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Jon is annoyed. Actually, ‘annoyed’ doesn’t really cover it; he is upset, on edge, his figurative hackles already raised as he storms down the corridor towards Elias’ office. A follow-up from your meeting last week, Rosie informed him over the phone, and hasn’t Jon already been humiliated enough with all this ‘intervention’ stuff? He’s giving Tim as wide a berth as he can, and he’s apologized to the others for prying, who on earth’s been complaining about him now?
He scarcely notices Rosie as he passes her desk, and vaguely hears her make a little hmm sound that he might wonder about if he was paying attention. Three sharp raps on the office door, and he bounces impatiently on the balls of his feet as he waits, his tongue already curling around the piece of his mind he intends to give Elias about all this.
“Come in,” comes the muffled invitation. Jon’s lips are shaping the words even as he turns the handle.
“Honestly Elias, do we really need to revisit this again? I think the point was quite made the last time, and I do still have an archive to run. We’re absolutely swamped, and Tim’s work ethic has rather gone downhill lately—which I can’t exactly blame him for with everything, but still—”
“Thank you for coming, Jon. I can see you’re a touch...agitated.” Elias’ calm tone cuts him off, and he snaps his mouth shut. Right, professionalism. That probably includes not ranting at his boss. Elias gets to his feet and walks around the desk. “That’s precisely why I wanted to speak with you, in fact. It’s clear that things have been getting to you quite badly—the pressure of the role, Gertrude’s death—”
Jon scoffs. “It’s hardly unreasonable that my predecessor’s murder would be a source of stress, is it?”
“Not unreasonable at all,” Elias agrees. “But it’s affecting your ability to perform your job, and that makes it my responsibility.”
“Has someone complained? Has Tim said something? I can assure you I’ve been nothing but professional with him since—”
“Nobody’s complained.” Jon scowls as he’s cut off again, but Elias doesn’t seem to notice. “Last week’s little confab was for the benefit of your assistants, to show them that the Institute takes their concerns seriously and to clear the air between you. This meeting is because I am concerned for you, as your employer and—I hope—your friend.”
“Oh, ah, right.” Warmth suffuses Jon’s chest at those words, and he immediately feels pathetic for it; how can he be so desperate for the man’s approval after all this time? Elias gives a knowing smile, as if he can tell exactly what Jon’s thinking. Ridiculous, of course.
“Would you come with me for a moment, Jon?” Elias continues. “There’s something I’d like to show you. Something I think might be good for you.” He steps purposefully past Jon and presses on some hidden latch that causes a portion of the wall to lift slightly away from flush. Jon was already aware of the concealed door, of course—it was made to be artfully unobtrusive, not invisible—but he assumed it was a private bathroom for the Head of the Institute. He hardly thinks Elias would be inviting him into the loo, however.
He follows as Elias opens the door and steps inside, switching on a light. The room is a bit smaller than the main office, and definitely not a bathroom; it is lined with bookshelves, a desk pushed against one wall, papers and objects strewn across its surface. Standing in the middle of the room is a chair. In fact that word scarcely seems fit to describe it: a bulky construction in steel and dark red leather, like an exaggerated version of something you might see in a dentist’s office. It’s imposing, and entirely incongruous, and Jon’s gaze can’t help lingering on it.
“I use this room to store books I wouldn’t want in the public eye,” Elias explains, waving at the bookshelves. “Nothing sinister, of course, merely my private collection.”
Jon nods absently, scarcely hearing the words, because his attention is utterly engrossed by the chair. He can’t stop staring at it. His eyes follow its curves and lines, its peculiar angles. The steel gleams harshly. The leather is the color of raw liver, of old blood, seeming almost to pulse under his gaze. Not a dentist’s chair, Jon realizes, as he takes in the steel arms that jut from the seat, ending in padded stirrups. Somewhere behind him he hears the sound of the door clicking shut.
“I see you’re admiring my chair,” says Elias from beside his shoulder. “Good. That’s what I wanted you to see.”
“You...wanted to show me a chair?” Jon still can’t tear his eyes away, but the strangeness of this situation isn’t lost on him.
“I told you Jon, I’m concerned about you. Paranoia, insomnia—don’t try to tell me you’ve been sleeping, because I know you haven’t—wild accusations of murder. It all points towards an overload of stress, quite frankly bordering on mania.”
“If you’re suggesting I need to see a therapist, Martin’s beaten you to the punch.” Jon means the retort to be sharp, but it comes out vague, his attention elsewhere. The chair really is bewildering, some of its angles close to impossible, his eyes watering as he tries to follow them—
“No, Jon. I’m proposing a rather more direct intervention.” Elias’ hand comes to rest on his shoulder. It feels heavier than it should, his voice smooth and somehow sticky as it curls into Jon’s ear. “Are you familiar with the concept of hysteria?”
Jon barks a laugh at that, dragging his attention away from the chair’s sickening curves. “Hysteria? You can’t be serious, Elias. What are you, a Victorian academic?”
“Not quite,” says Elias with a smile. “I am, however, your employer. And in my judgment, you need to address these issues immediately in order to remain fit for your role as Head Archivist. You wouldn’t want to put your position at risk, would you, Jon?”
“Are you...threatening to fire me?” Elias wouldn’t—he couldn’t, not over this. Could he?
“Of course not. I’m just concerned for your well-being. And you must admit, you haven’t been doing well lately.”
“I, ah, I mean—I haven’t been at my best, certainly, but I’m getting it under control. Really. I’m not...having a—a mental breakdown, or whatever you think is going on.”
“Hysteria is as much a physical affliction as a mental one,” says Elias. “It’s dismissed as quackery these days, of course, but I think we’re rather too quick to abandon the scientific knowledge of the past simply because it doesn’t fit in with our current view of the world. Mental and physical strain can rapidly compound upon each other; a feedback loop that throws the body and mind into terrible distress. Have you been feeling distressed lately, Jon?”
It’s utterly ridiculous, of course, but the way Elias says it is so reasonable that Jon finds himself unable to find the error in his argument; he has been distressed lately, sleepless and afraid and paranoid. He finds his eyes sliding back over the lines of the chair, its bulges and dips and seams, like the anatomy of some horrible beast. He isn’t entirely sure it isn’t breathing.
“I, ah…” he begins, but he can’t find anything to dispute Elias’ words.
“And really,” Elias continues, “Is it any more unbelievable than a man with knife hands, or accusing your co-workers of murder?”
“I…” At the edges of Jon’s vision, right where he can’t be sure, the leather of the chair pulses with grotesque respiration. He thinks he hears it sigh.
“It is quite fascinating, isn’t it?” says Elias matter of factly. “One of the more interesting knick knacks I’ve picked up over the years. It has the ability to induce a sort of hypnotic state. Do you understand, Jon?”
“S-sorry, what?” Jon feels a rush of embarrassment at the realization that he’s only been half listening, too engrossed in the chair. Elias makes a small, satisfied sound.
“Quite so,” he says. “Hypnosis was considered a rather progressive treatment for hysteria, in the nineteenth century. Pioneered by Charcot at the Pitié-Salpêtrière, of course. It put the subject in a highly suggestible state, so that hysteria could be induced, observed, and treated in the...standard way.”
“Sorry Elias, I’m not sure I, ah—” Jon frowns with concentration; he really isn’t feeling entirely well right now and—
“Perhaps you should sit down.”
—he thinks he should sit down. He starts towards the chair, but is stopped by Elias’ hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm.
“Ah-ah,” Elias tells him. “You can’t sit down like that. You’ll need to remove your clothes first.”
Jon startles at that, sure he’s misheard. “I’m sorry?” he says. “What did you say?”
“I said that you’re going to remove your clothes, and sit in that chair so I can help you with your hysteria.” Elias’ tone is mild and even, and Jon stares at him in astonishment, feeling his face go hot with indignation. He struggles to stammer out a protest, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.
“That is—Elias, are you aware of what you’re saying? You know I respect you a great deal, but that is beyond ...I mean, you don’t really—?”
“It’s quite simple, Jon,” Elias interrupts, cutting him off. “Right now you are very open to suggestion, so you’re not sure I’m not correct about your hysteria. It all makes quite a lot of sense, doesn’t it? And I’m a trusted mentor, why would I lie to you? In which case, can you trust yourself to know what’s right at all, or should you trust me to tell you what the correct thing is? That is: to take off your clothes, sit in that chair, and let me help you.”
Revulsion churns in Jon’s gut at the thought. “I don’t want to,” he manages to say, his voice coming out thin and whiny. Elias smiles, understanding.
“Of course you don’t,” he says. “The particular state you’re in doesn’t make you want to do things, it simply makes it rather difficult to resist the suggestion. Particularly when the job you hang so much of your self-esteem upon might be at risk because you’re behaving erratically, hmm? So you really should stop being difficult and take your clothes off, that’s best for everyone.”
There’s something wrong here, Jon knows, but his head is swimming and he can’t quite grasp it, can’t quite figure out an argument against Elias’ words. It’s all just so sensible, and he feels entirely unsensible for resisting it. As if he’s causing a fuss for no real reason.
“I, ah...I suppose…” he mumbles, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers are clumsy, and his attention keeps wandering back to that chair, its organic, pulsing curves. Elias takes a couple of steps back and watches, nodding in approval as Jon’s shirt and trousers drop to the floor, shoes kicked off until he’s standing there in underwear and socks. He pauses, looking at Elias expectantly.
“All the way, please.” Elias’ tone is gentle but firm, and Jon nods helplessly. Of course, all the way, it has to be. His stomach churns as he tugs his binder gracelessly over his head and pushes his boxers down around his ankles. He starts to bend down for his socks, noting absently that there’s a hole beginning to form in one of the toes.
“You can leave those on,” Elias says kindly. “We don’t want your feet getting cold.”
No, of course, they don’t want his feet to get cold. Jon doesn’t want any of this: doesn’t want to be naked in front of his boss, doesn’t want the way Elias’ gaze wanders casually over his body, lingering on his chest and his groin. He lifts his arms to cover himself, and Elias smiles again, amused. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever seen Elias smile so much.
“There’s no need for modesty, Jon. If I’m to help you, you must let yourself be entirely vulnerable to me. And there’s nothing for you to be shy about, you’re not unpleasant to look at.”
Those words send another wave of revulsion washing over him. “Please Elias,” Jon stammers, frantic. “This isn’t—there must be another way. Please don’t make me—”
“I’m afraid this is the only way. You know that, don’t you? It feels true.” It does. It does. “Now, go ahead and take a seat.”
Jon can feel himself shaking as he shuffles across the floor. His heart is racing, but his limbs feel leaden, numb. The chair gives a soft, pleased sigh as he approaches, its bulk deflating gently like a rib cage on the exhale. Or is he seeing things? Is this the mania Elias was talking about? Is he losing his mind? Jon hopes he’s imagining the way the armrest shifts when he lays a trembling hand on it.
“Good, go ahead,” Elias encourages from behind him. Jon sits. The leather is warm against his bare skin, soft and yielding. There is something soothing about it, like being immersed in body temperature water. Jon feels himself sink into its soft bulk. The leather is too warm, fever warm, and he keeps on sinking deeper, deeper, far too deep; panic washes over him as he realizes that the chair is not a chair but a hot, fleshy mass that is going to swallow him, engulfing his limbs and his torso, closing around his skull. He cries out, a frightened animal sound, and throws himself forward, almost falling out of the chair that...isn’t swallowing him. That isn’t doing anything at all.
“Is everything all right, Jon?” Elias asks with a sympathetic look. “Are you imagining things again?”
“I—No, I just thought…that is…” Jon’s heart is hammering, his head spinning. This isn’t right. What’s happening to him?
“Feet up, if you would,” Elias encourages, and by now Jon can’t think of any logical reason to deny him. Reluctantly, he lifts his socked feet and slips them into the padded stirrups. The steel arms swing up and out, dragging his legs so wide apart he can feel his tendons strain. He tries to push them back together, but they are locked in place, his body laid bare like a specimen on a dissection table. He can feel the cold air on his exposed genitals; Elias leans in to take a closer look, nodding thoughtfully.
“Very good,” Elias says, and steps away, doing something over at the desk. “You remember, Jon, all of this is for your own good. You’re not well, and I’m the one who can help you.” Jon nods, his throat too tight to speak; Elias must be right, he hasn’t been well, he’s been so afraid for what feels like so long. But he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong, a crawling unpleasant sense that says he shouldn’t be letting Elias do this, Elias doesn’t want to help him, Elias is the one making him confused and afraid and—
“Here we are.” Elias is standing over him, between his splayed legs. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and he’s wearing blue nitrile gloves. In one hand he’s holding an egg-shaped object, white and clinical looking.
“What are you going to do?” Jon manages to whisper past the fear constricting his throat and sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
“I’m going to help you,” Elias tells him. “This may be uncomfortable, but it’s all for your own good. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.” Jon understands, of course he does.
“Good,” says Elias, and the object buzzes to life in his hand.
Jon swallows, sick and shaking at being on display like this, at Elias’ cool gaze on his body. He flinches when Elias presses the buzzing, egg-shaped thing against his abdomen, a whimper escaping him. Vibrations shiver from his belly down to his groin and to his dismay he can feel himself starting to get wet, his cock swelling. No, he begs silently, please no. Elias slides the object down until it’s resting on his mound, inches from his cock. He moves his thumb and the buzzing increases in intensity, making Jon gasp. He grits his teeth and grips the armrests, desperately trying to keep his composure through the mounting waves of arousal. He can’t humiliate himself in front of Elias like this. His face is hot with mortification, his legs trembling with the effort of holding still, and then Elias shifts his hand so the vibrations are directly against his cock, and Jon comes with a helpless moan, eyes squeezed shut. Elias holds the buzzing device against his cock until it starts to become painful, then switches it off. Jon’s breath is coming harsh and fast, on the verge of panic. When he opens his eyes Elias is checking his watch; he gives a concerned tut.
“Extremely responsive to sexual stimuli,” he notes. “Hypersexuality is a common symptom of hysteria, of course, so I’m not surprised. How do you feel, Jon?”
“I—I don’t want to do this,” Jon begs. “Please Elias. Please, I’ll do anything else, I—I’ll see a therapist, anything—”
“I’m afraid we’re well past that point,” Elias tells him solemnly. “Your body and mind are dangerously stressed and out of sync. You say you don’t want this, yet look at how your body reacts, so on edge that the slightest stimulus drives you to climax. You need help, Jon. I’m here to help you.”
“Please…” Jon whispers, but he knows it’s futile. He needs Elias’ help.
“Shh,” says Elias, and the thing in his hand comes alive again. He presses it to the juncture of Jon’s thigh and groin, low vibrations buzzing through him. It’s far too soon, but Jon feels his body start to respond, despite his silent desperation for it not to; he bites his lip against the rising ache of arousal.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, Jon, and I need you to answer them honestly. We need to understand the root of this hysteria so we can get you well again. Now: when Gertrude’s body was discovered, did you believe that one of your coworkers had murdered her?”
“I s-suspected,” Jon gasps, desperately trying to concentrate on the words. “It—ah—it seemed likely that someone from the Archives was involved.”
“But none of your colleagues worked in the Archives at the time of Gertrude’s death,” Elias points out. “Did you have any actual reason to suspect them—any evidence? Or just paranoia?”
“I—I had reasons. They were...there were some u-unusual behaviors, and I found a letter talking about a lie, and—and I just couldn’t be sure about any of them.” It sounds weak even to Jon; there must have been more, mustn’t there? He was so certain.
“I see,” Elias says, and turns up the vibration. Jon’s breath catches in his throat as the buzzing egg rubs over the lips of his cunt, sickening arousal throbbing through him. His hands clench hard on the armrests of the chair and he feels the leather yield, his fingertips sinking deep, deep into the soft, warm mass.
“Tell me, do you still suspect your coworkers of Gertrude’s murder?”
“N-no, not after seeing the CCTV foot— ahhh!” The buzzing thing slides up against his overstimulated cock and Jon cries out with something between arousal and pain. Elias tuts again.
“Now, now, don’t lose your train of thought. What about me? Was I one of your suspects?”
“Y-yes,” Jon groans from between clenched teeth. “But the...ahh, the footage shows your movements all week, so you couldn’t have…”
“I see. And what motive did you think I might have for killing Gertrude?”
“I don’t—I don’t know…” Jon pants. “Please, Elias—”
“So simply paranoia then?” Elias insists. “Imagined dangers all around you, everyone a threat?”
“No, it’s not—it wasn’t like th- haaaaah! ” Orgasm wrenches through Jon again, his whole body tensed and trembling, words lost in a desperate, high-pitched whine that he’s ashamed to hear himself make. His chest is heaving, and he can feel the slick mess between his thighs, pooling on the warm leather of the chair. Elias is watching him with an expression of mild satisfaction.
“You’re doing very well, Jon,” he says. “I know this is uncomfortable, but it’s for your own good. You believe that, because it sounds like the truth and because you want to believe you can trust me. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, that—that’s right…” It sounds right. It is right, despite the creeping doubt in the back of his skull that says it isn’t. That’s just the paranoia again, the fear that everyone is against him; of course Elias is trying to help him. What reason would he have to lie? Jon can’t quite—things aren’t quite clear right now, but he knows the truth. He knows who he can trust.
“Early physicians believed that hysteria was a woman’s ailment,” Elias is saying from across the room, doing something at his desk again. “Hence all of the ‘wandering womb’ nonsense. Later on, of course, more scientific minds recognized that hysteria could affect anyone. That it was simply a response born of trauma, and that to cure it, one must draw out the root of that trauma. Expose it to the light, in order to rob it of its power over the body and soul.”
He crosses the room again, his shoes tapping neatly on the floor, and comes to stand between Jon’s splayed legs once more. This time the device he’s holding is long, thick and phallic, though the same sterile white color. Jon’s throat tightens at the sight and he frantically tries to clamp his legs together again, tries to pull his feet out of the stirrups but he can’t, the padded leather somehow holding him vise-like, trapped.
“No, please,” he babbles, panic rising up in his throat and almost choking him. “Please, please, not that, you can’t—I can’t, I can’t…”
“It’s all right,” Elias soothes. Jon shakes his head desperately, it’s not all right, it’s not.
“Please, Elias, you can’t do this to me—”
“I’m afraid you’ve done this to yourself, Jon, by neglecting your mental and physical health for so long. Now we find ourselves in a position where drastic measures are necessary to help you.”
Elias holds vibrator in his left hand while his right drops between Jon’s thighs, gloved fingers sliding up between the lips of his cunt, gathering the slick there. Jon shouts and thrashes, tries to raise his arms and shove Elias away but they won’t move. He looks down in horror to see his hands sunk into the bloody red leather of the chair, his fingers submerged to the last knuckle. It’s not possible, it’s not possible, but he can’t pull his hands free, helpless and bound as Elias pushes two fingers into his—into him. His fingers are firm and blunt and Jon moans a feeble protest as they breach him, sliding easily inside with the slick of his earlier arousal.
“Does this upset you, Jon?” Elias asks, curling fingers deep inside him. Jon can’t answer. Elias’ thumb strokes over his cock, and a ragged, shuddering sob wrenches through his chest; around him, the chair shifts and sighs contentedly.
“Your trauma seems to stem from the fear of those around you turning against you,” says Elias conversationally, thrusting his fingers in and out, thumb rubbing mercilessly over Jon’s tender cock, making him whimper as horrible, hot sensations pulse through him. “Is this what you’re truly afraid of? Of being overpowered by people you thought you could trust? Of being defenseless? Violated?”
“Elias, please…” Jon doesn’t even know what he’s begging for anymore, he can scarcely think through the veil of nausea and terror and unwanted arousal, he only knows Elias can make this stop. Elias doesn’t make it stop, he stuffs another finger into Jon’s cunt, fucks him deep and strokes his cock until Jon is shuddering through another orgasm, biting off a weak cry as tears run down his cheeks. His body goes limp and trembling, his skin clammy with cold sweat. Elias pulls his fingers out and wipes the slick off against Jon’s thigh. In his other hand, the vibrator buzzes to life.
“Are you afraid of being raped, Jon?” he asks. “Of being held down and used as if you weren’t even a person at all?”
“Please, please…” Jon moans. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want this.
“You know, our deepest traumas are often fundamentally linked to our deepest desires. Do you have rape fantasies, Jon? Do you ever think about some stranger—or perhaps a group of them—cornering you alone? Holding you down and fucking you until you scream?”
Elias’ fingers spread the lips of his cunt and Jon moans in despair as the vibrator pushes slowly inside him, thick and alien and buzzing; his thighs shake with the effort of trying to clamp them together, weak and useless. Sick horror washes over him at the violation, the slow agonizing stretch as it forces him open. It feels like it’s ripping him half and he wants to scream but all that comes out is an animal whine of pain and fear.
“Do you wonder how their hands would feel on you?” Elias murmurs, and Jon can feel the rough, callused palms on his skin, pawing at him, ragged fingernails catching in his hair; the sound of coarse breaths and laughter, hot, sour breath against his cheek—
“No!”
“No?” says Elias, sounding amused. He switches the vibrator up to the next setting and Jon sobs as it shivers and pulses inside him, his cunt throbbing with it. “Someone you know then? Perhaps the team you so fear to trust?”
—and suddenly the stranger pushing into him is Tim, his laugh in Jon’s ear a mocking facsimile of the warm sound Jon always found so cheering. This what you expected when you followed me home, boss? he hisses, and Jon is sobbing, tears and snot streaming down his face and no, no, no this is wrong, this can’t be happening it can’t be—
“This is what you want, isn’t it Jon?” Elias continues relentlessly. “To be used? To be useful for once? Even if it’s just as a filthy little slut who’ll spread his legs for anyone? Do you wish this thing inside you was a real cock? Whose do you wish it was?” He turns the setting up again and twists the vibrator viciously, his other hand roughly fondling Jon’s abused cock, pinching the tender flesh.
Jon screams hoarsely, his whole body bucking and twisting, desperately trying to escape the fleshy morass of the chair, but there’s nowhere to go, nothing to do as Elias forces another orgasm from his body, shuddering with painful slowness through his raw nerves. Sobs rack his body, loud and hopeless and aching, and he realizes with dawning horror and disgust that Elias must be right: this is what he wanted. This is all that he is, behind all his arrogance and academia, just a sick little—
“Jon?” Elias’ voice comes from near his shoulder. “Are you all right? Can you look at me?” Jon doesn’t want to, but he forces his eyes to focus through the tears, until he can see Elias standing there. He’s holding a water glass in one hand, and his brow is furrowed with concern. “Can you understand me?” he asks. Jon nods with drunken slowness.
“Good. Don’t try to talk just yet. Here, have some water.” Elias raises the glass to his lips and lets him sip slowly, soothing his sore and parched throat taking the glass away once he’s done. “Now, how do you feel?”
“T-tired…” Jon manages to whisper. Exhausted, in fact, both physically and mentally, his whole being battered and bruised and violated.
“That’s to be expected, after such an intense session. I know it must have been difficult on you, especially towards the end. You understand that I had to use such harsh words; it was the only way to draw out a reaction—I had to induce your hysteria in order to begin purging those traumatic feelings.”
Jon understands. Of course he does, because Elias has explained it all and it all makes sense. It’s all perfectly reasonable. He lifts both hands to scrub at his tear-streaked face, realizing as he does that of course they’re not sunk into the flesh of the chair. The chair doesn’t even have moving, yielding flesh, only soft red leather padding. He was imagining things. Just the stress and paranoia getting to him, of course . He pulls his feet out of the stirrups and sets them on the floor, his legs aching from being stretched apart for an extended period.
“C-can I have my clothes?” he asks hoarsely, his throat still dry and burning. He aches all over.
“Of course,” says Elias, and a moment later offers them to him in a neat bundle. Jon dresses slowly. He knows Elias is watching him, but he can’t bring himself to care. He bends to put his shoes on, noting absently that the hole in the toe of his sock looks bigger now. He must have stretched it out during—
“Are you all right, Jon?”
Jon becomes aware that he’s crying again, silently this time. He’s surprised by it; he feels too numb for tears.
“I…” he says, and then stops as sobs threaten to overwhelm him. As if all the rest of it wasn’t bad enough, now he’s crying like a baby in front of his boss.
“This is good,” Elias tells him. “A healthy purging of the emotions that you’ve been bottling up—all the things that have been distressing you, even when you didn’t realize it. You’ve done very good work today, Jon.”
And god, despite himself Jon still feels a warm rush of pride at the note of approval in Elias’ voice. He nods, as if he follows all of this perfectly. As if what just happened didn’t—wasn’t—
Everything between his legs hurts, and thinking about it hurts even more.
“Of course we can’t resolve these issues in a single day,” Elias is saying. “This is a process. The traumas at the root of your condition are deep-seated, we’ll need to work them out over time. So you’ll return next Tuesday at the same time for another session.”
“I—” Jon wants to protest, to scream, to tell Elias to go fuck his job and his Institute, to curl up in a ball and sob. In the corner of his eye, the dark red mass of the chair pulses obscenely, contentedly, and he finds himself nodding. Of course, it’s a process. Of course, he’ll need to come back at the same time next week.
“Good,” says Elias. “You may find yourself experiencing some intrusive fantasies about the scenarios we discussed today. Dreams, perhaps. They may be upsetting, but they are perfectly normal and healthy.” He smiles faintly. “I recommend you try to enjoy them. We can explore them in detail at our next session. In the meantime, you won’t think about our work here today. I know you’re very busy, Jon, and you don’t need to be distracted with worrying about these things in between our sessions. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.” That makes sense, of course. Best not to think about it too much. The details of the session are already starting to retreat in his memory—not gone, just...not something for him to worry about. Sliding gently out of focus and into obscurity.
“Excellent. In that case, I’ll let you get back to work—you do still have an archive to run, as you so succinctly put it.”
Elias gently guides Jon back out into the main office and shuts the door behind them; the latch clicks into place and the door lays flush against the wall once again, unobtrusive and scarcely noticeable. Elias walks around behind his desk and sits down, picking up a pen and turning his attention to an open file folder. After a moment, he looks up at Jon, standing there uncertainly.
“If that’s all, Jon, I won’t keep you.” And yes, that’s all, isn’t it? There isn’t any reason Jon still needs to be here.
“R-right,” he says. “Uhh...thank you, Elias. I’ll—I’ll see you later.”
“Yes indeed,” says Elias with a brief smile, and then goes back to his paperwork. Jon turns and shuffles out of the office, giving Rosie a vague nod as he does. She doesn’t seem to notice. He has the strangest feeling he’s forgetting something, as if he’s left something behind in Elias’ office, something he—he—
Oddly, he can feel tears welling up in his eyes, a feeling in the pit of his stomach like someone’s dropped a stone into it. Jon has no idea why, though. He blinks the tears away and heads off downstairs towards the Archives.
No time to worry about that sort of nonsense. He has a lot of work to do.