Archive of Our Own

Jonathan Sims didn't care for London. It was crowded and expensive, and the hustle and bustle of city life had never appealed to him. He'd grown up in Bournemouth and it had suited him just fine. Although, if he were honest with himself, anywhere that he could have been left alone would have suited him just fine.

It felt impossible to be alone in London. Not on the overcrowded tube, not at the perpetually crowded Tesco, and certainly not in his small studio flat with its paper thin walls and water damaged ceiling. Easy to be invisible of course, but never alone.

There were other, less existential annoyances. The price of rent, for one, the price of everything else for another. The tedious pointlessness of it all compounded by the general sense of isolation that loomed over the endless crowds.

But Jonathan Sims could forgive all of these things for a chance at one thing in particular: a position at the Magnus Institute.

The Magnus Institute, named for its founder, Jonah Magnus, was what most people would call an absolute crock. The Institute was housed in an archaic and imposing building in Chelsea, declared a historic site by the Royal Historical Society. "Audio. Opperior. Vigilio." read a banner on its crest, emblazoned on a scroll borne by an austere looking barn owl. It was an academic institute, equipped with a library open to the public on Wednesdays and Fridays, and an archive with an expansive artefact storage. Its purpose was singular and singularly unnecessary. The Institute devoted itself to the cataloging, archiving, and researching of paranomal phenomena. It had a handful of sister Institutes on other continents dedicated to doing the same. The funding it received for these ongoing activities was private, of course, and evidently generous, which had allowed it to establish itself as a leader in the pseudoscience field of paranormal investigation and occult phenomenology. Jon thought it was all bullshit. The collected ravings of the acutely psychotic.

He wanted to work there more than he had ever wanted anything, though you wouldn't know it by the looks of him. Or by anything that came out of his mouth.

He'd stared at the email asking him to schedule an interview for ten long disbelieving minutes. It felt odd, nowadays, to be asked to schedule an in-person interview. They hadn't asked him to call, or to talk to a third party staffing contractor, or take an online assessment.

We have reviewed your submitted materials and would like to continue the application process in person. Please select a time below that would accommodate your schedule.

There was a table of time and date options below, and then a street address. Rosie Zampano signed off.

Jon stood across the street from the Institute with a pleather padfolio tucked under his arm. He shifted his weight and thought that maybe he had arrived under dressed. It was, after all, a historical site as judged by the Royal Historical Society. He took a deep breath and crossed the street. If this didn't work out he could always find something else to devote ten years of his life to achieving.

The front doors opened to a spacious lobby with dark marble floors. A half moon oak desk stood at the center, flanked by two emerald carpeted stairways. He could see the start of the library at their ends, though he knew from the photo gallery he had seen online that it was a much grander affair once you got up there, its many stories of book shelves and study spaces tucked into the back of the building.

The helpful young man at the information desk found his name in his calendar and printed him a guest pass, directing him to the fifth floor. There were seven in total, he said, the fifth is all of our administrative offices. If the lift opens and you see storage racks you've gone one too far. Jon thanked him stiffly and made his way up. Once out of the elevator he was greeted by a cheerful, strawberry blonde girl who introduced herself as Rosie.

"Oh, yes, from the email," Jon said.

"Yes!" she chirped, "I always contact applicants directly. It's so much better than all those automated messages people like to send out. We really do care about the people who want to work with us."

Jon opened his mouth before he had found the right platitude to give in response and was very grateful to shut it again as Rosie continued.

"The passion for the work really matters," she said, turning his laminated guest pass to and fro and tapping a string of digits into her keyboard, "I know the yogurt shop down the street will tell you the same thing but it's different here. Really."

She smiled, and Jon gave an awkward nod.

"Jonathan, is it?" came a voice from over her shoulder.

It belonged to a smartly dressed man with round gold rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed mustache. He had dark hair, slicked back and greying at the temples in a dapper, old fashioned way that reminded Jon of classic Hollywood. He wore a three piece pin striped suit in a matte forest green fabric, sharp toed brown oxfords, and a single gold earring on his left ear. Some kind of bobble dangled off the hoop but Jon didn't quite catch it. He was busy looking at everything else.

"Yes, uh, Jon, please. Jon Sims," he said.

"Elias Bouchard," said Elias Bouchard, extending a hand. Jon took it, trying to keep his expression neutral. Elias Bouchard? The Elias Bouchard? Whose photo was on the Institute's website with the caption "Head of the Magnus Institute"? The photo had been low res, and the Web 1.0 site was so hopelessly out of date that Jon had assumed the Elias pictured there was dead or retired. But here he was, in the flesh, with a posh accent and a firm handshake, ready to interview Jon for a researcher position. Why the hell would the Head of the Institute bother with low level staff interviews? Was there really so little interest in the place?

"If you would follow me, please," Elias released Jon's hand and in the same graceful motion gestured back towards the door to his office. Jon nodded, swallowing and clutching his padfolio more tightly to his side.

Elias' office was exactly what Jon might have guessed it would be like based on the man himself. Spacious, dark oak floors, large cathedral style paned windows partially obscured by heavy burgundy drapes. There was an executive desk with an imposing footprint at the center of it and an eggplant velvet chaise lounge near one wall. Over it hung a handsomely restored oil painting of an older, bearded man with piercing grey eyes. The bronze nameplate laid into the bottom of its frame read 𝙹𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚑 𝙼𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚞𝚜, 𝙵𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚎, 𝟷𝟾𝟷𝟾.

Jon turned at the sound of Elias clearing his throat. He was standing behind his desk, clearly waiting for Jon to join him on the other side, where a sturdy upholstered chair was ready for him. With an apologetic mumble, Jon crossed the room and sat down.

"So, Jon," Elias put his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers, "why don't you tell me a bit about what interested you in this position."

"Well, uh," Jon opened his padfolio to retrieve the copy of his CV, "I have five years of experience in--"

Elias waved him away. "Yes, I'm familiar," he said. Jon swallowed, and Elias smiled gently.

"I've read your application, Jon, that's why you're here. Your credentials meet our qualifications and your wealth of experience conducting research at Oxford made you unique among other applicants. You're in my office because we wanted to learn more about you." Elias leaned back in his chair, "To see if you'd be a good fit for the company culture."

"Well, uh," Jon struggled to sound less lost than he felt, "I'm not... really sure how to, uh... Honestly, I'm quite dull."

"No hobbies or interests?" said Elias, sounding amused.

"Well I suppose I have... as many interests as anyone else, I just... Well, I'm not entirely --"

"Let's try this," Elias interrupted, raising a hand to stop Jon mid-stammer, "relax for me, and we can start again."

Jon took a deep, steadying breath, and tried to ground himself in his surroundings. The chair he was sitting on couldn't be called comfortable, and the office itself suffered from a draft that betrayed nothing of the temperate spring day outside of it. Elias, sitting in front of him, was intimidating in that he was debonair. He was well dressed, well groomed, well mannered, and sitting this close to him Jon couldn't help but feel schlubby. He'd worn all the most formal things he had in his possession, which didn't amount to much. A white button down, grey slacks, a beige knit jumper, and the dress boots he'd been wearing holes into since his first year of work study. He was overdue for a haircut. His wire frame glasses were old fashioned. He did nothing to upkeep the health or appearance of his cuticles. But despite his gem toned, finely tailored appearance, Elias was welcoming. The pleasant timbre of his voice seemed to resonate through the acoustics created by his office and seep into Jon's chest. Like amber, he thought suddenly, like honey in the sun.

"Alright," said Jon, feeling more relaxed than he might have expected to.

"Good," said Elias, with what Jon felt was genuine warmth in his voice, "now, why don't I ask you some questions, and we can take it from there?"

Jon nodded. That felt like a good idea. It certainly took some of the pressure off to know the conversation would be guided. Nothing felt quite so much like being split down the middle with a dirty fingernail like being asked vaguely open ended questions. The 'tell me about yourselves' of the world were instruments of torture.

"Do you live alone?" asked Elias, with a tilt of his head.

"Yes," said Jon, "in a flat on Wormwood."

"That's not so far from us. How did you get here this morning?"

"I took the train," said Jon, feeling the tension in his shoulders begin to melt.

"Do you have family in London?"

"No."

"Friends?"

"No."

"Not in London?"

"Not anywhere, really."

"And family? Outside of London?"

"No," said Jon, letting his weight rest fully against the back of his chair, "I had a grandmother. She raised me after my parents died, but she passed away the year after I graduated."

Elias nodded, and Jon saw warmth in his dark grey eyes. "Would you describe yourself as an isolated person?"

"I wouldn't," said Jon, "although it's fair to say I am. I don't make friends easily, and I don't care to. I would describe myself as a private person. I don't enjoy relating to people. I find it cumbersome. I always have. I've never been good at it, but hating it came before discovering I didn't have a knack for it." Jon moved his padfolio from his lap onto Elias' desk to sit more comfortably. He didn't seem to mind. He was listening intently.

"Tell me about your childhood."

"It was lonely," said Jon, releasing a tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding in his jaw, "my grandmother did her best with me but I was... well, I was a difficult child. Willful and... honestly, annoying. I wasn't a trouble maker, I didn't fall in with the wrong crowd, I was just... unpleasant." He laughed, and didn't think about how he had never told anyone about these things before. "I was picked on, but that only confirmed to me what I already knew, that my classmates weren't worth my time. Mostly I read. I read everything I could get my hands on. My grandmother only knew how to placate me by buying me new books every week from second hand shops."

"Did you love your grandmother?"

"Yes," said Jon, with none of the defensive bite he would have normally given in response to a question that sounded so much like an accusation.

"And do you think you made life hard for her?"

"Harder than I should have," he admitted, "I didn't understand how difficult it was for her to raise a child at her age, when she had long been done raising children. I thought for a while, in my teens, that she might resent me. Not because she treated me that way, of course. She did everything she could for me. Just because of... general teenage angst, I suppose. I'm very grateful to have had her in my life. She encouraged me to pursue my schooling more seriously. I was always bookish but never a good student. Class bored me, so I would spend the time reading other things. She helped me take things more seriously. Think about things other than myself."

"And how did you repay her for that?"

"Sorry?"

"How did you repay her? For sacrificing her golden years to raise a reminder of her dead child?"

"I left her alone," said Jon, swallowing past the sudden feeling of a wire looped around his throat, "I went to Oxford and I committed myself to my studies, and I left her alone."

"And were you with her when she died?"

"Only at the very end," said Jon, whose vision had begun to blur with stinging tears, "she was in hospital. She'd been sick for some time but it was hard to get away. I made excuses. I- I had exams, but-"

"And what would you say was the most rewarding part of your work study?"

Jon blinked. The tears very suddenly didn't sting anymore. There was a curious sort of... buzz in his head, radiating from behind his eyes. He leaned his head down towards his shoulder to crack his neck and it went quiet.

"Uh... the... I liked the rigor," he said, realizing that his mouth felt dry, "I was meant to have a partner, a student in my year but she dropped out on medical leave. I never followed up about her. I don't remember her name. But I ended up doing work that should have been assigned to both of us. It felt good to be so busy. I liked the work."

"And this was around the time your grandmother fell ill?"

"Yes. At the beginning, yes."

"And your work study helped you ignore that." This was not a question.

"No," said Jon.

"No?"

"No. I didn't need help ignoring it."

"Oh?" said Elias, the subtle arc of his brow making it seem that he had been caught by surprise.

"I didn't need help ignoring it," Jon repeated. "I didn't care."

There was a moment of silence between them. Jon felt, for that moment, balanced on a blade. There were two ways to fall, but the abyss would greet him on either side. Elias' handsome face stayed placidly composed.

"I loved her," he said, and now that he was speaking again the pause felt like it had been a fraction of second, and not the history of the world. "I still love her. Of course I love her. But I was busy. I was learning. I felt like I was making progress . She had helped me get to where I was and that was what mattered at that moment. I was caught up in my work."

"In your work study?"

"Yes. And in my own research."

"And you regret that."

"Yes."

"Because it was callous?"

"No."

"Because it was wrong?"

"Because it was useless," Jon said, and his heart rate had already gone down from its momentary spike. His breathing came easily and evenly. "I didn't find what I was looking for."

"And you think you might find that here?"

"I hope so."

"And this personal research, will it interfere with your professional responsibilities?"

"No," said Jon with certainty, "it should align with them."

"Given the chance, would you have done it differently?"

Jon stared at him. He had thick, dark lashes, and the eyes that had felt so warm now felt haunting. "No," he said finally, "I would do the same."

"Do you visit your grandmother's grave?"

"On occasion."

"Would you take time off of work to do so?"

"No."

"Have you ever taken time off of work to do so before?"

"No."

"Would you describe your grandmother as the most important person in your life?"

"Yes."

"And she's dead."

"Yes."

"Have you ever had a serious romantic relationship?"

"Once."

"Girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"What was her name?"

"Georgina Barker. We met at Oxford. We were in the same year, in different programs. She had a radio show at the time. We met by chance, at the library, actually. She asked me out that same day."

"Did she take your virginity?" There was something about the way he asked the question that felt intentionally malicious in a way the others had not. Jon felt his face get hot.

"Yes," he said, unsure why he couldn't stop himself.

"Seems sort of late, don't you think? Waiting until university."

"I was never interested in anyone else," Jon admitted, feeling the tightness in his throat return for very different reasons.

"Are you and Miss Barker still together?"

"No."

"Speaking terms?"

"No," said Jon, and cast his eyes down. It was the first time they had broken eye contact. It felt like misjudging how far you could pull a rubber band, except now something deep inside his chest seemed to bear the sting of it, rather than his fingertips.

"Did you love her, at the time?"

"Very much," said Jon, more quietly now.

"Well," Jon heard Elias open a drawer and picked his head back up, "that was very illuminating Jon, thank you. I'm pleased to tell you that you'd be a perfect fit. Your credentials speak for themselves, and I think you'd make a marvelous addition to our Institute. We would be lucky to have you."

Jon felt dizzy. Lightheaded with a lead weight in his stomach, as if he'd very suddenly moved between high and low atmospheric pressure. He flexed his fingers against the pins and needles in his extremities.

"I'd like to offer you the researcher position," said Elias, pulling a fountain pen out from the little contraption on his desk that held them parallel to one another.

"Uh, th... thank you," said Jon, through a sudden onset of cotton mouth.

"The pleasure's all mine," said Elias, uncapping the pen in his hand and making some marks on the stack of paperwork he'd pulled out in front of him. It was about an inch thick, held together with a black binder clip at the top. He flipped through it expertly, clearly familiar with its required fields. "There's some initial paperwork for us to finish here, and Rosie will follow up with you over email as well for some further details. Sign this, please." He spun the stack of papers around and handed Jon his pen.

"You're encouraged to read through it of course, if you'd like." Jon was already three quarters of the way through his signature.

Elias walked him through another dozen lines to sign and a few to initial. At the end, he flipped through the pages and tucked them back into his desk drawer with a satisfied nod.

"Wonderful, Jon," he said, standing from behind his desk and taking Jon by the hand, "we're glad to have you."

His hand was warm and steady, and as soon as Jon took it, he moved to wrap the other around it, holding Jon's right hand in both of his. He wore a gold signet ring on the middle finger of his left hand, and on his ring finger Jon could make out a barely noticeable variation in his skin tone, as if he had until recently worn a wedding band.

"I'm eager to start," said Jon.

They stood together for a moment without moving, and Jon spent the time worrying that his palm would start to sweat.

Elias led him out of his office and gave Rosie a nod when he reached the door. Once Jon was clear of the threshold, he closed the door and ducked back into his office, leaving Jon to stare at the dark wood, wondering how much time he had spent behind it.

When he turned towards Rosie she flashed him two thumbs up. Somewhat disoriented, he returned the gesture with one hand.

They had a short congratulatory conversation afterwards, with Rosie promising to contact him over email with the last of his hiring paperwork and giving him the name of his direct supervisor. It was Thursday, and Jon would start on Monday. They were so glad to have him. She knew he would be a good fit.

Jon made his way out of the building more quickly than he had intended, affording himself no time to explore the new workplace that he had dreamt of all this time. Instead, he walked a sure and steady path out the front door and back to the train station, the static in his head keeping him company all the while.

He did, uncharacteristically, stop by the muni on his way home to pick up a bottle of wine. It felt strange walking the rest of the way with his padfolio tucked under his arm and a plastic bag in his hand holding a single wine bottle. He hadn't thought about his selection too carefully. He didn't really like wine.

He got home to his barely furnished flat and ate dinner; leftover take away and two pieces of dry toast. He turned on the news for a few minutes before turning it back off.

He sat on his couch holding, but not drinking from, his bottle of wine. He thought of Elias Bouchard and his affecting presence. He tried and failed to remember what exactly they had talked about that had made him offer the position to him on the spot. Some hours later, he fell asleep where he sat.

He had terrible dreams.

For the next four years, Jon's routine remained more or less the same. He woke up early and made himself coffee at home (he used a French press and ground his own Arabica beans; this, on his admittedly meager salary, was one of his few luxury purchases) he read the paper with BBC One in the background (he didn't like to use his phone for anything other than calls, texts, and emails) and he took the Piccadilly line to South Kensington. From there it was a short walk to the Magnus Institute, where he would keep his head down for the next eight or nine hours at his desk in the research wing. His work sometimes took him down to the Archive or Artefact Storage, though most often if he left his desk it was to go to the library or else get his lunch from the break room (before returning to his desk to eat it).

He did not, in his fours years at the Institute, make any friends. But he did sometimes catch a glimpse of Elias during his work day and exchange a polite nod. That was precious little progress in a relationship four years long, but it wasn't nothing, and he thought about those cordial head nods more often than he'd ever admit.

Once, Elias had come in later than usual, and it had been raining. He'd jogged up the steps behind Jon and put his umbrella over both of them until they reached the front door.

"Alright, Jon?"

"Yes, uh- thank you. Fine."

"Glad to hear it. Good morning, Kelly!"

His job could not be called fulfilling, and though it paid the rent it did little else. But his position did afford him access to a wealth of information that he was (and you didn't hear this from me) desperate for. On his lunch hour he would devour biographies, out of print almanacs, student papers, and print archives looking for answers to his burning questions. They seemed, four years down the line, perpetually out of reach.

Until one day, somewhat spontaneously, he got an internal email flagged as high priority.

FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
SUBJECT: 30min?

Hi Jon!

Do you have time this afternoon to come up to the office? Give us a ring after your lunch break and let us know if you can get away for a half hour.

- Rosie

Rosie Zampano (she/her/hers)
Executive Assistant
Office x445
Desk x039
Out at noon on alternate Fridays.
Audio. Opperior. Vigilio.

Jon called immediately.

"Elias Bouchard's office, Rosie Zampano speaking."

"Yes hi, Rosie, it's Jon."

"Oh, Jon! That was quick. Hope I didn't frighten you."

"No, not at all. What was it you needed?"

"Oh Elias asked me to reach out for a meeting. Do you have time this afternoon? Nothing else pressing?"

"No, no I'm fine."

"Not working too hard I hope!"

"No, uh, listen, when should I stop by?"

"Quarter to two would be fine, thanks!"

She hung up. Jon slumped back in his chair and stared at the clock at the corner of his monitor. 11:35AM. He got exactly nothing done for the next hundred and twenty minutes, after which he sprang from the Research wing like a bat out of hell, walking quickly and with unbreakable focus towards the elevators. When he reached Rosie's desk, he was slightly out of breath, and she was taken by surprise.

"Oh, Jon! Hello!"

"Yes hello. You said a quarter to two?"

"I did, yes." she said, biting back a smile, "I'm sure he'll appreciate your punctuality."

Jon glanced at the clock on the wall, which judgmentally read 1:44PM. When he looked back, Rosie had her phone tucked up to her ear.

"Mhm, I'll send him in." she lowered her shoulder and put down the receiver, "Go ahead then, Jon, he's in his office."

Jon nodded and shuffled past her desk, making his way back to Elias' office where he found him at his desk, writing in a large financial ledger with a fountain pen.

"Good to see you, Jon. Please, come in." he said, capping his pen and shutting his ledger, "I'm sorry for the short notice. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No," said Jon, sitting down across from Elias and taking the opportunity to wipe his damp palms over his thighs, "not at all."

"Good!" Elias held his gaze for a moment, and with nothing to sensibly fill the small silence, Jon stared back. He had thick, dark lashes, warm grey eyes, and the barely noticeable beginnings of crow's feet. There was a pale freckle on his left eyelid.

"Well," he said, propping his elbows up on his desk, "No delicate way to start this I'm afraid... I'm sure you're aware of the sudden and untimely passing of our Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson?"

"Ah, yes. Yes I'd heard," said Jon.

"Well we're all mourning her loss, of course. But unfortunately, her position is invaluable to our Institute, and it's already been vacant for two weeks." Elias paused to adjust his glasses, and Jon felt that fraction of a second balloon out into eternity.

"I was curious," said Elias, and Jon felt his stomach flip with the same queasy emptiness that accompanied the moment of weightlessness at the top of carnival drop rides, "if you would be interested in filling the vacancy."

Jon was silent.

"Sorry, allow me to rephrase," said Elias, "I would like to offer you the Head Archivist position. If you're interested."

Jon opened his mouth slightly but no sound came out.

"It would be a promotion, of course," Elias continued, somewhat tentatively, "and certainly an avenue for professional development." Jon focused on unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"And it would afford us the opportunity to work together more closely," said Elias, and then steepled his fingers, having laid out his final incentive.

"I would report to you directly?" said Jon, his mouth suddenly unfrozen. Elias raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Yes," he said simply.

"I would be... but there are others, surely--" Elias cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"No, there won't be other applicants," he said, "this is an internal hire."

"Yes." Jon shifted his weight, put his hands on the arms of his chair for a moment before returning them to his knees. "But there must have been more-- Sasha James, for example --"

"Her work has been exemplary of course, but-- I'm sorry, Jon, have I misjudged your interest?"

"No," said Jon too quickly, "not at all. No, you haven't."

"Good! I thought not. So you accept, then?"

"Uh, yes." said Jon, "Yes, I accept."

"Excellent, I'll have Desmond take care of the internal transfer paperwork. He'll be following up with you over email." Elias uncapped his pen and opened his ledger, adjusting his glasses to the sit at the tip of his nose. Jon waited for something. A "gotcha" or a "just kidding" or a "you'll be sharing responsibilities with". This was unbelievable. Sudden, to be sure, but surely unprecedented. Gertrude, er-- Miss Robinson had been Head Archivist for years. Decades, even. For half a bloody century. There had been no photo of her on the website but it had listed her start year as 1965. How could Jon even begin to live up to fifty years of tenure?

Jon swallowed and listened to Elias' fountain pen scratch for a few more seconds. Feeling reasonably sure that this sudden silence meant he had been dismissed, he stood to leave. He stopped halfway out the door when he heard Elias' voice.

"Oh, and Jon," Elias had a finger on one side of his ledger, tracing the length of a row from right to left, where the tip of his pen rested, "I really am looking forward to working with you more closely."

"Thank you, I, uhm, am as well" said Jon, awkwardly, and took his leave.

Jon woke up early and made himself coffee at home. He put his kettle on the stove, turned on the gas, and brought a match to the burner. His ancient, poorly maintained stove necessitated a tricky bit of fiddling at this point, to ensure that the gas remained consistent after the flame was lit. Fiddle too harshly and the damn thing rewarded you with a column of flame. Too gently and you'd go through half a box of matches before the flame stayed lit.

He took his packet of whole Arabica beans down from his cabinet, gently unrolled its resealable packaging, and carefully measured out his beans into his small electric burr grinder. He preferred to buy whole beans and take the extra time to grind them himself. It made his coffee taste richer and fresher, and most importantly it gave him total control over the coarseness of his coffee grounds. Uniformity of the coffee grounds was important to ensure the best flavor extraction when the coffee was brewed.

He retrieved his French press and set the beaker down on the counter, pulling out the filter to sit beside it.

The kettle whistled. He took it off the burner and poured a small amount of hot water into the glass beaker, swirling it around for a moment before pouring it into his sink. Preheating the beaker was important as well, as it stopped the temperature from fluctuating during the brewing process.

Carefully, Jon poured his coffee grounds from the grinder into the beaker, then poured hot water over them and placed the lid over the press. He looked at his watch and noted the time. He stood in his kitchen, staring out the little window above his sink, for four minutes thirty seconds. Important not to steep the grounds for too long, lest they over extract and get bitter. Slowly, steadily, he pushed down the plunger of his French press until it reached the bottom. He poured the contents into his thick walled, faded orange mug and picked it up to hold in both hands.

It was ten past four. In the morning.

He was fully dressed for work, wearing everything but his dress boots. He'd even taken the time to press his slacks with the iron he hadn't touched since he'd moved in.

He didn't want breakfast. His stomach was too busy wringing itself out like a tea towel.

Having absolutely nothing better to do with himself, he sat on his couch and drank his meticulously crafted cup of coffee in silence. He didn't dare to put a blanket over his lap for fear of a litany of complications. Lint, for one thing. Dozing off for another.

This was to be the first day of the rest of his career. Jon had to remind himself to blink as well as to breathe, and it was becoming very annoying balancing both activities when their timing didn't sync up quite right.

From his perch on his little well worn charity shop sofa, Jon enjoyed a few hours of stewing in this hot leaden mixture of agonizing horror and paralyzing anxiety. At a quarter to seven, he stood up, slipped on his dress boots, slung his book bag over his shoulder, and went out the door.

"I thought we'd start with an overview of your duties this morning," said Elias, pouring over a stack of paperwork he'd asked Jon to bring with him. He'd been very specific about the need for wet signatures. We're a bit old fashioned here, I'm afraid, Jon. But I'm sure you already knew that.

He was in a handsome grey ensemble today, paired with burgundy accents (his sharp toed oxfords, silk cravat, and tri-peaked pocket square). Whatever cologne he wore had a deep, woodsy scent that Jon could only describe as expensive.

"Have you been down to the Archives before?" Elias looked up, raising his eyes to Jon with a smile.

"Erh, yes," said Jon, regretting cutting his nails the night before and so having nothing to dig into his palms, "a handful of times."

"So you know your way around, then," Elias tutted, "Well that's a shame. I'd been looking forward to giving you a tour."

If Jon's throat had not been dried into large grit sandpaper he may have swallowed.

"Then you've met the staff?"

"Yes," said Jon, "briefly."

"Well they're your staff, now. You may want to meet them less briefly."

"Yes, erh, I'd wanted to talk to you about that, actually. It's just that, there's sort of a supervisory nature t--"

"Oh we'll iron out the details," said Elias dismissively.

"Sure, but... it's just that I don't have the experience t--"

"You'll be supervising them strictly as Archival assistants," said Elias, shuffling the papers spread over his desk back into a neat stack. "No need to worry about administrative duties, paid leave, time sheets, holiday hours, and all that. That's one thing that's made Gertrude's departure somewhat easier, I'm sorry to say: I'm still here."

Elias capped his fountain pen and replaced it in the funny little contraption on his desk that held his small collection. "And you'll be working under me, Jon. I hope you'll trust me to take care of everything up here, just as I'll trust you to take care of everything down there." He smiled, and Jon had a sudden and curious vision of a field mouse facing a land roller. It came and went. He smiled back.

Jon spent the journey from Elias' office to the Archives worrying about two things at once, which was four fewer things than he'd been worrying about since the morning. He'd experienced a sort of dry mouthed damp palmed calm in Elias' office, where his anxious ruminations had been dulled by the enormity of the fear directly in front of him, of sitting face to face with the director of the Magnus Institute. Of sitting less than a meter away from man who for four years he had had the same intimacy with as with his grainy web 1.0 portrait on the out of date Institute website. And who was now, so suddenly Jon could still feel his head spinning, a fully realized person directly involved in the majority of Jon's life. Well, formally involved in eight and a half hours of his day and informally -- at least recently -- the only thing he could think about for the remaining fifteen and a half.

Down the hall and in the elevator Jon's anxieties were decidedly less ephemeral. He anticipated, with a fair degree of dread, introductions. Jon had never been... personable. He rarely made good first impressions and things rarely got better from there. He was, if his university study group mates were to be believed, dour. His disposition had been described to him, by former schoolmates, teachers, colleagues, and managers, as unpleasant.

Jon couldn't disagree. He valued his solitude, his privacy, and his defenses, which he'd lowered for one person in his life and not nearly enough for her tastes. All facts which Jon was well aware of, and all facts that highlighted how ill-fit he was for management. He was sweating bullets at the mere thought of meeting his staff. He hadn't yet grappled with how it might feel to have staff.

There was, thankfully, little ceremony to his introductions. Elias led their way down a hall and peeked into the cramped break room, its door propped open by a box full of manila envelopes and accordion files, themselves struggling to contain what looked like full reams of yellowed paper.

"Ah, Tim," he said, "glad I've caught you, I'd like to introduce you to --" Elias turned, looking somewhat puzzled at how far back in the hallway Jon had chosen to remain. Sensing some sort of misstep, Jon inched forward.

Through the doorway, past Elias' shoulder, he saw a young man, likely around his own age, leaning against a counter with a coffee mug in hand.

"How'd'ya'do?" he said cheerfully. Tim was tall, with broad shoulders and a handsome face. His brown hair was carelessly tousled in a way that took twenty minutes each morning to get right. He had freckles over his narrow nose and brown flecks in his hazel eyes. He dressed well. Jon nodded at him, and felt his lips pull taught into an uncomfortable half smile.

"He'll be replacing Gertrude Robinson as Head Archivist," said Elias, "starting today."

Tim's warm and jovial expression froze for a moment, in a way that pulled the warmth and joy from it. "Ah," he said. Then, after a moment of silence, "Good to meet you, boss."

Jon nodded again.

Elias led them down another hallway (it seemed to be all hallways down here, lined with small offices and overflowing storage closets, with no windows to break up the labyrinthine gloom) and looked into a number of different rooms before finding the one he was looking for. He poked his head in, and Jon could see over his shoulder that this was a copy room. There were two printer-copiers, a rolling cart full of paper and ink, and a large folding card table covered in stacks of uncollated pages. The outdated office tech and recently purchased table felt almost violently at odds with the historic building they were in. Not unlike the light fixtures, which through all the hallways Jon had walked through this morning were dusty and fluorescent, casting the whole narrow, winding place in a sickly shade of hospital-bright. Jon had thought that maybe at one point they'd been gas-lamps, no doubt removed as safety standards improved.

Behind the card table, sorting the still-warm sheets, was a young woman in a green cardigan. She had tight, springing curls pulled halfway back with a tortoiseshell clip that matched the frames of her round glasses. Her eyes were dark brown. Her short manicured fingernails were painted sky blue.

"Sasha!," said Elias, and she raised her head. "I'd like to introduce you to Jonathan Sims."

"Oh?" she said, setting down the papers in her hand, "Oh! Our new Archivist." She stepped out from behind the table and walked towards the door, reaching a hand past Elias, which Jon took hurriedly.

"Yes, hello, uh, Jon, please."

"Good to meet you Jon, I'm Sasha James, lead researcher."

"Pleasure," said Jon, and let go of her hand. Sasha turned and walked back behind the table, resuming her diligent sorting. Elias turned back to Jon and nodded, leading their way onward once again.

"Now let's see," said Elias, three door down from the copy room, "That just leaves- Oh, there we are."

Ahead of them, struggling with a large file box coming apart at its seams, was the last of the archival assistants. He was shorter than Jon by a few inches, heavy set with his strawberry blonde hair combed and parted neatly. He wore glasses and a yellow sweater, the white collar of his button down visible above its neck.

"Martin," said Elias, making no move to help him with his box, "This is Jon Sims, our new Head Archivist."

Martin, with difficulty and a defeated look in his eyes (no doubt at the prospect of lifting it again) set his box on the floor.

"Hullo," he said, walking towards them and extending a hand. Jon took it and nodded curtly.

"I'm Martin," said Martin, "Martin Blackwood. One of the researchers here in the Archives. Have you, uh, have you had a look around just yet? I'd be happy to show you."

"Oh, no thank you," said Jon, who thought this handshake should be over by now, "I know my way around."

"Glad to hear it Jon," said Elias, gently touching his fingertips to his shoulder in place of reaching for his still occupied hand, "that's everyone you'll be supervising. I believe you've met the administrative staff, they support Research, Archives, and Artefacts. Quite a capable team. I'll let you get to it."

Martin released his hand in the same instant that Jon pulled it away from him, but Elias had already turned.

"Oh, er, my office is --"

"Oh it's just 'round the corner," offered Martin, "I'll show you to it."

"Thank you, Martin," said Elias without turning around. Jon watched him go for another second, ignoring the shuffle of Martin returning to his box.

"I'm heading over there myself, actually," he said, hoisting it up and pressing it to his chest, "was just about to drop these off for you."

"These... ?"

"Oh, statements," said Martin, "not all of them are new, I'm afraid. Bit of a backlog since, uh... well since, uh --"

"Since Gertrude passed," said Jon.

"Yes," said Martin, "since Gertrude passed."

They were walking together down a perpendicular hallway, shorter than the others with only one door along its length.

"On our right that's a supply closet," said Martin, "mostly for custodial staff, although, sometimes if there's an overflow of office supplies we'll put them in there until space opens up. And uh, this is it." He stopped at the hallway's end, in front of a heavy wooden door. There was a small gold plaque on the left of its frame that read Head Archivist. A small discolored spot above it seemed to have recently borne a name plate.

"Would you, uh --" said Martin, "would you mind --"

"Hm? Oh, yes, of course," said Jon, reaching past him to open the door. It turned out to open out into the hallway not back into the room, so the two of them had to awkwardly reshuffle before making their way over its threshold. Martin went first, setting his box down on the desk in the center of the room. It was wide and broad, with a slim twenty seven inch monitor sat on its left hand corner. Next to it, balanced on a three foot stack of papers and an upturned plastic crate, was a beige CRT monitor, its obvious predecessor. The stack it sat on was not unique. Its siblings lined the full perimeter of the space and its cousins filled three bookcase tucked into the room's corners. There was a fireplace directly behind the desk, which looked recently cleaned.

"It's uh... bit of a--"

"This piled up in two weeks?" said Jon, aghast.

"Oh, uh, no. No, no of course not that's just, well that's just the box here, I meant that --"

"What is all of this?"

"Well, statements," said Martin, as if it should have been obvious. "There's a historic archive a few rooms down but these are all active cases or current references."

"Sorry, active cases?"

Martin nodded. "Things Gertrude was researching. Files she was updating. Things we were finding supplemental materials for."

"She had this many open cases at once?" Jon could hear his voice rising and course corrected as quickly as he could, "Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean t- it's just sort of-"

"Overwhelming?" Martin offered.

"Chaotic," said Jon, generously.

"Yeah," Martin gave a forced little huff of a laugh, "yeah it's uh... well, she certainly had her own way of doing things."

"Right, well," he gave the lid of his box a little pat, raising a small puff of dust around his hand, "I'll uh... I'll let you get settled but, uh, listen, Jon-- er, Mister Sims--"

"Jon, please," said Jon, "Just Jon is fine. Martin, was it? Mister Blackwood?"

"Oh, no no! No, Martin is fine. Erh... just that, you know... If you need anyone to show you around you know? Happy to be of service. Sort of my job."

"Thank you," said Jon, every last drop of sincerity wrung out of the phrase.

"No problem!" Martin said, and shuffled his way awkwardly out of the office, tripping over the edge of the desk as he moved past it.

Jon took another look around and walked behind the desk. There was an office chair not unlike the one he'd seen in Elias' office, high backed, upholstered, and imposing. It too served as a storage shelf for a stack of accordion files.

Jon made a series of noises, unable to decide between a grumble, a sigh, or a grunt. He inched his way to the back of the room and debated on lighting the fireplace. It was such a flammable mess he found himself in...

But the draft that permeated the whole of the Institute felt particularly strong here, and his grey jumper did nothing to protect him from it. He hemmed and hawed a moment more before checking to see if the chimney was clear and setting about starting a fire. Once it got going, he sat on the edge of the stone hearth, warming his back against the flames. He picked a file off a stack to his right, and began to read.