Work Text:
James' hand is not withered and aged. Indeed, he could probably pass for half his age, for all that whenever he opens his mouth he’s worse than Peter’s grandfather. When he grasps Peter by the hand to lead him deeper into the institute, Peter's aware of being young but hardly a child. James could live another decade like this in perfect ease and comfort; two at least with the money and influence that sticks to him. The Lukases don't bother with birthdays but Peter's idly aware that some of those higher up the family tree should probably be dead by now. Not that he cares, obviously. He just finds the funerals too crowded for his taste.
Despite his relative lower status - at this point the Lukas name still has a few branches to percolate through before granting him significance, although in most circles of society nobody cares - Peter isn't a stranger to the Institute. There's no reason for him to be led through its corridors like this, much less by its master of ceremonies. Still, James has a penchant for inane indulgences, small performances and larger stages. It's rather endearing, really. Watching him entrap his way through a party, Peter forgets to make himself unseen. Of course, it's debatable how far one can be unseen where James is concerned. One of these days, Peter really must take him up on that challenge. For the good of Lonely, and nothing to do with the way the mere thought of testing himself like that in the face of James' smile sets the fog in his head alight.
The corridors are sleek oak walls and shining floorboards on the solidity of marble and brick, built to last in an impressively Victorian way despite the founding date. (Peter does not care about the history of buildings or England in the slightest, yet James takes nineteenth century generalisations so very personally that it’s hard not to learn a thing or two to know how to get it wrong.) Moorland House is older, in a way James seems to appreciate greatly - much the same way he appreciates the portrait of Mordechai Lukas in the library. Younger than today, Peter used to find himself jealous of simple oils and brushstrokes. He'd stand there for hours and feel insignificant, lesser - unseen but not by his own choice. It's taken time but he's learning how to make James see him precisely when he wants him to. No more finding him out in the shadows.
James' office is an anachronism, or would be if the elite of this country hadn't gone out of their way to make sure the opposite is the case. Panelling and a fireplace, bookcases and artifacts. Peter wonders whether the Tundra will feel like this one day, something leftover and out of time. He hopes so. He wouldn't want it to feel welcoming, after all.
The door clicks closed behind the two of them, sounding out as James drops Peter’s hand like an afterthought. "Just a few minutes," James tells him with teeth that catch the light of his cigarette. James misses gaslights and tapered candles. Peter thinks he's an antique. "I wouldn't want the guest of honour to feel we’d started without him."
He does that on purpose. Peter knows he's being provoked, chivvied into position, and he wishes James didn't make his every tone sound like a challenge. It's painfully simple: if Peter wants to be the 'honoured' one, he plays James' game. Peter doesn't care about the title, obviously. He just wants to play the game.
"I do have other places to be."
"One day. Not today."
Peter resists the urge to ask and feels the walls around him shiver, the ceiling's displeasure at the denied meal. The Lonely is reluctant to enter here, but Peter is learning how to call it anywhere he doesn't want to be, and something cold coils around his wrist. "This is dull."
"Don't lie to me, Peter," James says sharply. He draws back to slide his hands into his pockets, fine tailoring smothering the glint of the ring on his finger. "It's beneath both of us, such simplicity."
Indulgently, Peter lets himself roll his eyes. James does so hate to be dismissed. "You're the one asking me to hide in the dark and spook someone."
"I am hardly asking you to - " James' mouth presses into a lemon-soured line " - 'spook' him. Your presence is necessary as simply that: a presence. Nothing more and nothing less."
"I'd prefer less." Short of 'witness', it's hard to choose a label the Eye values more. Always watching, always feeding, relentless and unsatisfied with itself. Without the other powers, whatever would the Eye do with itself?
James waves a hand towards a chair in the far corner, ring flashing once again. He always moves as if he has longer fingers than he does, in much the same way he draws himself up as if making up for height he does not lack. It gives him a faint air of the ridiculous in Peter's eyes, like a child dressed up in their parents' clothes, save for when James catches his eye and it all falls into place. James hates that Peter can see the wrongness of him. He hates that Peter buys him sleek tiepins which don't suit his build in the slightest and golden cufflinks that he stares at in frustration because they look terrible with his skintone. Peter's own ring is elegant and filigreed in a way that a ship's captain's should never be, and Peter delights in how much James wishes he could wear it instead.
The chair wasn't there the last time Peter was in this office. Wingbacked and imposing, there's no way James would allow it when the focus should be on him at his desk. "Been looking in the attic, have we?"
"Better than your basement," James says.
"That hardly seems fair," Peter says lightly. "I'm sure there are things down there you'd just die to see."
James' lips draw back in a snarl that is all the acknowledgement Peter is going to get, which is precisely why Peter finds himself smiling. No doubt his mother would be appalled by such displays of emotion. She detests his relationship with James, but has to reserve herself to cold distaste and constant disapproval. Sometimes it's even enough to make Peter care. It improves the funerals immensely.
"Just sit," James tells him, "and don't say a word."
"Can't you get one of your minions to do it? Surely some of them must look suitably impressive as stage-dressing for you."
James' mouth opens, his tongue touching his lips before he can say anything to give himself away. The soft click of the contact, the denial of speech, is almost enough to make Peter give way. Almost.
Finally, James says, "I am doing this as a favour to you."
Peter raises his eyebrows. "Really? And what precisely does the Eye want in return?"
"Your own eyes."
The smile takes a moment to come to Peter's face, treacherously slow. No, James is too subtle for this, surely? Except there's always the 'what if'. The tug around your ankle from the riptide. "And here I thought we were expecting company."
"We are." Dismissively James turns away towards his desk. The absence of his regard borders on the spiritual. "You're far too valuable to waste right now, Peter. Surely that must be obvious even to you."
"Well, now your vows seem quite disappointing." Peter does not move from the doorway. "And if I prefer to stand behind you? Surely that would suit the theatrics just as well?"
"Yours, perhaps." James points towards the chair again. "I have my own vision. If I wanted your critique, I would ask for it."
"Then you admit that none of this is necessary?"
James clicks his fingers, as if Peter is a simple mutt to be brought to heel. Peter waits until James forces his hand to relax, slackening back to rest at his side. The ring leaves a line of light in the air. No wonder James didn't object to the sheer size of that aspect. "I said this is as much for your benefit. The effect will be far more potent for your patron if you sit there. Or lurk in the shadows, or whatever suits you, but this must begin as if I am alone."
"You are," Peter says with delighted relish, just to see the withering glare James gives him. "Not like you to favour the Lonely, James."
"It is possible for us both to benefit once in a while, Peter."
"How very sentimental of you."
The knock at the door really is the perfect opportunity. However much Peter loves their back and forth, that's nothing compared with the pleasure of slipping sideways into the Lonely, halfway between here and there, knowing just how much James loathes it. It's tempting to reach out, to blow a taunt across his cheek just to see him shiver with rage. The scowl James levels at the gap Peter leaves in the world is as good as a caress.
James' eyes squeeze shut as he adjusts the knot of his tie, teeth gritted in ungentlemanly frustration. Peter steps to the side as he rounds the desk, avoiding the cold wash of a lack of a connection. James dodges as well, cursing when he realises the lack of necessity. Feeling merciful, Peter sidles backwards, standing not at James' shoulder but tucked away in a corner. It is a more natural placement for him, after all.
The knock sounds again, inevitably. James was never going to give the impression of surprise. Instead it's only then, seated perfectly behind his ridiculous desk with his fingers in a ridiculous steeple, that James announces, "Enter."
It's a good voice, James' voice. The sort of voice that moves poets to use words like 'sonorous'. Peter should know, he's met enough poets already and he already knows he'll meet plenty more in the future. Either they won't leave him be or they're so bound up in their own heads that they might as well offer themselves up gift-wrapped. Nothing like a poet when you need something fast and sure for the Lonely. Once, James either indulged him or taunted him by flirting shamelessly with one at some sort of high-class gathering, and the words that man came out with to describe James' voice would move the hardiest sailor to sickness. Quite enchanted, that poet was. Really, Peter was doing him a favour. Nobody that susceptible to flattery should be left to their own devices - not out here, at any rate.
"You asked to see me, Mr Wright?"
It's not the most promising figure that slinks through the gap in the doorway. He's dressed well, in an over-expensive faux-casual way that Peter instantly recognises. The slouch to the spine is pitched a little too rebelliously, accompanied by the air of a schoolboy proud not to care that his shirt is untucked. Dark hair flops into his dull grey eyes in a manner that's presumably supposed to be artistic; well-shoed feet move in a strict rhythm that speaks of boarding school habits reawakened by context. Even partway into the Lonely, Peter's nose wrinkles at the stench of drugs in the air. Only cannabis, but it’s not the legality of the stuff that bothers him, it's the smell. It reminds him of the overly intimate press of smoke in bars and pubs, the kind so many insist isn't aimed at him. The constant reminder of other people's presence. The imposition of themselves on the senses.
James indicates the chair opposite, an inch or two lower than his own and designed to discourage lingering. It was a wedding present from Peter. "Yes, Mr Bouchard. Please, have a seat."
This Bouchard would clearly dearly love to slouch. It's his upbringing that's stopping him, and he fidgets even as he smiles with bland confidence. "Haven't been here since my interview. Sir," he adds, with the standard reminder for someone who still can't handle having a boss other than a father or a teacher.
Glancing sideways at James, Peter sees him smiling in that precise way of his, calculated to seem friendly and yet wholly like a shark scenting blood. That's fanciful, obviously. With the way his eyes sit in his face, slightly off, James is far more like something that lies much deeper in the ocean. Whenever Peter's tried to delve deeper, James has promptly begun to laugh at him. It's tiresome sometimes, someone without the decency to pretend they can't read your mind.
"Yes, I recall," James says. "You certainly impressed me then."
Bouchard's face flickers. Truly incompetent, then, if even an upper-class ego couldn't believe that. "Thank you, sir."
"And how have you found working at our Institute?" James asks, sitting back in his chair. Bouchard tries to copy him, only of course the chair won't allow for that. He crosses his arms and pretends that was all he meant to do.
"It's been...good," Bouchard says. Inevitably, he leans forward. "I wouldn't mind getting stretched a bit more, though."
James' face does not alter. "What did you have in mind?"
"Just, filing doesn't exactly suit my personal talents. Obviously I respect my head of department, she’s a very motivated woman, but I'm not sure she's using me to my full potential." Other blatherings fall out of his mouth, one after the other, squirming. Peter offers them the same amount of attention he gives plankton.
"Indeed," James says, and Peter doesn't have to see his face to know the precise curve of that self-satisfied smile of dramatic irony. "Well then, that's fortunate, because that is precisely what I asked you here to discuss."
Bouchard swallows, although Peter doubts he knows to be afraid yet. "That's really good to hear," he says. "I thought somewhere higher up. More of a supervisory role."
"Quite." Calling it a shark sensing blood is far too trite, even for Peter. It also suggests this is only just happening. Peter has lost count of how many times he's found himself already up to the waist in one of James' schemes, of the sort started years ago. Sometimes he thinks James engineered the two of them as well, long before they met. It would make sense, in a very James sort of way, given how integral the Lukases are to the Institute's funding. Imagine if one of his siblings had shown anything like his affinity for the Lonely; imagine if James had decided to go after his mother instead. (Peter has no evidence that this didn't happen.)
James doesn't belong to the Web, rather despises it in fact, which is ironic when he follows its habits so closely. Unless that's the problem and he simply despises the competition. He certainly detests losing to Peter, narrowing his eyes in cold fury as Peter collects his winnings, unyielding unless Peter wins again and again.
"You might say that what's up for discussion here is the highest form of supervisory role." James raises his steepled fingers to his lips. That's never stopped looking at odds with the wider bulk of his shoulders, and Peter has no idea how it somehow fails to highlight the mismatched ring on his finger. "Are you interested?"
"Of course!" Bouchard moves to the edge of his seat, endeavouring to straighten his back into a picture of respectability. It's like watching a puppy sit up and beg for the first time. Next James should ask him to roll over and play dead. "You can rely on me, Mr Wright."
"I'm already certain that I can." James taps the desk lightly. "Tell me, are you aware of how my predecessor stepped down?" Bouchard's face is utterly blank. "No matter, it is something of an obscurity, and I endeavoured to keep it that way. Suffice to say that he was in search of a replacement, and James Wright was the best fit, so an exchange was made."
"That was very lucky for you," Bouchard says inanely. His eyes are widening and Peter wonders whether he's even aware of it. From the glint of green reflected in them, James rather has him caught in his headlights.
"Yes, it rather was." James traces a pattern in the desk, for all the world as if he doesn't have Bouchard pinned under his gaze. "This time, however, I must seize an opportunity when it presents itself."
He stops. Bouchard blinks once, very slowly. Maybe James is doing the same in the same moment. The silence settles down over their shoulders, suffocating. Eventually, Bouchard says with a faint breath, "What's the opportunity?"
"James Wright will no longer be the head of the Magnus Institute."
Part of the Lonely's usefulness lies in what it does to emotions - not just dulling them, but hiding away the evidence. All the same, Peter doubts James is oblivious to his gasp, from the way he tilts his head slightly in the direction of the corner where Peter still somewhat exists.
Bouchard blinks again, much faster this time. "I - What?" he asks, sounding for all the world as if he's only just woken up. "I'm not - Mr Wright, are you sure?"
He's startled, certainly. That said, he isn't refusing either. What is James playing at this time? If he's committed enough to secure the Lukases' money the way he has, then surely he's committed enough not to hand the whole thing over to this idiot. Has the Institute caught the wrong kind of attention? No, Peter would have heard if one of the other powers was attempting a takeover - not to mention very few would be willing to risk an assault on such a place of power without securing their position first. Is this something to do with that Robinson woman down in the Archives? Her and James certainly don't see eye to eye, something that never fails to make Peter laugh. Or is this some whole new game starting, its payoff decades away?
James has leant further forwards over the desk. Bouchard mirrors him, although from the blank surprise on his face he hasn't entirely realised. Amidst his confusion, Peter's particularly perturbed to find himself just slightly jealous. When this is over, he'll have to take the Tundra out immediately, put some space between him and James.
"You're dissatisfied with your life," James is saying, low, steady. "You want more opportunities. Your money isn't enough. You're a disappointment," he goes on, his voice crackling with that particular static even when not pointed directly at Peter, "you have used up your chances. Your father has given up on you." Bouchard's mouth opens slightly, the muscles of his face tensing. "Your mother gave up on you years ago, but he couldn't believe that any son of his could be so very pathetic, such a squandering immaterial drifter. A junky, he calls you, and not even the proper kind. You can't even commit to that." His hands are less than an inch from Bouchard's. "You can feel his disgust with you. Disappointment would be kinder. You can feel your mother's disappointment and you can feel that your father is so much worse."
His hands grab hold of Bouchard's wrists. Bouchard tries to recoil but it is feeble, the result inevitable. He is scared and utterly, terribly, alone.
When Bouchard’s eyes move to look at Peter, it's as fine as sinking into the Lonely; as sipping a good whiskey; as winning against James. His breath rattles. "Help me?" He knows how much his father would loathe it.
Peter smiles at him and shakes his head.
"Mr Lukas isn't here to help you," James says, never letting go. His fingers and Bouchard's wrists are both pale. "Nor is he here to hurt you. He is here to watch what happens next."
Maybe it's James' words, or maybe Peter manages to hit a nerve with the way he takes a single step out of the shadows, the fog clinging to him. He watches because James has asked him to, a simple favour, yet he can't deny the way that voyeurism fills Bouchard with the most acute loneliness. It isn't enough that he is about to be devoured: he will disappear while utterly dismissed and abandoned.
Peter can't say what about Bouchard appeals to the Eye so much. The Lonely, however, would be happy to take him off its hands.
As if sensing his thoughts, James releases one of Bouchard's wrists, the better to seize his face and turn it back towards him. His thumbnail traces the edge of Bouchard's eye. "You wanted a promotion," he says. "You wanted to be in charge from the moment you entered this office. You wanted me to notice you and make you my successor. Everything that is happening, is happening because you wanted it."
Bouchard attempts to shake his head. James' hand stops him.
"Peter," James says, raising his voice into a summons that makes Peter want to leave right then and there, "hold him for me, will you?"
Of course he doesn't move right away. Of course he pauses, just long enough to see James' shoulders tense. It isn't the full force of the Eye's glare that makes Peter move; it's wanting to taste a little more of that loneliness before James consumes everything else. That's all. He's made his point.
As Peter's hands close around Bouchard's shoulders, James lets himself sit back with a hiss. Peter preens a little at the scowl, the distraction in the middle of feeding. It lasts throughout James reaching out to his side, to pull open a drawer in his desk and withdraw something long and sleek. It's Peter who breaks their shared gaze to look, to see the dark-stained ivory-handled silver-bladed letter opener. He frowns. That seems...unlikely. The Eye isn't known for blatant murder, and anything else would be a waste of a meal for James' patron.
"This was a present," James says softly, "from an old friend. Turn of the nineteenth century. I should use a scalpel really, but Jonathan..." He sighs, running a thumb along the edge of the blade. "It's sentimental, really. Precisely what he would love, and you would hate." He looks up at Peter, blade tilted to catch the light just so, enough to confuse the face reflected until there might be four of them in the room, the last man standing directly behind James. "You'd think his bones would be sufficient. But history has a way of repeating itself. Even without my intervention."
Peter wants to ask. Peter wants to know what he's talking about. That's precisely why he doesn't. There are meals a-plenty, and Peter intends to remain seated at the dinner table.
"Watch closely.” James rises from his seat and rounds the desk, so that he would be standing flush with Peter if not for Bouchard between them. He rests a knee on the chair, between Bouchard's legs. Bouchard follows him the whole while with his eyes, mesmerised with the fear of it. No matter that Peter is holding on, James is now Bouchard's whole world. The only thing he can see.
"Am I going to die?" Bouchard asks, hoarse and utterly idiotic. Peter rolls his eyes because really, what answer does he want to hear? James, on the other hand, pauses to tap the letter opener against his lips, the light flashing across Bouchard's face.
"That's really a matter for some philosophical debate. The sort we used to have time for of an evening, although I'm afraid most of it would be rather lost on you." James catches Bouchard by the chin, tilting his head just so and mirroring it himself. "So let's just say that your life is over, and leave the complications for later."
Bouchard gasps out a sob. Peter can't help the way he shivers at the sound of it. He might not fully understand what James is doing, but he can't deny the results. The fear is all around them.
At first, James doesn't bother with the letter opener for all his dramatics, adjusting it so that the blade sits between his fingers. He grasps Bouchard by both sides of his head and murmurs softly, "Know what it is I am about to do." Just as Bouchard starts to scream, he shifts his grip, and plunges his thumbs in.
That surprises Peter. The Eye isn't traditionally in the business of blinding people.
Bouchard carries on screaming, on and on and on. It's high and ragged and more than a little bit grating. If Peter weren’t still hanging on to him, he'd probably put his hands over his ears - that or, much better, vanishing away from it. It's distasteful and incredibly annoying. Instead, given that he does still want to see where this is going - and yes, he recognises the power that benefits from that - he focuses on James' face. On the green irises and white teeth, glinting with excitement and an ecstasy James only ever shows where his god is involved. It transforms him into something quite transcendent, Peter thinks, when his face carries the signs of what he is.
When James kisses him, Peter hopes he is too caught up in the moment to hear such mortifying thoughts. If he has, Peter will never hear the end of it.
He sees James raise the letter opener towards his own face, yet he still doesn't understand. He doesn't understand until the first incision, at the corner of James' eye, which makes James bleed where he's never cried.
Peter watches. That's what James brought him here for, after all. Peter holds on to Bouchard's shoulders without ever thinking of letting go, and watches the metal move in smooth movements, white handle spattered with red. Every time the blade flashes, the ring on James' finger does the same.
How James can still find Bouchard's face with such unerring accuracy is presumably the sort of parlour trick the Eye delights in. Sight without sight and all that. It'd be impressive if Rayner hadn't already run it into the ground, and instead Peter carries on watching, distant and without emotion. He watches one green orb and then another pressed deep into empty cavities, the glow spreading far beyond mere irises. At some point Bouchard stops screaming, so at least Peter will still have his hearing after this.
James' eyeless bleeding body stands stockstill for a moment, frozen as in a photograph. Peter doesn't have much time for the theatre but unfortunately he lacks any other analogies for this moment, the sense of a thousand eyes turned on one individual, silhouetted against their judgement. There's lightning at sea, of course, yet that serves to make you the only one in the world. This is the precise opposite, and the attention turns his stomach.
Then James' body collapses to the ground like a shed puppet; like the Stranger's castoffs. In death, it looks even more at odds with the man: stocky, the body of a particularly dull accountant or a sportsman spat out by the world. None of the grace with which he could move his arms; nothing in the face of that particularly irksome sardonic tilt to the eyebrows.
Under his hands, Bouchard moves.
"Peter," he says, "whenever you'd care to let go."
The funny thing, really, is how much of a surprise it isn't. Peter lets go - his hands fall away - and Bouchard rises to his feet in front of him. He adjusts his cuffs with a quiet tut, pulling the jacket into place as he mutters in disgust. He bends down to pluck James' pocket square free and runs it over his face, wiping the blood into more of a respectable arrangement, then catching the rest on the next pass. He tucks the cloth back into James' pocket, not bothering to fold it correctly. Reaching out, he takes up James' left hand and examines it. Whatever conclusion he reaches - whatever is going through his mind - he slides James' ring free.
When he straightens up, he reaches up and in a single motion pushes the hair back from his forehead, smoothing it along his skull. Vain thing that Bouchard was, he apparently used some sort of product to have his fringe drop just so. The same product forces every strand to lie exactly in place, a picture of old respectability.
Peter knows. He knows what is happening, what he has just witnessed - what he has just been forced to witness, plucked out from the Lonely as surely as that pocket square to do the Eye's service. He longs for mist and sea, to vanish away from the anger that bubbles and boils inside him. He wants to touch the blood that wasn't quite wiped away and smear it all over that smug smile. That smile was bad enough on James' face; on Bouchard's it is unbearable.
The fingers fit, this time. They're long, elegant, and turn beautifully as Bouchard examines the ring, turning it to the light, twirling it this way and that. The detailing is no longer ridiculous, no longer the point of the joke. The gold doesn't clash, rather compliments. As the ring slides home, it couldn't look better or more appropriate.
"You're jumping to conclusions, James," Peter tells him.
"As if you'd say no." The voice is rich and oiled, all the smoothness of James' speech dropped into something as silky as coffin lining. Peter itches to punch him. Maybe he will, tomorrow morning.
"Also, under the circumstances, I rather think you can call me Elias."