Work Text:
Jon watches transfixed as Elias extends an arm toward him. His breath catches as his hand slides against his cheek and fingertips drift over his ear. Jon shivers.
His hand is warm. He thinks dully. His mind taking this moment to draw a blank. As if he'd subconsciously decided at some point that Elias's hands must be as cold as his eyes. But of course his hands are warm. It's not like he's dead.
Jon feels dead sometimes. He's always cold, especially these days, alone in his silent archives. Well, he supposes he isn't alone right now, with whatever uneasy comforts Elias decides to bring with him.
He continues to watch in an accepted silence as Elias's piercing gaze, heavy and hungry, blankets over his body. Seemingly drinking the entirety of him in. Jon holds back another shiver. He doesn't know what to make of all this but a part of him (the part he's terrified of acknowledging) likes it. Likes being Seen by Elias.
He notices a hint of something else, hidden just below the surface of Elias's stare that Jon desperately tries to grasp. To understand; but comes back empty.
He notices his own eyes have gone wide, dry and cold, like he's neglected to blink in a while. A single thought screams above all: he's letting Elias, of all people, touch him.
He shouldn't be letting Elias touch him.
Jon doesn't move. Nor does he turn away from the hand that's spreading a tingling warmth across his face. As if numbing him in place (quieting him). Elias takes the inaction as an invitation to start exploring.
Slowly and delicately, his fingers dip into the deep worm scars that pepper Jon's marred skin. A finger glides down his jaw, reaching his adam's apple and traces the ghostly slash over his neck. Jon is vaguely aware of Elias's other hand folding gently into his own, palm against palm; and the touch sparks a wave of heat up his arm as he squeezes the handprint that colours him there.
Jon swallows. The sound breaking the silence louder than he's comfortable with. Deafening, in fact, and he tries to distract himself by studying Elias's face in kind. He takes it in, as though it's the first time he's seen it. Maybe it is.
Elias's eyes drift over Jon's, holding his gaze, and the Something else that lies behind his eyes finally breaks the surface. He appears momentarily as if deep in thought, and a small smile reaches his lips; as if recalling a fond memory, one that Jon is not privy to (Jon finds he desperately wants to be privy to). Elias's hands smoothing over each of his scars, his eyes drinking them in like cherished keepsakes.
Nostalgic.
Elias looks nostalgic.
Jon wants to protest; considers it, anyway. He wants to tell Elias, these scars are not his.
What does he have to be nostalgic about? Jon wants to yell at him. To tell him he didn't work for these scars; but somehow Jon knows it would feel too much like a lie. He bites his tongue and pulls himself from his thoughts.
The quiet between them stretches on, but somehow it feels expected. There are no words needed in this moment, because this moment needs no words.
The touch against his cheek are those words, and Elias is chanting them with fervour.
It is then that whatever strings that have held Jon's mind up all his life, are inexplicably and abruptly cut loose. And it brings him to the stark realisation that he must not exist .
Well, his body is present of course, he physically exists, yes; but it is in this moment, within the mind that he has always known, grown up with, struggled within, the mind that exists within him now, simply isn't his own. Or is not what it was but mere moments ago.
It's such a sudden, loud realisation that Jon tries to focus on what he knows must exist, if not his own mind, his state of being, then what? What exists in this empty space that used to contain him?
It's like he can't think properly. Thinking at all is a strain on his very being and he finds himself struggling to stay upright. Wavering where he sits. Like his thoughts that were once him, are being roughly pushed aside, pressing what is him, was him, up against the walls of his own mind. Creating a gaping, empty void, having made room and waiting for something else to take its (rightful) place within him. To fill it back up again of its own image.
He can't think. He doesn't understand how his mind is being so sharply shifted. Like clay moulded apart, the creation of a new and hollowed vase (he hopes it's at least a nice one).
The touch of Elias's hand cupping his face is what he's currently aware of. He can understand this, at least. Elias's touch exists in this moment, and of that much Jon is certain.
The immeasurable closeness of space in between their bodies, exists far more than Jon Sims ever has. All that matters to him in this empty place, is his Watcher's careful touch.
He can feel the heat of Elias's breath on him and stares unblinking into those sharp grey eyes, pulling his gaze into focus where it must have momentarily drifted. Their noses are all but touching. When had Elias gotten so close?!
The hand against his face is still there, and a thumb strokes over his jawline. Jon is briefly worried Elias might pull away.
No, that isn't right, is it?
It is Jon that mistook the brief flash of concern he saw cross Elias's face; as if he was worried Jon is the one that might pull away, and yet the touch remains unwavered.
A sigh parts Jon's lips long before he registers that he hears it. His crushed mind feebly attempts to catch up; and a sting of embarrassment starts its rise within him. He's not used to this, whatever this is. This closeness, the touch of another. This is not like him. It's not him.
What is happening? A thought escapes the press of weight against his mind and bubbles to the surface. Panic rises with it.
What has Elias done to him? Is doing to him. Will do to him in this state. He scrambles at these thoughts that begin to simmer within the empty spaces of his hollowed mind. He tries to grab at them and hold them tight, to inflate back to the space that was once his, but finds he keeps settling on one particular question:
Why does this feel so right?
The unease of his previous thoughts disperse as quickly as they arrive. Seemingly brushed aside by the strength of a touch that now seeks to encase him. Tingling across his skin with gentle hands, hands that hold such a fondness, Jon could mistake it for love, had he not known who those hands belong to.
But perhaps this (greedy) devotion, and the Watcher's concept of love, simply means the same thing?
Jon allows himself to breathe the thought of it in. He keeps it there, long after he breathes out. It remains within him. He supposes he's okay with that. At least it's something he understands.
Jon eases into Elias's hands further, as if he could possibly get any closer to this heavy presence that sits around him, atop him, embracing him in such an intimate, possessive way that Jon can barely breathe. A seeping warmth feels its way across him, outside and within. Jon swears he hears a whisper of, 'mine, mine, mine' echoing from somewhere (everywhere?) nearby.
He feels a smile spread across Elias's face as he presses their foreheads together, almost painfully so. A dull throb where they begin to melt together, calling Jon closer. Deeper into the empty spaces that dare to keep them apart.
The gentle touch of Elias's hand drifts from his cheek, down to the nape of his neck, holding him steady, keeping him close. Secure.
'Where I belong.' Jon thinks to himself, whatever himself is anymore. Though it's not as grim a thought as he knows it ought to be. He knows he should be scared (he is), but it's a murkiness that swirls together with so much more than just simple fear. Jon let's it wash over him and does nothing but watch it happen. It's the right thing to do. It's what anyone would do.
And the grip on the back of his neck tightens, as if it Knows (of course it knows), it holds him there, pressing harder as if to fuse given the chance, he expects it would.
Jon doesn't complain. Wouldn't. Not in this moment.
Couldn't. Even if he tried.
Even if he wanted to.
For a moment, or perhaps longer (time means nothing to him), he Knows they are One: Archivist and Watcher. Watcher and Archivist. There is a distinct line between the two that grows blurrier by the second. He knew as much, going in (expected it, when he closed the distance between them). But It can only reach so far, They are locked out, and the thought sickens him.
They are as One as much as the laws of this dull, dreadful world can ever allow. If only they could be closer. If only those laws could simply cease to be… only then will they be able to cross the space that separates them, to breach the gap and let Them in and-
'It mocks me.' Heat radiates at the thought, a pang of anger that is quickly cooled when a wave of curiosity drifts by.
Jon wonders what that would be like. The full meld between them. To become something else in a world anew. (Because that's what this is about, isn't it?) It is.
A shiver creeps across his skin and he's not sure if it's because of the delight or the terror that such a concept brings. Perhaps both. Would that moment feel like this one? Melting between the two. Or could it be something more, tangible in ways he could never hope to understand, not until the unity of that precious moment physically exists in this world.
A warm caress of memories and thoughts drift between them. But this has been happening for a while and Jon simply hadn't noticed until now. What thoughts were even his? Are these thoughts even his? He wants to laugh at that, like his confusion is somehow amusing. Cute, actually! When had something else filled up the empty space in his mind? When you weren't looking.
The realisation settles on him and a rush of fear grips his chest. He goes to pull his head back, to pry away his mind, to give it a chance to cool down; and is stopped by the hand on his neck, keeping him steady (in place). The moment of fear washes over him, and he allows himself to be thankful for the touch. Glad not to have destroyed such a precious moment by leaving its confines. Jon would be embarrassed of himself had he not been so relieved. (It was more of a startled response, really.) It's okay . This is right.
Jon bleeds into Elias's reassuring touch again, the warmth more welcome than ever, (how had he lived such a cold, lonely life for so long?) and he let's the memories and thoughts spill into his open mind. Happy for the company.
Some memories, so blurred and faded, like parchment yellowed with time. Others clearer, yet from angles and heights Jon is certain he's unaccustomed to, though still familiar enough to feel like his.
Jon focuses on one particular thought, attempting to make sense of it (it looked interesting).
He sits on that bizarre thought for what feels like an eternity, attempting to understand it, but finds it merely shapes and colours of things his own mind would likely see differently. Perhaps as letters or words rather than dark misshapen concepts, fleeting ideas that would only hold meaning to the one they originally belonged to, and only them. Like a language he has yet to learn (can he learn?).
Finding that he can't comprehend any particular thought from this other mind. Jon accepts to simply witness them as they come to him, seeping in from that foreign space. Elects to know them, as they are. Regardless of whether he can make any sense of it (right now, at least).
Back and forth these memories surge between them, Jon being unsure which thoughts are his own, and which are Elias's. Or perhaps, thoughts which are beholden by something else entirely. Perhaps none of them were his own thoughts, and he's simply holding them, keeping them safe for the future, when they might be needed again.
The archives are simply a shared space of knowledge between them that Jon can provide. Has been hollowed out and created to provide.
Jon smiles, his eyes glossed over. Staring idly at nothing in particular, though Seeing clearer than he ever has before. (You look lovely like this, Archivist.) He knows this, too; and anticipates the day this space will remain active, even without the aid of a touch. He fears this touch will leave him soon and he will be forced to go back to the unkept way he was, back when he existed.
He holds these memories, foreign and old, close to himself. (The ones that have time to make it in before this precious moment of touch ends). Archiving a space for all the passing memories and thoughts that fill his empty self. These will not be forgotten, not while he's here to tend to them. (You will always be here to tend to them ). Jon welcomes them, his own (when he gets a chance to think, that is), Elias's, and Something Else's. He grips them tightly. They're his now.
The Watcher's touch is warm and the Archivist's mind aches beautifully against it.
"Don't let me go." His voice feels distant. Unsure if he even spoke at all.
A grin breathes against his ear as the hand pulls away from his face. "Never."
Jon is cold.