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ionizedyeast · 4 years

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(Whoopsie more Eli Bouchard stuff before work)

“Talk to him.” Jon says to Martin in the hall outside the archives, gesturing to the figure sitting inside the statement room. “He doesn’t know who to turn to and I can’t help him.” Martin gazes inside the archives and sees the figure of Eli Bouchard sitting in a chair against the statement table, his head resting in his hand, cradling himself as if he were suffering a migraine. A man who once exuded such confidence and charm was left crumbling and collapsing under his own weight of existing as a person. “I don’t know if I can help him, Jon. This isn’t really my area of, er, expertise.” Martin muses quietly, his voice strained and wavering. Truthfully speaking, he was still finding it difficult to see this man as anything but the monster of a human (?) that forced him to face his own insecurities. Sure, Eli Bouchard’s voice didn’t have the same level of smarmy wit that Jonah had trilled along with, but his voice still carried enough of the same weight. There was no risk of Eli creeping into his head and forcing Martin to experiencing the same thing again. “Listen to me, Martin,” Jon replies, nearly pleading, his hands on Martin’s shoulders. He is not gripping, but he is squeezing just enough to reassure his boyfriend (is what they were now? They still had yet to talk about what kind of relationship they had now. Not that Jon was opposed to the idea or anything. He quite liked it.). “That man is alone. And he needs to talk to someone who knows how it feels to be truly alone. And you know that better than anyone.”

And so Martin entered. And perhaps it was because he entered that he could feel the weight of being alone that surrounded Eli Bouchard. It was by no means the effect of the Lonely on him. Just a lonely man. There was no entity at play keeping Eli this way. He just didn’t have anyone who understood what he was experiencing. “Elias, er, Eli.” Martin speaks softly as he enters the statement room, his hand resting on the doorway. The lights are turned down low and Eli doesn’t look up, although his body shifts in just enough of a way to indicate he had heard someone come in. Martin stands in silence. Jon never specified what exactly he should talk to Eli about, so he had to read the room -- which was not exactly as easy as it was when Jonah was inside the man in front of him. Jonah you could rile up and get upset in the most obvious ways. Raise a little hell. Burn a few statements. Get him arrested. The easy things. But Eli was very different from Elias. It had been as if since becoming himself again, he went out of his way to avoid everyone. With good reason. Aside for those who knew the truth, it was much easier to hide the reality of things. “The Lonely doesn’t have me, Martin, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” Eli speaks up as he lifts his head from his palms. “And no, Jon wouldn’t know what to talk to me about either. That’s why he sent you, isn’t it? Because he thought you might know how to help a poor old man like me.” Martin’s lips purse. He doesn’t make a move to sit down, but he doesn’t exactly respond to Eli’s quip. He sounds argumentative and itching for some sort of fight. Which is not what Martin was here for. He pinches the bridge of his nose and finds himself letting his shoulders droop. “No, maybe it doesn’t, but that’s no excuse to keep yourself moping and avoiding people like you’re beyond being helped. You’ve already gone to Jon to talk enough times that you’re actively avoiding letting yourself be consumed by your solitude. So instead of moaning at me like you’re a lost cause, why don’t you just talk to me?”

“And just what will that do for me? Are you going to absorb my trauma and wring it out in the sink, and there we have it, no more depressed Eli Bouchard.” He sneers, his aging face actually showing his age for once. He was not lying about being a poor old man. He was getting older, and something suggested to Martin that he was actually much older than he appeared to be. Perhaps Jonah using him slowed his aging? Made him appear younger than he really was. Maybe without Jonah inside him, his age was catching up faster. “That wasn’t my intention.” Martin confirms as he finally enters the room properly, standing before the other chair, his hands grasping at the back of the seat. “But it’s not like you can speak to an actual therapist about this. What are you supposed to say? ‘Oh Doctor, you see I’ve had the spirit of a two-hundred year old demi-human inside me, using me as a vessel to initiate a ritual that will allow the essence of the fear of being watched to take control of the world, and I’ve only just gotten my body back and I don’t know how to live again.’ Yes, because that surely won’t get you any pity. They’ll just assume you’ve lost your mind and you’ll just wind up as a prisoner of a different variety.”

Eli stares up at Martin, something of absolute disdain and horror, mixed with humor crossed over the age lines of his face. Jon had been nothing but patient with him in regards to his need to talk about his experiences since becoming whole again. Martin’s hands grip tighter on the chair, perhaps braced for the possibility that Eli might drop another unnecessary clarity bomb in his mind. But he does not waver. He does not break eye contact with Eli -- who begins to laugh. It’s a genuine laugh. It’s not forced like Martin had half expected to hear should Eli begin to feign amusement.

“You listened to our tapes, didn’t you, Martin?” he asks, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table, his fingers drumming in a rhythmic motion. “What did you think?”

“Of course I listened to the tapes!” Martin announces, almost irritated with the question. “Jon’s worried about you and that’s why he had me listen to them! You’ve still got Jonah inside of you! You can’t just talk to a therapist about that and you need to talk to someone, so.” Martin still does not sit, although the way Eli is sitting indicates that he would be accepting if Martin chose to kick back and stay a while. “So I’m here to listen instead. I wouldn’t know a thing about what it’s like to share a body with him, but I do know a bit about being manipulated by someone. On more than one account.” There’s a pause and he makes a point of scanning the room. “You also tried to bludgeon my...boyfriend? With a pipe.” “In all fairness, that was Jonah, not me.” Eli holds up a finger and quickly refutes Martin’s statement. “And why do you sound so uncertain. Anything I know about the Lonely tells me that someone’s really got to love you to pull someone out of there.”

“We haven’t exactly talked about it, but this isn’t about me and Jon, this is about you --”

“I’m not so sure about that, see, now you’ve piqued my interest.” Eli chuckles a bit but then raises his arms and then stands, his arms in the air. “Check me over, Martin. No pipe. No weapon. Nothing on me that could cause harm to anyone. Unless you count the lighter in my pocket.”

“Give me the lighter, Eli.” Martin says, holding his hand out.

“And what am I going to use to light my pipe with later? Twigs and some flint?”

“I’ll give it back when we’re done chatting, but I would very much like to have the lighter. Just, just as a precaution. I don’t know if Jonah’s hidden some kerosene in here and left you with the lighter as a means of setting this place on fire in order to teach us some sort of lesson.”

“You know the statements here are too valuable to Jonah --”

“The lighter, Elias.” Martin says again, sounding more firmly before Eli finally caves and removes the lighter from his pocket and places it within Martin’s hand. “Thank you, I’ll give it back when you leave but Jon told me you don’t seem to have much, er, awareness, when Jonah has you again.”

Eli adjusts his jacket again and sits down. “Martin, do me a favor, will you?” he requests, voice softening. Martin made a hum in response. “Don’t call me Elias. Please. That’s not who I am anymore.”

“Sorry, wasn’t my intention to use the wrong name.” Martin responds, lowering his gaze as he takes this chance now to sit down. Any of the tension that had been built between them had now since eased and he looks up at Eli from across the table. “Now, do you want to talk about it, or should we just sit here?”

“This is forced therapy, isn’t it?” Eli asks, seeming to have calmed himself a bit. “I don’t know what you want me to talk about. That I’ve become a flip-flopped version of what I had been before. Jonah Magnus is still inside me, but he just has less control. What am I supposed to say? That I feel alone and no one understands how I feel? Don’t you think I’m a bit old to be tossing around the ole ‘woe is me’ card at some sort of licensed counselor?”

“That’s not why I’m talking to you, Eli, and you know it.” His shoulders heave up and then down again. “I think. I think Jon wants me to talk to you as a friend. Not that I know you all that well, but I think that’s what you might need. Someone who you can talk to that isn’t Jon or a tape recorder.”

The laugh that Eli has at this point is bitter. “You want to befriend a cranky old man --”

“Eli!” Martin raises his voice much to his own surprise. “I am trying to help you and if you’re going to just dismiss me like I’m not worth your time then maybe you should just, I don’t know, let Jonah take over again. At least that way I could have a tolerable conversation with him, even if I did want to strangle him.” There’s a pause and Martin slumps in his seat. “I’m sorry, that was unnecessarily mean of me. I’m just, having a hard time myself with trying to establish relationships again. I spent a while shut away myself.”

“Preaching to the choir, boy.” Eli says as it’s evident he took no offense with Martin’s frustration. “You sure Jon didn’t send you to talk to me for your sake too? Perhaps a bit of solidarity between two men who have lost more than they cared to.”

“You might be right.” Martin says. “Even since coming back from the Lonely, I haven’t found it easy to talk to anyone again.”

“You see,” Eli says. “This is just as much for me as it is for you. You know, Martin, I know that Jonah did something horrible to you, and that Melanie girl. I know he wasn’t a good man. I know he did whatever he could do to keep you wrapped around his finger. And I know I can’t do anything to make up for this. But I can say I’m sorry. I can say that I’m sorry that I did that to you.” He gestures at himself. “I don’t know what he put in your head, I don’t know what he said, but I can ascertain a guess that it’s one of the things that caused you to spiral,” There’s a brief, scoffing laugh from Martin, although Eli doesn’t notice. “I’d make it up to you if I could.”

“Then tell me what’s on your mind. I might not be Jon and I might not be able to force you to spill your guts, but I’m a safe party to tell things to. It’s not like I’m going to use what you tell me to hurt you. If anything, I’ll try to help if I can.” He speaks before thinking. Was he lying? He was so used to lying to get what he needed that it was hard to tell himself if he was being disingenuous.

“I’m thinking I know how to get Jonah out of me.” Eli says, his voice bitter. “But I think that’s a conversation we ought to save for another time. Otherwise I’ll be raising quite a number of red flags with you, Martin.” He smiles, and while Martin was not sure of the how genuine his own words were, Eli’s smile is certainly authentic. However, Martin sights and turns his head back to stare at the ceiling. “You are needlessly cryptic, Eli. There’s no need for it.”

“Oh, it’s not meant to be cryptic. I just want to do a bit of testing before I share my thoughts. Would rather not cause any alarm if I don’t have to.” The smile remains on his face. “Now, Martin, if you don’t mind. I have to catch the 6:20 train back to my flat, or I’ll be stuck walking home tonight, and a nearly blind man walking home in the dark isn’t especially a good idea for me.”

“What do you mean blind?” Martin asks as Eli stands from his seat and begins to make his way to the door of the statement room.

“Do you really think Jonah was going to let me keep his eyes without some cost?” Eli asks, hand on the doorknob. “I’m nearly blind as a bat after I leave the Institute.” There’s a beat. “By the way, do you have Melanie King’s number? I wanted to run my theory by her before I try it myself -- Ah, right. No it’s in my phone. Jonah put it in there, didn’t he?” He then offers Martin another smile before he steps from the door. “Be seeing you, Martin. Or maybe not.” And as he steps from the door and makes his way from the archives, Martin scrambles, and calls for Jon. He’s quite sure this is not what the phrase “an eye for an eye” means.

#Being Jonah's Whale #tma #the magnus archives #canon divergent #elias bouchard #tma spoilers

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cherubvalkyrie · 3 years

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“I don’t think they even see us as human,” says Jenny. She almost seems to be pausing, before saying something else, but then releases a puff of air and looks away. “I have to get going, anyhow, there’s still so much left to do today…”

As she leaves, Bea stabs out her cigarette into the overflowing ashtray. A sidelong look at me. “What a fucking bummer. Don’t invite her back.” She's already lighting another cigarette.

Malorie sits, in a cloud of smoke, wondering if this will be the cigarette that gives her cancer.

----

“I just don’t know what to do with them!” she half-sobs into the phone, clutching it close, the ringlet cord pooling around her feet and snaking up her torso. “All they do is fight and scream… this place is a mess… I haven’t showered in a week and he’s supposed to be home tonight!”

A soothing murmur from Lindsay, but it is lost over the sounds of dogs and children howling in the background. She hears the sound of the flint catching in the lighter. She watches the dog shit on the floor.

----

Sitting down at the grocery store, bored and impatient. Small bones aching as they grow and stretch. “She’s so smart for her age, already….” “Oh yes, mine is growing up and he’s already a little ladies’ man…” A tantrum begins. The men nearby look over, exasperated, and stomp away from the noise.

---

There was no technology available to tell what sex the baby would be. The baby was a joyous surprise, a girl, a Girl, A girl. Holding her, she thought, ‘thank god I’m not alone anymore’ then stomped on it, hard. She’d never been alone. She had her boy, her man, hadn’t she? But the smothered feeling of relief, remained.

----

In 1993, the UN declared marital rape a human rights violation. Previously, rape was only defined as something that could happen outside of marriage. My older brother does not know his father.

----

I sit, small and frozen in the backseat, hating the long car journeys. I Always had to sit in the middle, my brothers got the window seats because they had balls and those needed space, or something. I was too short to really see out the window anyway. Instead, I watch my mother get tense, cringe into her seat, grip the handle above the window for support, and plead my father’s nickname as he lurches through traffic. He cusses out yet another female driver and belittles women in a tirade for minutes. Traffic slows to a halt. My mother lights a cigarette, stares outside. My parents don’t look at each other. The car is tense, and silent.

----

She carries me, a screaming, wailing newborn, onto the airplane. The other passengers send black looks in her direction through the entirety of the flight. She finds her way to her mother’s house, staggers through her doorstep, and clutches her. They look upon me, wondering, full of hope. She’s here to change the world… This is my only time meeting my maternal grandmother. Her name has already been erased by patriarchal lineage, her mother’s names unknown to me.

----

She begs and wheedles me, not even seven, to make her a cup of tea. I climb all around the counter and find all the ingredients except milk, which we don’t seem to have. I do find a cup of it, covered by cling film, in a cup in the fridge. I dutifully assemble the tea, teetering on tiptoes and pulled out drawers to reach all the implements. I carry the hot cup carefully downstairs and present it, mention where I found the milk. I scurry just outside the room and listen outside the door. I hear, “I’m not drinking this” in the brash tones of a joke for her listeners. I retreat to my bed, rejected. What was the point?

----

I experience blood for the first time. I steel myself to go into the living room, where she always sits. On the corner of the large couch, closest to the window, a haze fills the room. Sunlight, warm and cloying, shines in through the windows. Cigarette smoke just hangs in the air, a lazy fog that makes it hard to see clearly. I awkwardly blurt out that my period has started. She begins to cry, which disgusts me, I have already been taught to be disgusted by all things feminine and womanly, and I am obedient to this training as I feel repelled by her. She rubs my back awkwardly and tells me about periods. She hasn’t touched me in years. She has to beg for hugs, for love. I smell the cigarette smoke and my brain clouds. I can’t wait to get away from her. I only told her so I would have pads, all she used was tampons. She calls them ‘plugs’ and I inwardly recoil with disgust. The guys online were right about women. I was a quick reader, and the internet was full of message boards.

----

I am a small child, too young for school where my older brother goes, and I play in a house with my younger brother. When She gets angry, I teach him the best places to hide. You put your feet into the shoes, and stand inside the clothes, very still. You wiggle under the bed into that gap there, and hide right in the middle. He does as I say, and we don’t get caught. We come out when it’s calm, and we don’t tell where we were hiding.

----

I am a small child, and I am told to tidy my room or else. I start, get distracted, and wander out of my room into my parents room. I climb onto the bed, which smells like home, and lay down in a patch of morning sunlight. The pool of light is heat and warmth and I feel safe for reasons I can’t explain, falling into a sound sleep. She finds me there, is furious I haven’t cleaned- I am spanked awake. I flee, forever terrified, the association made. There is no safety in comfort that smells like her. Like them. Their bed unsafe, themselves unsafe. Conditioned behaviour. A wall, immovable and thick, sits between us, always. Physical contact becomes tense, underscored by fear. This is family. Do not get the idea that you belong here. Comfort is an illusion.

----

Years later, I always win at hide-and-seek at parties. I also hide at friend’s houses on a regular basis. On a family vacation, I walk away from my family and cousins to hide in an amusement park. I am always walking away from the barbs, the little attacks on me, the total freedom for my brothers. I hide until. Until. I come back. Many times, nobody really notices that I left. I have no answers for where I’ve been. I don’t even remember where I was. But I have restored my blank composure. Or my sullen silence. My mother is exasperated. She lights another cigarette.

---

As a small child, I make a ‘magic love potion’ from all the jars under the sink. I want her to drink it. I have a tantrum when she only pretends to, and doesn’t really take a sip of my poison.

---

My brother is playing the super nintendo, while I watch, because video games aren’t for girls. He is too scared of the second level of a game, so I watch him play the first level until he has 100 lives, then encourage him as he tries the second level. Eventually, there is a game for two players, and we become a good team to win the minigames. My mother calls me to help her clean, but lets him continue to sit there. He’s already learned to ignore her somehow, and refuses to comply or help her with anything. She praises how nice I am, how good. Her voice drips with desperation and condescension and syrupy pleading, and I loathe it. I clean.

---

I am in middle school, and it is the first time I am playing the flute in public, a christmas recital filled with religious songs. I had only started learning how to play it four months ago. It is only my best friend and me, struggling through a piece together. I am incapable of even making the instrument sound, all that comes out is sad, breathy bottlish noises. Humiliated and dejected after such a low performance in front of peers and their families, I fall back to family. My mother is peering around, looking at everyone in all their finery. “Which one is your boyfriend?” she asks me, completely missing what just happened and how I’m feeling. I despise her for it. I don’t like any boys, and I wish she had paid any notice to me. She’s wondering if she fits in, feels out of place amongst all these rich, established families, feeling judged, feeling poor.

---

In the early teenage years, I watch my brother mess his chores up on purpose. A dishwasher filled with dish soap. Wrong clothing mixed in the washer. If they refuse, I refuse. The sullen, aggressive silence of having dishes washed at me, clothes sorted at me, things cleaned at me. A constant fog of cigarette smoke. If my brothers get to play video games uninterrupted, why can’t I? I withdraw deeper into silence of my own. I hear her talking about me, in words I can’t quite make out. I stop listening, retreat inside, a book or a message board, anywhere but the present.

----

We have moved to a suburban neighborhood to be closer to school. I befriend a neighborhood teen, Amanda, and we all go to the beach together. I wander off, to get away from the cigarettes, and loop back around just in time to overhear my mother telling my friend, a twelve-year-old, that her daughter has ‘always been a bitch’. She turns around and sees me. There is no apology. She flicks her cigarette, and the ash joins the sand on the beach.

----

She was supposed to be my best friend! She was supposed to help! She was supposed to see!

We point our fingers at each other, echoing accusations, missing what the other person says.

----

#mal #my mother #it's all i really remember now #i have tried to understand #up in smoke

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