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haberdashing · 4 years

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This Place Is Not My Home

TMA fic. After a very long day, Elias returns to his living space... which he doesn’t recognize at all. Luckily, he has a few companions by his side to help him figure things out.

Follow-up to A Rude Awakening and The Blind Meeting The Blind.

on AO3

Elias knew every square inch of his flat, which would probably be more impressive if the place wasn’t so damn tiny.

Objectively speaking, it wasn’t much to write home about, he knew. The space was cramped, the wallpaper was peeling, the hot water supply was iffy at best, it was freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer no matter how he configured the thermostat, and there was always the lingering scent of mildew and weed (he was trying to cut down on his use of the latter--mostly because it was an expensive habit, partly because he was afraid the smell would catch on his work clothes and James would notice and he’d get in trouble for it--but, well, old habits die hard)...

It was a shitty flat, sure. But it was his shitty flat. Elias didn’t share it with anyone, didn’t have to leech off his trust fund or beg his father for help just to pay the rent. It was a space all his own, one he had earned the right to reside in, one that he worked to maintain as best he could, one where he could relax and unwind after a long day of work without any fear of interruption.

Or, at least, that was how things had been back in 1996. Which felt like it had been only hours ago, but had in fact been all of twenty-three years in the past now.

He still had a flat of his own in 2019, but it wasn’t the same one. It was more centrally-located, for one, compared to his old place, which had always required a lengthy Tube ride to get to work at the Institute. It was on the top floor of a skyscraper, with what was apparently a spectacular view of downtown London, not that Elias himself would ever get to appreciate it.

And it was utterly foreign to him.

It smelled like old books and cleaning supplies, it was actually a reasonable enough temperature inside (slightly warm for Elias’ tastes, but then, he always did tend to be on the warm side), and Elias was pretty sure that a single room in the place could easily contain his entire flat from 1996 with room to spare.

At least he wasn’t there alone when he arrived. Jon and Martin had gone off to do... something with the rest of the night (Elias’ money was on them snogging, or possibly doing more than snogging, though he couldn’t say for sure), but Basira, Daisy, and, to his surprise, even Melanie had agreed to accompany him as he entered what had apparently been “his” living space for years now for the first time.

Admittedly, it became immediately apparent that at least one of them had an ulterior motive for volunteering to help Elias.

“What can I break in here?”

Elias instinctively turned towards Melanie, though he knew well enough that she couldn’t see the gesture any more than he could see the expression on her face. “Wow, rude.”

“I mean, I’ve been dreaming for a while now of going to Elias- er, going to Jonah Magnus’ home and trashing the place. And now he’s dead and everything, and this place practically smells like money... c’mon, let me have this. It’s not even your stuff.”

“It literally is my stuff though. I mean, I might not have picked it out, but legally speaking-”

“Right, because you all are so big on following the law, aren’t you?”

Elias wasn’t sure what exactly Melanie was referencing there, but he could definitely feel an uncomfortable tension settle over the room just the same.

“Just let me break something.”

“Nobody’s breaking anything in my flat.” Elias paused, considering what monstrosities might well be waiting inside, especially given what he now knew about Jonah Magnus’ proclivities. “At least not without getting my permission first.”

“You’re no fun.”

Elias probably would have rolled his eyes at that, if he had them. As it was, he let out an exaggerated sigh and trudged further inside.

It took less than a minute before Elias heard the clang of metal striking marble.

“Elias, can I-”

Elias’ shoulders tensed up a little as he prepared for the inevitable question from Melanie, but her speech stopped suddenly, and when it restarted it was softer and shakier.

“I’m sorry, that just- it sounds wrong, to me, I promised myself I’d never ask Elias for anything again, and I know you’re not the same Elias Bouchard but it’s still weird somehow-”

Elias scratched the back of his head nervously. “You could call me Eli, if that’d help. Some of my old school mates used to call me that. ‘s no skin off my back.”

Admittedly, he hadn’t been called that since he was a teenager, which felt like ages ago, and the wrinkles that were starting to cover his skin were proof that it was even longer ago than it felt...

...but Elias remembered those days fondly, remembered how his father would protest because “We named you Elias because we wanted you to be called Elias!” and how that only made him cling to the nickname more fervently in a fit of teenage rebellion, and it felt right, somehow.

Plus, whatever steps he could take to avoid being confused for Jonah Magnus again, Elias would gladly take in a heartbeat.

“Alright then. Sure. Eli, can I break this?”

“You’re gonna have to tell me what ‘this’ is first.”

“Metal statue of a person wearing robes, it’s got eyes and a smile but no nose, which is surprisingly creepy-”

“First off, what’s your plan for breaking a statue made of metal?”

The long hesitation before Melanie’s response was practically an answer in and of itself.

“I’m sure I can figure something out.”

“Aaaand that’s a no from me.”

Melanie let out a huffy sigh.

“Try again?” Elias said in a more encouraging tone.

“Speaking of creepy, get a load of that painting.”

Elias jumped a little at the sound of Daisy’s voice; he’d been so focused on talking to Melanie and making sure she only destroyed things that deserved it that he’d half-forgotten that Daisy and Basira were there as well. The two of them could be surprisingly quiet when they wanted to be, apparently.

“What painting?” Elias asked.

“It’s hanging in the middle of the hallway, old guy wearing fancy Victorian-looking clothes. Dunno who it is, but I don’t like the look in his eyes.”

Daisy and Basira took a few steps closer to the painting in question.

“I think...” Basira let out a soft gasp. “I know who that is. God.”

“Who is it?”

“Jonah Magnus. The original. I read up on the history of the Institute back when I first joined, I remember that face. The smirk’s familiar enough too.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He put a painting of himself in his front hallway? Seriously?”

“Apparently. Not terribly subtle, was he?”

Melanie cleared her throat loudly. “Can I?”

Elias let out a shaky laugh as he replied, “Please.”

The painting was taken off the wall, in a way that sounded like it might have scraped against the paint on the way down, but the state of the paint on the walls of his flat was the least of Elias’ concerns right about now. It got handed to Melanie, who wasted no time in attacking it; the sound of a knife stabbing canvas was a peculiar one, but after a few solid stabs she went from stabbing to ripping, the noise indistinct enough that Elias wasn’t sure if she was still using the knife or was tearing the painting apart with her bare hands.

After a minute or two of tearing, small pieces of what had once been a painting landing on the floor with soft thumps periodically, Melanie wiped her hands on her pants and said, “God, that felt good.”

After a brief pause, she added, “Thanks, I guess. I take back that time I got Tim to call you Elias Douchard-”

“Never heard that one before.” Elias said in the driest tone he could muster.

“-and then he posted it on Twitter dozens of times over--he was so proud of himself, too, even though it wasn’t even his idea--think he got a couple hundred retweets out of it, more than I expected really...”

Elias knew he was going to respond with a question, because how could he not after an apology/confession like that thrust upon him without warning, and two possibilities for what that question might be stood out to him.

This was the first time he’d heard the name Tim--from Melanie, from anyone in 2019--and Elias was naturally curious as to who that might be... but whoever Tim was, he clearly wasn’t a part of their little gang anymore, though it sounded as though he once had been, and regardless of the specifics of how exactly this Tim was forced out of the picture, it was almost certainly an unpleasant story that would bring down the mood right when things were finally starting to get a little less somber.

So instead, Elias went for the safe option.

“What’s Twitter?”

Basira let out a soft snort, and Daisy said, “Oh, you sweet summer child...”

“It’s a website--social media thing, the gimmick is you can only write so much--but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?” Elias asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“...I’m sorry, I guess? I mean, that’s on the Internet forever now. That’s your- your Internet legacy.”

“If a childish pun being part of my ‘Internet legacy’ is the biggest problem I have to face from all of this, I’ll be damn lucky.”

“Fair point.”

They made their way through the hallway and into another room--The living room? Family room? God, Elias didn’t even know the layout of the place well enough to tell--before Basira spoke up.

“Giant eye tapestry on the couch... he really wasn’t subtle, was he? Or maybe he just thought he was being clever...”

“Go for it.” Elias said, a wry smile on his face.

“I- I wasn’t actually-” Basira laughed a little there. Had he heard her laugh before? If so, he couldn’t remember. It had a nice ring to it. “I was just making a comment, but you know what, sure, I’ll destroy it for you.”

“Good. Probably not in the best taste to have eye stuff all over when, well, you’ve got none.”

Elias had meant the comment to be a light-hearted one, but an awkward silence fell over the room. (He still didn’t know which of the group had done the actual eye-gouging bit--and rather preferred it that way, to be honest--but it belatedly occurred to him that it might be a sore point for more than just him, especially since Melanie’d gone through much the same thing.)

The sound he heard from Basira after she grabbed the tapestry off the couch was a much smaller one than he’d expected, a far cry from the grand spectacle of stabbing and ripping that Melanie had performed, and Elias wasn’t even sure what the sound was until he smelled smoke and heard a series of crackling sounds. A lighter opening and flicking on, then, and fire beginning to consume the fabric. She was burning it, then. Sensible enough, he supposed, though...

“Don’t go burning this whole place down, you hear me?”

“I’ll try not to.”

“If you do, you’ll have to replace everything in it for me, you know. Even the spooky shit.” Elias paused briefly, more for effect than to actually consider his next words. “Especially the spooky shit.”

“And bankrupt myself halfway through?” Basira snorted. “Nice try, rich guy.”

Elias let out a hollow laugh, but he couldn’t bring himself to continue their banter further. Basira probably didn’t know it--aside from the general outline of things, he hadn’t gotten that into his life story with them, probably knew more about each of them than they did about the real him--but it wasn’t the first time he’d had his wealth thrown at him as an insult, and maybe it was a stupid thing to be sensitive about, being mocked for being a trust fund kid, but he was sensitive about it just the same.

After a brief pause, probably the others taking the time to realize that Elias wasn’t planning on speaking up anymore, they went back to trudging through the flat, Basira and Daisy giving an ongoing commentary on what was to be found in there. Elias had had his fair share of money before, but it sounded like Jonah Magnus went above and beyond even the usual shows of wealth he was used to. Everything was luxurious and bespoke and impeccably-made. The sight was probably breath-taking, though Elias wouldn’t know, and those who did were hardly in the mood for admiration.

Meanwhile, Elias had grown used to towels filled with holes around his place, partly because replacing them all would make finances difficult for a bit without dipping into his father’s money one way or another, partly because he was just too lazy to bother with hunting down replacement towels in his free time outside of work.

This was... going to be a bit of an adjustment.

“Mantle’s got some big-eyed Russian nesting dolls-”

“Matryoshka.” Basira muttered.

Elias could hear the grin on Daisy’s face as she repeated, “Yeah, like I said, Russian nesting dolls. Don’t like them one bit, something about their expression... Unlike some people-” And here Elias was sure Daisy was staring at and/or gesturing towards Melanie, not that she’d know any better than he did. “-I didn’t come here to break things, but destroying those would probably put me a little more at ease.”

“Sure, why not.” Elias said, a slight sigh in his voice as he wondered how much of a mess the flat--his flat--was going to be by the time the others were done breaking things in it.

Part of Elias was curious to see how exactly Daisy would go about demolishing the nesting dolls that made her so uneasy. Would she go Melanie’s route, stabbing and smashing them until they were unrecognizable? Or something subtler, like Basira’s flames, quiet but still sure in their destruction?

Elias jumped when he heard the gunshot, flinching as the dolls shattered to pieces. He instinctively threw his hands up in front of his face protectively, only lowering them slowly when he heard Daisy softly laughing.

“I- I thought you knew-” she stammered out between laughs.

“That you had a gun? No, I didn’t! Why do you have a gun, anyway?”

Daisy didn’t respond, but as her laughs quieted somewhat Basira joined in with her own, and Elias began to slump down, feeling that somehow he was the one who crossed a line here...

...until Melanie spoke up to defend him when he himself felt too awkward to speak.

“It’s not really that funny, you guys. And it’s a valid question, you know, if you’re- him.”

That emboldened Elias enough for him to speak for himself again. “New rule: no using guns in my house. Didn’t think I needed to specify that, but apparently I do.”

“You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“And why do you have a gun?”

“It’s... it’s complicated.”

“Everything’s complicated with you lot, isn’t it?”

“Like you’re one to talk.” Basira muttered, and Elias could feel his face heating up; rather than respond, though, he just walked onward, forcibly changing the subject as yet more of Jonah Magnus’ household arrangement was uncovered.

They stopped asking to break things, after that, though Elias offered things up for destruction once or twice when they sounded particularly offensive. He realized, as the conversation moved forward, that he hadn’t been the one who had crossed a line there after all, and that they’d probably realized as much as well. Things were calmer, then, a mood of inquisitive exploration rather than righteous destruction.

As Elias walked from room to room of what was now his flat, learning more about what was in it, how perfectly coordinated it all was, how much wealth had clearly been poured into making it just right... it didn’t feel like the space he was exploring was his own. Description after description of the tasteful and mildly eccentric conversation pieces to be found on a number of surfaces there seemed familiar, but not as things Elias himself would have chosen. It felt uncomfortably like this was all his father’s stuff, that perhaps his father had died (had his father died? Elias still didn’t know either way) and he had inherited his old living space. It was an easier scenario to wrap his head around than the reality of things, but not one that really made him feel any better about it all.

Elias would make it his own space eventually, sure, but that would take time, time and effort, and Elias felt like he had used up enough of both already by just getting himself through the day more or less intact.

For now, though, he dragged his hands along the row of suits (”Does this man own a single pair of sweatpants? I know I sure did--what’d he do with them all, bag them all up and give the lot to Oxfam?”), and when Basira noted dryly that he was getting blood on them, he didn’t hesitate in his response.

“Good. That’s a quality aesthetic right there. Imagine me going into a room of businessmen with my fancy bloodstained suit. What are they going to do, point it out, ask where the blood came from?”

He got a few laughs from that, and an appreciative murmur of “Hell of a power move” from Melanie, so that felt like a success, at least. Bloodstains weren’t the kind of mark he really wanted to leave on this place, but it was something, at least. It was... it was a start.

Eventually, the whole of the flat--which was huge, a much bigger space than Elias needed or even really wanted--had been fully explored, and after a bit of awkward discussion, Basira, Daisy, and Melanie left him on his own. It had been a long day, and Elias didn’t hesitate to head to his bed.

The mattress was almost obscenely soft, a far cry from the uncomfortable solid block of a mattress Elias was used to, and it had an imprint in it that fit Elias’ shape perfectly, if he slept on his back. Which he didn’t. Elias was strictly a side sleeper, though he switched which side he slept on periodically, often tossing and turning and switching between the two in the middle of the night.

Elias curled onto his right side and clung to those too-soft sheets and thought about what now was and what had been.

For all the wealth contained within the space that Jonah Magnus had curated as his own over the years, Elias would have gladly traded it all to be back in his shitty, cheap, cramped, falling-apart flat from 1996, to be somewhere that was truly his once more.

He’d never thought he’d wax nostalgic over that flat, had figured he’d be glad to be rid of it once he could get something better, but... well...

Life wasn’t always that simple, was it?

#tma #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing #elias bouchard

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