rending his own mind in a futile effort to escape, and Jon Sees a pang of loss inside him, one that is quickly smothered. Interesting.
Jon keeps his memories of Martin to himself; those moments are not Elias's to Know. He already resents the way the Beholding's constant, hungry gaze gnaws at their edges. When he comes to the memory of himself reading the ritual, Elias finally sinks to his knees, a sigh of pleasure slipping from him unbidden.
The noise he makes when he sees Jon call their shared god down on another avatar is decidedly more carnal. Jon raises an eyebrow, snorts just loud enough for Elias to hear. It makes Elias flush and try to shield his mind from Jon's gaze, despite knowing that he can’t.
"Pathetic," Jon murmurs, because he can feel that Elias wants him to. "If only I had known how little it took to break you down." Elias's arousal is obvious now, surging guiltily in the face of Jon’s cool disdain.
Elias tries to speak, but Jon silences him with the memory of what becomes of London in his new world. Then Jon finally lets Elias see himself, terrible and fractured and aware, Watching as he never could have dreamed was possible. Elias moans in bliss, his body trembling with ecstasy as he beholds himself through Jon's horrified, hateful, jealous eyes. With static in his voice and power bleeding from him like ink spilled across a page, the Elias in Jon's memory steps down to meet him—and Jon cuts the memory off.
Elias sways, lets out something that is best described as a whimper, and catches himself against Jon’s leg before he collapses entirely. He's wrecked, panting, desperately hoping Jon can't tell how hard he is while also fully aware that Jon knows. Jon waits, letting Elias feel the weight of his gaze, of their god's gaze.
"More," Elias begs, eyes locked on Jon like he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Begs, Jon thinks again, a thin smile touching his lips. So much for all that smug pride. Are you so desperate to know what you've created? They're so tangled in each other's thoughts that the words might as well be spoken aloud, and Elias flushes a deeper red and glances away. Then he looks back up, something raw and almost feral in his eyes. "I—yes, I am. More, Jon, please. I need to know, I need to see it!"
"You will," Jon promises. "When we make it a reality." He doesn't miss the way Elias's gaze darkens hungrily at the words. Elias doesn't miss how Jon's heart rate picks up. They behold only and entirely each other, nothing more or less, for an interminable span of time. Finally, Jon blinks, a slow and deliberate ripple that closes all of his eyes except the two he was born with.
Elias shakes himself, like he's been released from a spell, and staggers to his feet. He reaches out and hesitates, glancing up at Jon. Jon inclines his head in permission, and only then does Elias trace the closed eyelid of the scar on his throat, fingers gentle and reverent.
Beautiful, he thinks. My Archivist. The words crackle and shimmer in the air between them like lightning.
Yours, Jon replies silently, like the rumble of thunder that can't help but follow.