Chapter Text
Peter Lukas is never not amused by Elias Bouchard’s office.
Neat as a pin, with pale sandstone flooring to make it appear more spacious than it actually is, it is full of precise decorative touches obviously copied from some magazine for senior executives: the solitary, requisite ficus tree in one corner, the bookshelves with shiny red leather volumes and a state-of-the-art digital safe, and to top everything off, a framed painting on the wall of the Magnus Institute's crest and motto: Audio. Opperior. Vigilo.
I listen. I wait. I watch. Peter has to fight the urge to sigh in disgust every time.
The enormous cherry desk that dominates the room is Elias’s one real indulgence, an impressive thing he can sit behind while the sun shines through the spotless floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. Full of drawers and compartments containing all sorts of surprises, there is one that Peter knows is solely for storing high-end wood polish and linen cloths.
On the desk sits a thirteen inch MacBook Pro, a miniature zen garden, a novelty squeezy stress ball patterned to look like a globe, a trendy single-serve Keurig coffee maker guaranteed to piss out burnt-tasting crap from a pod in twelve seconds or less, and an almost empty box of honey-glazed pumpkin spice crullers.
It is an office that screams at the top of its voice: LOOK HOW NORMAL AND QUALIFIED I AM. OBSERVE MY CAREFUL CHOICE OF PROFESSIONAL DECOR AND QUIRKY OFFICE TOYS AND BE AT EASE. I AM NOT A MONSTER.
Then there is Elias himself sitting at his desk: a slight, conventionally handsome man in brown slacks, starched shirt, and understated gray tie, not a blonde hair out of place. He has a wonderful magnanimous smile for when others enter his abode, but there’s no trace of it on his face for Peter.
Not that he expects one. It has been two months since their last “meeting”. Peter knows this because he timed his next visit to fall exactly a week before Hallowe’en. It’s one of his favorite times of the year, when everyone in the Magnus Institute–-Elias included–-is all but killing themselves trying to deal with the seasonal flood of reports: hauntings, monster attacks, cryptid sightings. Everyone sequestered in their offices, frantic to meet deadlines, skipping lunches, staying late-–the special miasma of withdrawn misery perks Peter up better than a cup of coffee.
To celebrate the occasion, Peter arrived an hour ago in his work clothes, smelling of brine and algae and rotten wood, his salt-and-pepper beard untrimmed. He did not wash, nor did he scrub out the minute traces of blood (not his own) from underneath his fingernails. It was a treat, as they caught up on business, to watch Elias’s peevish face grow even more exasperated as he visibly clamped down on the urge to explode at him for his hygiene.
Now, their business concluded, Peter is an unnecessary blight on this office, sprawled comfortably in one of Elias’s plush designer guest chairs, and he knows it.
Just to annoy him further, Peter picks at a hangnail, a grin tugging at his lips. It’s a special smile he holds in reserve only for him, one that implies he is having a riot of a time all by himself in his own head, where he knows his colleague can’t see.
“What are you smirking about?” Elias finally snaps.
“Nothing!” Peter chuckles. “It’s just, every time I come in here I think you should have a little white cat to stroke.”
“Charming,” he says, making a show of typing while peering at length at something on his screen. “And now, unless you have anything else relevant to add, I believe our meeting is finished.”
“You’re only this keen to be rid of me when Sims is on his way. What will the two of you be up to?”
“Just some run-of-the-mill exercises.”
Peter’s brows rise. “More of them? And what did you put in his tea this time?”
The tapping grows faster, graceful fingers all but stabbing each key. “There’s nothing in his tea . I just want to see how his abilities are developing.”
“You just want to get him loopy.”
“And you’re hoping that he stays in his office until he mummifies.”
“Tell me truly, what is it?” Peter asks. “THC donut? Ketamine in his coffee? I don’t know why you’re so bent on messing with him-–”
“I can’t be sure he’s strong enough if I don’t test him properly.”
Tugging at his lower lip-–a habit he knows Elias to hate-–Peter looks at the ceiling thoughtfully, then goes still as something occurs to him, a delighted grin spreading across his face. “... Unless.”
Elias looks up from his screen and pins him with a glare. “Don’t say it.”
Peter, triumphant, grins broader. “Are you in looove?”
Amazingly, the frost in Elias’s voice drops a few degrees:
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lust, then? He is, admittedly, very pretty,” Peter fights the urge to wiggle gleefully. “And you can’t get him away from Martin for five minutes, can you? Are you hoping I’ll help?”
“I’m hoping you’ll leave.”
“What are they doing right now?”
Sighing, Elias props his chin in his hand and tilts his head, as if listening to distant music. “Hm. Having lunch on the roof.”
“Cute,” Peter says, in spite of the disappointed pang at the idea that the two of them are enjoying themselves in spite of the grueling Hallowe’en schedule. Oh well, he can’t win them all.
… Or maybe he can.
“Tell you what, let’s try something.”
Elias grimaces. “Oh, god. I know that look. Another bloody wager.”
“If you can seduce your little protege away from my little protege in a week’s time, in spite of all you’ve done, I’ll owe you a favor.”
If Elias wins, then dear Martin will feel the lack when Jon begins ignoring him.
If Elias loses, Elias loses.
And right now he looks reluctantly intrigued. “...What kind of favor?”
“Anything your petty little heart desires,” says Peter. “Just as long as you use nothing but your natural charm. That means no drugs.”
“Deal. Now get out of my office.”
Peter tips an imaginary cap as he rises from his chair. “A pleasure, as always.”
Though he steps into the Lonely as easy as thought, he doesn’t leave right away. Instead, he watches Elias smooth his hair, adjust his tie, and put on his mentorly face. Soon the door squeaks open and in rushes Jonathan Sims, looking harried and out of breath.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Oh, don’t worry, my meeting ran a bit long. Have a seat.” Elias smiles and gestures at the cardboard box to his right. “Saved you a donut.”