#tma x reader

Yet now, even as the heaters are cranked as high as they can go, you continue to shiver. You press the back of your hand to your forehead, wincing at the heat. It’s almost unfair, that with everything you’ve dealt with over the years working for the Magnus Institute, you’re still human enough to be taken out of commission by a simple illness. Nothing supernatural or arcane, nothing unusual at all; only a terrible cough and the creeping signs of a fever working its way into your system.

“You’re not well.” Gertrude notes, making you jump. You didn’t hear the door of her office creak open, but by the time you look up from your paperwork, she’s already at your desk.

“Oh, aren’t you an observant one?” You snap back, the bite in your voice dulled by weariness. There’s a pang of guilt in your chest for lashing out, but you stifle it quickly. Ever since her return, it’s been difficult to treat her as the fragile old woman you once saw.

Her expression is unreadable as usual, but she does breathe out a sigh of vexation. “There’s no need for that.”

“No, there’s no need for you to be bothering me.” You pointedly look down at the scattered files in front of you. “I’m working on the Turner case. I have a lead, and I’m planning to f-follow—” Your words cut off abruptly, a stream of coughs pushing past your lips. After a few moments, you manage to catch your breath enough to choke out: “I’m following up on it.”

“You are not well.” Gertrude repeats, a pinch forming between her brows. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought she looked concerned at the implication. The sight almost makes you laugh, as much as it makes your stomach turn. “You can go home early. Take some rest, and don’t come back to work until you are better.”

You stare back blankly, swallowing down another cough. “What? I’m fine, I’m working.”

“You’re no use to me in this state.” She shakes her head. She leans down to tap her nail on the paperwork you’ve been filling out, frowning at the barely readable handwriting. “Look at this. It’s sloppy. I expect better from my assistants, yet this is clearly all I am receiving today. Go home, and come back rested.”

No amount of protests or feeble assurances that you’re really okay enough to work will change her mind, and eventually you tire of trying. On your way out, the receptionist shoots you a look of concern, but clearly she knows better than to ask.

The journey back to your apartment is a haze, but somehow you make it home. By the time you reach your door, your hands are trembling so much that you can barely manage to slide your key into the lock. The headache you’ve been carefully ignoring has returned, an incessant pounding behind your eyes. It’s a bitter thought, realising that Gertrude was right, but it’s hard to deny now; you really are sick.

Every inch of your body aches, as you push towards your bedroom. On the way, you shed your bag, then your coat, then your shoes, leaving the items thrown haphazardly over whatever piece of furniture you pass. Your scarf ends up thrown over the couch. It is followed by a blue sweater, one you never got the chance to return to its rightful owner. When you enter the bedroom, you don’t have the strength to close the door behind you, but the action is pointless anyway. You’re alone in the apartment, and your only visitor isn’t coming.

Without your outermost layers, the chill is almost unbearable. You fumble with the buttons of your shirt, eventually managing to slip it off, trading it for a much more comfortable hoodie. The shirt is kicked to the corner of your room, next to an overflowing laundry basket. “I’ll fix that,” You mumble, to no one.

The cold doesn’t ease, even after you burrow under your blankets; as soon as you settle, it seems to sink deeper into your skin, turning your veins to ice. A shower, you think numbly. A shower would feel nice. And yet you don’t move, locked in place by the creeping, gnawing pains that grow fiercer with every passing second. By now your throat is raw, each cough making your body shake with the force, but you don’t get up for water.

You don’t do anything at all. All you can bring yourself to do is lay there, a shivering, miserable mess, and hope that the illness puts you out of your suffering swiftly.

—————

Minutes slip by, or perhaps hours. It’s impossible to tell, and eventually you stop trying. You fall in and out of consciousness, teetering on the edge of sleep one moment, before being stirred awake by some ache or pain the next.

And in between it all, you are plagued by dreams—visions of corridors and hallways that twist and turn in impossible ways, stretching endlessly forward as they squeeze you from every side. You can’t make sense of what you’re seeing at all, and the harder you try, the more reality seems to bend and twist outside of your perception. Even as you break through the stupor to take in a breath of consciousness, the hazy quality of your dreams lingers in the air.

As you grow aware of your surroundings, the first thing you notice is your sheets tangled all around your legs, soaked in sweat. You’re still shivering, despite the hot flushes. Even in your addled mind, you can recognise that, though the sensation of your skin feels oddly detached, as though the fever has severed the connection between your mind and body.

It hurts, you think dully. Even that thought is sluggish in your mind.

“What… a mess.”

At first, you don’t properly notice the voice at all. It slides into the space between your wakeful state and the dreams that continue to tug and claw on your subconscious, so easily that it must be one of them too. Another petty hallucination, a product of your rapidly deteriorating mind, this time sculpted into the familiar tone of your former coworker—

The realisation hits hard, at the same time as a violent coughing fit. In between splutters and gasps, you tilt your head up to see where the sound came from—hoping, as much as you know it’s in vain, that somehow it wasn’t just in your head.

At first there is nothing. Only your laundry basket in the corner. Piles of clothes. Your door. A set of drawers, the top stacked with mementos. The window, with your curtains pulled half-closed. And a mirror, reflecting back only yourself. The night—when did it become night—is still, holding its breath.

Until, there is a creak. Until, that yellow door of yours cracks open, and a hand curls around the edge.

“Aren’t you a pitiful sight?” The same voice sighs. The hand is followed by a wrist, then an arm, then the figure of a man as he crawls out from behind the door and into your room. He’s much taller than you were expecting, with long, slender limbs, and a round face. You stare, slack-jawed, as he glides further into the room, a figure so familiar and yet so wrong-looking at the same time.

“Michael…” you croak out. As soon as you speak his name, his image grows indistinct, until you can only make out a blurry mass of blonde ringlets circling its silhouette like a halo. An angel, you think. He looks like an angel in the light. “M’chael… missed you…”

“Michael,” It echoes, as if tasting the name. After a beat of silence, it lets out a quiet laugh, one that sounds familiar at first, but carries a discordant edge you haven’t heard before. It laughs, it laughs and your head pounds. “How quaint. Is that who you see?”

It sounds vaguely mocking, in a way that you can’t quite place. As if it knows something you don’t, and is relishing in the slowly forming confusion on your face. Michael—or whatever it is, lets out a quiet tsk. It says in a coo, “Missed me. You say that without a single trace of alarm, and yet you already know it cannot be. Do you not remember where your ‘Michael’ is?”

“Sannikov Land.” You breathe out, the answer leaving your lips before you can even properly process the words on your tongue. The figure tilts its head, half in surprise, and half in curiousity. “He’s… you’re supposed to be in Sannikov Land.”

“There is no such thing as Sannikov Land.” It replies without skipping a beat.

“No.” You know that for certain. You’d figured it out once Gertrude had returned—alone, a solemn look on her face, and her usual office outfits traded out for one in all black. Mourning. When you finally thought to look for information on the place Michael had supposedly vanished in, your search hadn’t yielded a single result. Sannikov land simply didn’t exist. “No… ‘s not, is there? Never was.”

Gertrude was tight-lipped when you pressed her about it, much to your rising fury. The only thing you got was the assurance that he was gone, and not returning anytime soon. No closure, no comfort, not even an offer of time off while you grieved. His vanishing was treated as just another incident, no different from any of the cases you documented. By a week, she even stopped wearing black.

But you couldn’t move on, even as the world continued to move around you. He’s always been—always was—everything to you.

“Miss you,” You say again, your words slurring together. All the emotions you’ve been keeping bottled up begin to spill over, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. You’re sick, and you’re in pain, and even if he’s just an intangible figment of your feverish mind, it’s enough to send you spiraling. “I miss you, I’m s’rry, should’ve—should’ve been there.”

Bile rises in the back of your throat, but you don’t stop—can’t stop. The words keep falling out, a stream of apologies and begging for forgiveness from a man who isn’t there, split by the occasional hacking cough. And all throughout it, he doesn’t move. As you speak, Michael stares back, eyes narrowed on your curled up form. Eventually when your voice tapers off to gasping, choking breaths, he finally presses closer, appearing by your bedside in a blink.

It’s only instinct that moves you forward. Your hand reaches for his cheek, and there’s a burst of static as your fingertips meet his skin. It seems to warp under your touch, as if whatever he is, his corporality is in a constant flux. And yet, he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re a sad sight, aren’t you? Asking the forgiveness of what once was, from what now is.” Michael laughs again as your hand withdraws. He sounds distant now, even more than before, and your head is almost too foggy to properly understand a word he’s saying. You mumble out something indistinct, closing your eyes for a second. A second.

When you open them again, one hand cradles the back of your head, as the other holds a glass to your lips. “Drink up,” it sings, in at least three overlapping voices at once, and your mouth obeys before you can even comprehend the instruction. The water is ice-cold, soothing as it slides down your aching throat.

Your brief moment of lucidity is long-gone by now, and in its place is a blur of smearing colours and pinpricks of black spots across your vision. The only thing you can make out is Michael, his hands in your hair, brushing back the sweat-soaked strands from your forehead. Behind him, you can see a flash of yellow, even if it is half-blocked by his body.

“Are we awake now?” He hums.

You cannot bring yourself to answer, but you cling to his words like they’re a lifeline, until you slip back into unconsciousness once more.

—————

You’re losing your mind. There’s no other way to explain what you’re seeing and feeling; your mind is fracturing somehow, pulling apart at the seams until the threads of your sanity are completely unwoven.

A dozen voices collapse into one, speaking words you cannot make out. Something is wrong, something is wrong in a way you can’t even begin to discern. You must be dying, somehow. Your head must be submerged under water, you must be drowning, and yet there are arms circling your waist, pulling you to shore. When you break the surface, it isn’t clarity that greets you, instead another wave of nausea.

Those same arms hold you close, while another set gives you a sharp shove from behind. Reality—if there was any left to be found—shudders and shakes and pulls and pushes and rises and falls, and you cannot make sense of a single thing around you. Whether you’re awake or dreaming is anyone’s guess, but the fractals filling your vision when you open your eyes do not lend evidence towards the former.

“Sweet dreams…” A voice croons, and you grasp for it, but it slips past your fingers. With a howl of laughter, everything melts away into a blanket of nothingness, filled only by an unmistakable static.

—————

It’s well past noon when you wake fully. At some point during the night your fever broke, so by the time you’re fully awake, you’re completely and wholly aware of the terrible state you’re in. Each and every blanket on your bed has been thrown to the floor, and the sheets underneath your back are covered in sweat. You peel yourself away with a groan, clutching at the side of your head.

“What time is it…” You mumble to yourself, blindly patting around the bed for your phone. As you pluck it from underneath your pillow—not that you understand how it ended up there—you switch it on. A few dozen frantic-looking notifications flash across the screen, mostly from Emma, all of which you ignore. You’re way too tired to entertain her antics today.

You’ve never had the patience for Emma Harvey, even less so now that there was no buffer to intercept her meddling and calm down whatever arguments arose between the two of you. Everything was always so much easier when you had—

Michael.

And all of a sudden the back of your throat tastes acidic, and you feel as though you’re going to hurl whatever is left in your stomach. You dimly recall fingers—way too long to be human—carding through your hair, the gentle touch of an almost-lover long gone. That hand had tucked in the covers you’d so carelessly kicked away, had rested its back against your forehead with a mirth-filled sigh. For a dream, even one born from a fever, it was startlingly realistic, even if your delirious mind couldn’t manage to get the details correct.

Delirium, you thought to yourself. Of course that’s what it was. There was no reason for your heart to pound as you recalled the strange events, no matter how vivid and tangible they had felt. Michael was gone, and whatever twisted version had planted itself in your mind was a bitter, unpleasant fantasy.

You breathe out shakily, ignoring the crawl on your skin. It’s easy to explain away the missing details and strange events that don’t add up, that’s all that your job entails anyway. Coming up with every reason to believe something isn’t true. And the experience itself couldn’t even be considered supernatural, it was a dream. You’ve had worse, and none of them had killed you before. There was no reason to be so on edge.

Maybe the grief was getting to you after all.

“Ugh…” A shake of your head, and you crawl out of bed towards your door. “I need a shower…”

You never even notice that on the side of your table is a glass of water you never poured, innocently placed beside a packet of painkillers you never bought.

     What was worse was the fact that he did not in fact hunt you down. Somehow you were the problem,and you weren’t entirely sure how that had happened either. It was you who bumped into him. In the hallway, the breakroom, by the front desk, near the filing system. It was you watching him talk with people fascinated by the way his entire face changed with only the curve of his lips. Or how his hand moved in graceful arcs as he responded to gossip offered by your coworkers. 

     You’d tried not to, really you had. Even going so far as to leave the area he was in to do something, anything, else. But even as you were returning documents to their rightful place you were imagining him. Was he talking with the intern who had started this week? Perhaps he was in the breakroom getting a cuppa while discussing the weather. It was ridiculous and more than a bit concerning how often you saw him whether he was there or not. 

     Mr. Bouchard was nice enough not to call you out on it. You knew that he’d caught you staring, and it could be called nothing else. The way the slim gold chain hung from behind his ears to drape over his shoulder fascinated you. You’d thought that the whole chain for your glasses thing was very granny, and had always been amused by it. That wasn’t the right word now, though you hesitated to look too closely at the new label. 

     If it was just a work crush it’d be nice for it to end, sooner rather than later. There was something a little pathetic about the way you’d find reasons to be able to watch him, you didn’t like it. But no matter what you tried to think about in order to shift your focus, you couldn’t not watch him. The way he leaned in a bit when someone told a good story, the flash of very white teeth under the precisely maintained moustache with its flecks of grey. Which of course always drew your attention to the streak that started at the center of his brow, teased up and arching over the quiff in a feather like way. 

     Sometimes you’d find yourself watching, looking at the way his breathing shifted fabric, the light playing on the accents of gold among the green and charcoal grey, only to realize he was looking at you. Not directly, that might have saved you from whatever this obsessive behaviour was. It was always from beneath his lashes, or out of the corner of his eye, something subtle. As if the two of you were sharing a secret that no one else needed to know about. It made it intimate, the brief connection, the upward lilt of the corner of his mouth. 

     Maybe, just maybe, if he’d looked disturbed or disgusted, it would have been the catalyst for change you needed. A sharp slap that woke you the hell up. But instead you received a look, however briefly, that held a heat to it that made your cheeks hot as blood rushed to them. Like you’d been caught imagining him naked, and he knew it. But you hadn’t! You hadn’t fallen that far, the word yet a hollow echo to your thoughts as you sorted through returned files. 

     A yet that came about three months into your working at the Institute, looking up to find him grinning down at you, eyes locked on yours after slapping his hands down on the desk to get your attention. The most insincere apology you’d ever heard trickling past his bared teeth, your heart refusing to steady itself as he loomed there. It occurred to you, at the angle presented, this is what you’d see as he climbed on top of you, your eyes widening, with dread, as his did too. 

     You’d have thought that it was him mocking your expression, he’d seemed a bit manic when he’d arrived, but no there was obvious delight in his gaze as his fingers flexed on the paper making it crinkle. Another apology, this time softer, harder to hear, practically purred, for his little joke. Joke? Oh, right. Startling you with the smack of his hands on the table, not the fact that he’d given you a brief glimpse of what it felt like to be prey. 

     You just knew he bit. Hard.

     Lips pressing together as you smiled, you nodded your acceptance. When he didn’t move, as if he could stay there forever, you found your attention flicking between his eyes in an attempt to look elsewhere. You couldn't, watching the too sharp grin fade away into a smile, the minute way his lids lowered. And then the spell broke, his hand reaching out to lightly pat the back of yours, with a cheerful wink before straightening and sauntering away. 

     What made it worse, and why did you have to keep thinking of it getting worse when nothing really happened at all, was that no one else seemed to notice. A group of people all chatting away less than two feet from you, and not a single one sent you a curious look for the interaction. Or any of the others that followed. Did you want them to notice you getting attention from Elias? No, that would be foolish, that’s how HR got involved. 

     But you knew he didn’t offer those small intimate looks to anyone else. Of course you knew, because you watched him any time he was nearby. And even when he wasn’t, though that didn’t really count because that was just an over active imagination. It wasn’t as if your thinking about him in his office, sipping tea while reading a statement, could be real. 

     Obvious really, especially because sometimes you would find yourself focusing on how he would skim the edge of the paper. Breath caught and held wondering if he’d get a paper cut, would it be deep, and how pretty the red would look against his skin, dropping onto the page. It was becoming rapidly apparent that something was terribly wrong with you. The way the arousal coiled low in your belly as you sat at your assigned desk repairing pages was absolutely insane. Imagining the way he stoked a piece of paper?

     And if he’d come upstairs to talk to the head assistant with a plaster around the top section of his index finger that didn’t mean anything at all. It just meant that at some point you’d subconsciously made note of the injury and incorporated it into your… fantasy. Was that more or less concerning that you’d seen such a small detail on the fly, when he’d… …. He had been upstairs at some point before then, hadn’t he? Watching the way he grinned as he accepted the folder, that flash of sharp white teeth, his gaze flicking towards you ever so briefly. 

     He’d definitely had, watching his expression shift as he looked back at you, searching for something though you weren’t sure what. Or why you were so sure that he was off balance today. It might be that the buttons on the cuff of his shirt weren’t done properly, or the fact that there seemed to be light smudges under his eyes. Was he not sleeping? 

     You weren’t, the dreams you’d been having recently were… intense. If it had just been sex you might have put up with it, let it run its course, but there was more to it than that. Watching him slide the rings off his fingers, the way he toyed with the lapel of his suit before pulling it off. The deep breath he took as if it had weighed on him. Fingers starting with the bottom button of his vest before peeling it off his shoulders. It was so intense because you found yourself invested in each little motion. 

     Tie pin plucked gently from fabric, the way the tie was loosened before being unknotted and pulled from around his neck with all the relief of removing a noose. The way those eyes found yours after a moment of hesitation, the weary sag of his body disappearing as he tensed. Hadn’t he liked your watching him? He’d seemed to be invested in it before, fostering it, but in the moment he seemed off put. Your gaze lowered to where his fingers had curled into a fist around the length of fabric, knuckles mottled. 

     Fascinating that the once fluid movements were almost jerky now, as though he were attempting not to while still needing to. It was the way his chin lifted slightly, watching you as he thumbed off his braces one strap at a time. Deliberately, attempting to regain some control, you could see it in the tension of his arms. You’d have thought of leaving if it wasn’t just a dream, a silly thing your brain had decided to taunt you with. 

     Though it would have been nice to remember how you’d gotten there. Had it been a date? Maybe it was something so cliche as a moment in the office that had led to meeting up that night. You couldn’t remember the how, but you did know the why. Watching his hands hesitate briefly at his waist. Shirt or trousers? Did he untuck and walk around in the tailored slacks that didn’t need braces, or did he shuck off the trousers leaving him modestly exposed from the waist down with his shirt covering the indecent parts. 

     You wanted to know, and the longer he took to finish undressing, the more the tension in the room crackled like static. There was an edge of fear to the stern line of his lips, gaze shuttered by heavy lids as his breathing picked up pace. Was he nervous, what an interesting concept, the charming flirtatious Mr. Bouchard struck by modesty. Surely not. But his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard, before finally reaching for the fastening of his slacks and undoing it. 

     A part of you wanted to help, to try and soothe the discomfort that made the set of his jaw stiff. But it was a small part, little more than a whisper, and easily ignored as he pulled the shirt loose and began unbuttoning from the bottom like he had the vest. Consistent, you thought as your gaze followed the jerky push of his fingers on each button, the way his hands clutched just under the collar before slowly divesting himself. Hard to know what you liked better, the slowly exposed skin as the fabric was dragged over it, or the way you could see his pulse beating rapidly at his throat. 

     The way he’d jerked his hands loose had made all sorts of interesting things shift and bounce, having forgotten to undo those buttons at the cuff. A flush across his chest and up his throat had been arresting, watching the colour darken from a dusky pink to a muted red as it worked its way up to his cheeks. It was breath taking, and the sharp inhale seemed to mollify him slightly. Or it could have been the time he took to collect himself, turning from you to straighten the shirt and hang it from the corner of the mirror over the chest of drawers

     His gaze meeting yours in the reflection did things you hadn’t wanted to explore, face shadowed, looking at you over his shoulder. And then you’d woken up, which explained why you were tired. That had been an awful lot of tension for nothing to happen, and then you hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. So of course you were exhausted, but why was he? You’d love to know, to get a peek at what he was thinking about. It wouldn’t be you, of course, this wasn’t some romantic comedy. But it’d be… nice if it were. 

     You almost wiggled your fingers at him, if only to shift the stagnant moment, beginning to feel trapped the longer he stared. And then he looked away, catching sight of one of the archive assistants and moving to follow him downstairs. Clear as day in your mind’s eye you could see him roughly tousling his hair before finger combing it back into order as he followed them. Flustered would look good on him, you just knew it would, maybe a quick look over his shoulder back up the stairs. 

     Jerking as you realized one of your co workers had been asking you something, you forced yourself to focus on work. You could day dream later when you were left alone with musty files and pages that needed organizing to be in the proper order. Why people couldn’t just respect things that weren’t theirs was beyond you. Nodding, you took the box and followed to the bac - der area. One of your favourites, because it sounded like back there, which was ridiculous because it was close to the front of the Institute. 

     As were you when walking home, deciding to take a roundabout way to enjoy the weather. It was going to turn on you sooner rather than later, so you might as well, had been the thought. Except now that you were actually paying attention, taking in the building you’d stopped in front of, you realized you had no idea where you were. Very scenic then, pulling out your phone to begin typing your address to orientate yourself. Movement in the window caught your attention, and you could feel the word sorry bubbling in your throat though there would be no way to hear it. Except you recognized the figure that had come to stand in the window. 

     You would have dropped your phone in shock had it not been for the way you were clutching it like a lifeline, as if it were the only thing that could keep you from simply sinking into the ground in mortification. It was one thing to fantasize about watching him, it was another to be stood outside his home and staring in his window like some pervert. You should move, leave, look down at your phone and start heading home. Something! But he was staring at you with a muted look of surprise that was tinged with what seemed like exasperation. As if he’d expected it to happen. 

     And it kept happening, sometimes in the middle of the night, you’d find yourself standing outside his window waiting. Watching his silhouette move across the curtains before they inevitably were pulled up as he sought you out. You were immensely grateful that he didn’t just phone the police, you would have if someone from work kept showing up outside your house to stare. But the more it happened, the more he seemed pleased by it. So really, of the two of you, who was the real problem. 

     …. You. It was definitely still you. 

     A fact that was hammered home when you were called to his office next month, feeling your stomach twist with nerves. Not guilt, which you should have been feeling, but a healthy dash of anticipation battled against it before claiming victory. Knocking politely on the door, you entered when prompted and stood hesitantly behind one of the chairs. He didn’t motion for you to sit, so you didn’t, instead taking the briefest of comfort that its shielding you offered. 

     Not that he looked upset, or distressed in any way, if anything he seemed… hungry. It made you even more hesitant to breach the makeshift barricade between you, gaze lowering to where he lightly toyed with his tie. The way the fabric seemed to shimmer was fascinating, not that you were immediately remembering the way he’d tugged it loose in your dreams.

“How are you finding work here at the Institute?’

     You felt your mouth move, could hear an answer tumble past your lips, but the only thing you could focus on was the fact that he must have had a manicure recently. Tracked those same fingers as they lifted from the tie to skim along his jaw, to his lower lip, before managing to drop your gaze as he smiled. People watching was normal, wondering what kind of life they led based on what you could see. 

     But it wasn’t people, it was just him, the more you watched the more you had to know. It was obsessive and leaving was the only appropriate course of action, but the idea of no longer being able to so easily observe the little tics that were wholly his own… The feeling of loss seemed excessive, but it didn’t change the fact that finding new work elsewhere made your chest ache. 

“You’ve attuned faster than I’d assumed.’ He murmured, leaning back in his chair as he adjusted his clothing, a brief scowl on his lips. “And not in the way I’d intended.’

     Were you meant to apologize? Apparently not, as soon as your mouth opened he held a hand up, flapping it slightly as he urged you to sit. You didn’t, and he snorted softly. 

“Very well, we need to discuss your… visits.’ The way he said the last made you cringe, opening your mouth to attempt to explain. Not that you had a good one. “I don’t mean your charmingly frequent house observations, that’s outside and not my problem.’

     He shifted and you found your gaze settling on the hand briefly resting on the desk, the way the tendons shifted. Higher to pause on the cuff links, simple things, before moving higher to see his bicep flexing under the thin fabric. When you finally managed to reach his face there was a flush across the cheeks, one you already knew extended much farther down. 

“Don’t do that.’ 

     You weren’t sure what he meant by that, remembering the blush started over the sternum and slowly spilled upwards as though his skin was slowly absorbing a spill of crimson. It didn’t help that he covered that section of his chest as though he could hide it from your mental eye. As if the imagery were so simple to banish, following his hand as it slid lower, feeling your throat tighten as he stopped just over the gold plated belt buckle.

     Courtesy said you should not have done that either, should have had the courtesy to look away, anywhere else. But how were you supposed to do that, watching the way his pinkie shifted, moving towards the bulge in his trousers. Maybe you should just call HR on yourself, that was an option surely. Even you hadn’t seen that in your dreams, finding yourself waking on the bed, skin damp with perspiration and the palms of your hands hurting from how deeply your fingers had dug into it from clenching your hands into fists. 

     You knew that he tucked to the left, that he didn’t put on his rings until after carefully situating himself when he got ready in the morning. Assumed! You assumed, because you had far too much time on your hands in the morning even as you were getting ready for work. Not that you were interested in finding out for yourself, sex didn’t have quite the appeal of the idea of his enjoying himself while you watched. For learning purposes, though the chances of your becoming Elias’ lover were distressingly low, and your being able to put that learning into practice an non-existent possibility. 

     But you still wanted to know.

     Wanted to know if he eased into it, as he was obviously a man in love with himself, or if it got in the way of his getting things done. You could feel your imagination struggling to focus, to lock in on a single option before locking in. He eased into it, feeling vindicated when his pinky flexed slightly, the manicured nail scratching the fabric loud in the strained silence. A teasing gesture if you’d ever seen one, and why wouldn’t he take his time. He had all the time in the world. 

“Stop...’ 

     The office would clear out in an hour or so for lunch, for some reason most of the staff didn’t like eating at work. And it wasn’t as if any of them came to his office to eat with him. Actually it was very much the opposite in spite of his charming self. Which meant there was a solid block of time in which no one would be in the office, and most men didn’t last longer than a few mi-

     You jumped at the sound of his chair abruptly slamming into the wall behind him, gaze finally lifting to meet his. Had it been that obvious that you’d been looking at his lap and not the desk? Maybe. … Most likely. Especially with the way he was clearing his throat, that flush on his cheeks still bright. But he didn’t look embarrassed, or ashamed, his breathing a bit more ragged than it had been…

“That’ll be all for now.’

     So this wasn’t an evaluation? Then why had he called you in, let you stand there silent and- Nodding your head, hand lifting to offer an awkward thumbs up, you hurried out of the office to go on lunch yourself. You needed a minute alone to mull over if you still had a job tomorrow. What the hell had you been thinking ogling him like that?

Before you can reach your office, however, the door nearest to you opens. Jonathan Sims steps out. You gasp, digging your heels into the wooden flooring to prevent yourself from barreling into him. You succeed in the nick of time.

Had you not been so startled yourself, the way his eyes widen behind his glasses and his mouth parts in shock would have delighted you.

These days, Jon oscillates between two expressions: like he’s trying to fight off a headache and failing, or is one slight inconvenience away from snapping at the next person to approach him. You aren’t sure when was the last time you saw him smile, or relax. Before he became Head Archivist, that’s for certain.

Everyone is working hard to manage the disorganized chaos that is the Archives, but Jon puts you all to shame. It’s as if he’s working on a strict deadline that is fast approaching, one he has neglected to inform the rest of you about.

You admire his work ethic; it may not seem like it, but you do. You just wish he’d slow down once in a while, for his sake as well as yours.

To his credit, Jon gathers himself quicker than you do. He sighs wearily. “I understand you’re in a hurry to get home, but please, try to watch where you’re stepping.”

“Hey, I stopped before I knocked into you, didn’t I?” you say with a crooked smile. “And anyway, I’m not rushing because it’s a Friday night. I happen to have a date that I don’t want to be late for.”

Jon blinks, taken aback. “A date?”

“Yeah. A date. You know, that thing you plan when you want to enjoy time off work with another person?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you for the definition, Tim.” After a moment, his gaze sweeps over your outfit. “Well, that explains why you’re so dressed up for a change.”

You frown, offended. “Hey, what is that supposed to mean? I might not look like a professor on his way to lecture, like you always do, but that doesn’t mean I never dress up.”

“You’re exaggerating. I do not look like a professor.”

You say nothing, only stare pointedly at his lanky frame. He’s wearing a dress shirt with a tie knotted at his throat, a jumper thrown over top for good measure. His pressed slacks end an inch or two above his Oxfords. It’s the end of the day, so his clothes are somewhat rumpled, but it only adds to the look. You can clearly picture him dressed as he is now, standing behind a lectern and scowling at a lecture theatre full of petrified first years.

Jon shakes his head with a huff, his gaze almost absentmindedly falling on something below your chin, before he meets your eyes again. Then he does a double take. To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches, as if he’s stifling a smirk. “At least I know how to correctly tie a tie.”

“What?” You look down at the tie you’d laboured over in the loo, pressing a self-conscious hand over the silk. “What’s wrong with my tie? It looks fine.”

“It looks like you tied it in the dark. Have you never worn one before?”

“I have!” you retort. “Just, you know... It's been a while.” You had even watched a tutorial on your phone while munching on your breakfast this morning. Not that you’ll admit it to Jon, of course.

The man in question doesn’t respond, only stares at your tie as if it insulted him personally. With a put-upon sigh, he motions you closer. “Allow me, then.”

It takes you a second to understand the meaning behind his words. You consider rejecting the offer; you don’t know what time it is, exactly, but you know you’re getting late. Surely your date won’t mind if your tie looks a little sloppy.

Instead of following through, you find yourself shuffling forward.

Long, tapered brown fingers make swift work of unknotting your tie. Once the fabric is unwound, Jon gets to tying it once more. His hands are more practiced than your clumsy ones had been. Almost like he ties other people’s ties for a living, or something.

You duck your head so you can watch, take a mental note of how it’s done, only to freeze when your chin brushes against the curve of his thumb. There’s a faint smell of fresh pine—the hand soap that the Institute religiously uses. The touch is slight, like the times your fingers overlap with his when you hand over a file or report. Yet it feels more significant, somehow.

It must be the proximity. There isn’t a desk separating the two of you, as is often the case. He has breached your personal space in order to assist you, the tip of one Oxford resting between your loafers. Or maybe it has to do with how close his hands are to the vulnerable stretch of your throat. You swallow involuntarily at the thought.

Either way, you are aware of him in a way you tend not to be. In a way you have instructed yourself not to be.

Jon is no longer the cute co-worker you like to steal glimpses of; he is your boss who must be held at a certain distance. He certainly has no trouble acting professional and aloof, so neither should you. Even if the two of you have been bantering for the past few minutes in a way that you haven’t in some time.

Regardless, you shouldn’t be mooning over your direct superior. You should be interested in other people—like your date, who had asked you out last week. You’d dithered over accepting, but eventually decided to make plans with them. It’s time for you to move on from your ridiculous crush.

(A stubborn part of you can’t help but note how smooth his skin feels against your own. How warm.)

When you feel the digit twitch, nearly grazing your bottom lip, your head snaps up. “S-sorry,” you say hastily, unable to meet the archivist's gaze.

“...It’s all right,” Jon murmurs. He resumes twisting and folding the silk around your throat, as if nothing happened. Because nothing did happen. It was an accident, and the smallest of touches at that.

You still have some difficulty getting your heartbeat to settle, as if you’re some Victorian nobleman who just caught your first glimpse of an upturned ankle.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), it doesn’t take much longer for Jon to finish. “There,” he says, eyeing your collar critically one last time before he lets go of the tie. He pauses with his palms hovering over your chest, like he wants to smooth the material there down, before he lets them drop. His arms hang limply at his sides. “All, ah, all done.”

“Thanks,” you say, glancing down to inspect his handiwork. You have to give it to him: he knows how to tie a tie. The half-Windsor knot looks crisp and sits nicely over your shirt, not at all as frumpy or lopsided as your own attempt had been.

Jon nods and steps back, widening the gap between you. “See you on Monday.” With that, he goes to walk off, interaction already forgotten.

“Let me guess,” you say, stopping him in his tracks. “You’re not leaving yet.”

He looks over at you. “Very astute,” he replies, a hint of amusement suffusing his dry tone. “I am just finishing up some last minute work. I’ll be heading out shortly.”

You hum at his response, crossing your arms over your chest. “Good. Best not to go to the break room and brew any tea, then. If you’re ‘heading out shortly.’” The way he shifts his weight from one foot to another, his eyes flitting away from yours, that must be exactly what he was planning to do. Bullseye.

Jon clears his throat unnecessarily. “Yes, well. Don’t forget that I’ll need your report—”

“Bright and early on Monday, I know.”

“Right.” He shuffles backwards. Slowly, as if reluctant to. “Have a good night. Enjoy your... date.”

“Good night, Jon.” You watch, smothering a grin, as he enters his office and shuts the door.

You aren’t in high spirits for long. You are fifteen minutes late for your reservation, to the annoyance of your date. Though you try to make up for it with your sparkling personality and witty repartee, you get the feeling that a second date is not in the stars for you.

You feel very little disappointment over it. You refuse to think hard about why that is.

Upon entering your office, you spot your earrings on your desk. You must’ve forgotten them. With a groan, you touch an ear and feel the stud nestled there. You like them just fine, normally, but they aren’t fancy enough for a dinner date.

All of a sudden, the back of your neck prickles. The tiny hairs there stand at attention. You glance over your shoulder, at the open door to your office. It’s empty. Your brows furrow, but you shake it off. It’s not fun, feeling like you’re being watched, but you’re used to it by now. It tends to happen from time to time, especially when you’re in the Archives. Must be nerves or something.

Best to focus on the issue at hand.

You briefly consider returning to the loo. No, you decide; it’ll be faster to switch earrings here. You get to work on removing the first stud. It proves harder than expected. After a few more fumbled attempts, you scowl to yourself. Other than pinching your earlobe somewhat painfully, you have achieved little.

Has it always been so difficult to take these off without a mirror?

“Stupid things,” you mutter crossly under your breath. “Would you... just...”

“Having some trouble?”

The question, voiced from directly behind you, startles you. You yank at your stud. Hard. Your earlobe twinges sharply, causing you to yelp in pain. You let go and whirl around to see Elias Bouchard standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Bouchard!” you blurt, blinking owlishly at him. Then you regain your composure. “Sorry. I, uh, thought I was alone.”

“No, I should be the one to apologize. I should’ve announced myself sooner.” His head tilts to the side. “And it’s Elias, remember? Mr. Bouchard was my father.” A small smile plays upon his lips, as if he’d told a particularly amusing joke.

“Right, of course. Elias.” The name feels strange rolling off your tongue. You have always called Jon by his first name, never Mr. Sims, but it’s not the same. Maybe because Elias is your boss’s boss. Yes, that must be it.

You wait for him to say something, explain why he’s here. He just stares back, silent. Under the weak fluorescent lights of the Archives, which cast shadows over his tall frame, his grey eyes appear darker than usual. You resist the urge to shiver.

As the silence stretches on, pulling taut between you both, you come to the realization that he expects you to break it.

“I, um,” you say lamely, “I was just on my way out.”

Elias hums, but continues to regard you with that piercing gaze. “It appeared as if you were busy, though.”

“Ah, yeah. I wanted to switch my earrings, except these damn studs refuse to budge. It’s been a while since I took them off, I guess.” You chuckle, even though it’s not funny. His smile widens a touch, but he doesn’t join in. “I can just do it in the car.”

Before you can turn back to your desk, Elias speaks. “Would you like some assistance?”

You stare, caught off-guard. You hadn’t expected him to offer. “Oh, um. If you aren’t too busy...?” You glance in the direction of Jon’s office. Elias must have come down to see the Head Archivist before the weekend. Had he already spoken with him, or had he noticed your door open and thought to check in on you first?

“Not at all.” He lifts a pale hand. It resembles a pianist’s, slender and elegant. “If I may?”

He’s asking for permission to remove your earring. To touch you.

You tilt your chin up and to the side, to make it easier for him to reach over. No need to make this any more awkward. “Please.” You hoped that you would feel less nervous if you weren’t staring into those eyes, but looking away does little to help. He’s in your peripheral vision, his dark suit and hair rendering him an ink blot. A very tall, very intimidating, very handsome ink blot.

This situation, you realize, does nothing to quell the teeny tiny attraction that you’ve been harbouring for your boss. Quite the opposite. You have only had the opportunity to speak with him a handful of times, but you admire his dedication to the Institute. His intelligence and extensive knowledge of the paranormal. The fact that he’s easy on the eyes only further complicates the matter.

You’d been certain that you could dispel your wildly inappropriate feelings for your boss. Going on a date with the first person to catch your interest was step one. Now you aren’t so sure.

Elias steps forward, so he is closer to you. The scent of his cologne, spicy and rich, washes over you. You hold unnaturally still when his forefinger grazes the shell of your ear. For some reason, you expected his skin to feel cold, but it’s not. His hand is as warm as anyone’s would be.

Belatedly, you recall that you haven’t instructed him on how to remove the earring. His own ears aren’t pierced, so he might not know how. “It’s a push-pin stud,” you explain. “I think it might be secured too tightly, so you should hold both ends and—”

“Twist it,” he finishes for you. “Don’t worry, I know.”

“Oh. Great.”

His forefinger rests against the top of the stud as his thumb gently rolls your earlobe over, to expose the flatback. To your horror, your breath hitches. Please let him not have heard that. He pauses, causing your heart to nearly shrivel up in your chest, before resuming his ministrations without comment. False alarm.

The thumb and forefinger on his other hand pinches the post, holding it firmly as he begins to twist. Your earlobe twinges again, but you grit your teeth. You refuse to make another embarrassing sound.

Finally, the two ends pull apart. Your eyes almost close in relief. Thank God.

Elias’s lips turn up at the corners. “There you are.”

You hold out your hand, palm up. He carefully places the silver ends on it. “Thanks.” Your fingers curl into a fist, caging them inside.

“Of course.”

There’s still the other ear, though, so you tip your chin to the other side. Elias shifts a little too. Now you’re leaning towards him instead of away, his form inches from yours. It’s the nearest you have ever been to him.

His suit is made out of thick wool. You have the craziest urge to reach out and rub the material between your fingers. Find out if it feels as soft and warm as it looks. Elias removes the other stud before you can give in to the impulse. Which you wouldn’t have. Obviously.

He places the last two ends in your palm as well, watches as you move to your desk and tuck them away.

“Thanks again, Elias. I appreciate it.” You pick up your fancy earrings. They glimmer under the overhead lights. “I don’t think I would have been able to take them off without a mirror.”

“It was no trouble.” He clasps his hands together, observing idly as you put on the first earring. The fish hook goes through with little issue. “Any big plans for tonight?”

“Just a dinner reservation,” you say as you move on to the other ear. It’s as easy as the first, but you wince when you feel a dull pain. The lobe must be sore from when you’d yanked on it earlier. “I need to be out of here within the next...” You glance at the clock situated beside the door. Your eyes widen. “Five minutes ago.”

Elias arches his brows, looking faintly amused. “You’d best hurry up, then.”

You have already started throwing your things into your bag. Once you’re done, you grab your phone off the desk and make a beeline for the door. Your boss is kind enough to step outside so you can turn the lights off and shut the door.

“Drive safe,” he says, inclining his head. “I hope your date goes well.”

“You too,” you respond automatically. It’s only when you’re turning the corner that you realize your goodbye made no sense. Your eyes fall shut briefly in mortification. Oh well. Nothing you can do about it now. He’ll have forgotten all about it the next time you see him.

In the end, you are only a couple minutes late to the restaurant, but you find yourself distracted. You’re unable to focus on your date or your food. All you can think about is that moment you shared with your boss. The long line of his body so close to yours, his fingers brushing your jaw...

But that is not what your mind lingers on the longest. There is one burning question that remains with you, even once you’re tucked into bed, unable to fall asleep. It must have been a good guess, that’s all. Yet you’re convinced there is more to it than that.

How had Elias known that you were going on a date? Hadn’t you only mentioned a dinner reservation?

(Earlier:

Elias watches as you turn the corner and disappear from view. He huffs a quiet laugh. He had come down to the Archives to touch base with Jon, when he noticed that you were here. What a treat it had been to speak with you, provoke you into abandoning your pitiful attempts at professionalism. Perhaps he should drop by more often.

He looks down, inspects his thumb. A small bead of red glints back at him.

Your right earlobe had been bleeding, just a little, from when you’d gotten startled and pulled too hard. The blood had transferred onto the digit when he removed the stud.

Elias smiles at the drop of blood. Then he raises his thumb to his mouth and licks it off.