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The Magic Box, Monday

Eliot was no longer a cat. Nor was he suffering any further from withdrawal. Which meant he had to concede it was time to go back to work.

Even when it was really rather gorgeous outside, breezy and mild, just the sort of weather for him to pretend he was back in Fillory. Or maybe at Brakebills when a naturalist student had fucked up a wind spell. Not stuck on an island that could apparently deny him caffeine or alcohol or even the human form at any moment.

"Yes, yes," he muttered as he looked over the books for sale. "Everyone has a method of turning into an animal. What I want is something that makes you immune to someone else doing it to you."

The books refused to assist. Cowards.

[open!]

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Jon had rather missed Eliot last week. Even if he would have probably enjoyed visiting him as a cat, too. (That would have meant braving Margo on his own, though. He wasn't sure he was quite that brave. Especially uncaffeinated.)

So he was definitely here today! With a large, sugary coffee with plenty of room for other things, given what he'd seen of Eliot yesterday.

"Good afternoon," he offered, holding out the coffee to forestall anything else.

"Jon," Eliot greeted. He reached out to accept the coffee with a nod, slipping his flask out with his other hand and pouring from it with well practiced turn of his wrist. "You missed it. I was a cat."

He was pretty sure Jon knew that. What with the whole All-Seeing Eye thing. And the radio. But he felt it still bore mentioning.

"It wasn't terribly traumatic, so I suppose I could even tell you about it, if you like."

"It does sound interesting," Jon agreed. "I thought of offering to catsit, but I suspected Margo wouldn't let...well, anybody near you, especially me."

"Not unless you suddenly became a professional cat groomer," Eliot said. "I think she took me to one of those three times."

In her defense, his curls had been even more difficult to manage in cat-hair form.

Jon did his best not to smile, but it was a foreign enough feeling that it was difficult. "I imagine you were the best-coiffed cat in the world. I'm wondering if there are pictures."

"I'm sure I have no idea." There were quite possibly plenty of photos, yes. The trick would be Jon getting Margo to share any of them.

Would her dislike of Jon or her desire to mildly ridicule Eliot win out?

"I'm sure you were lovely regardless," Jon assured him. "I've heard of other people becoming animals around here, but never what causes it."

“I have no fucking idea,” Eliot admitted. “Which is making it difficult to try to prevent it from happening again.”

"You think there is a way, then." Jon frowned. "None that I'm aware of, but you could try speaking with people who've been here longer?"

“Right. Socializing. With people. Who are sober.”

He sighed.

“The sacrifices I make.”

Jon shrugged awkwardly. Better you than him, Eliot. "You could offer them drinks," he suggested.

“True,” Eliot said, nodding. “So. What have you been up to, while I’ve been suffering? Did I hear about you . . . eating?”

Jon grimaced. "Probably. Yes. It's, um. Billy. You...you met him yesterday. I'm...I don't really know what to make of him."

“Billy. Huh he looked alright to me.”

Jon sighed. "He said he's had nightmares for ages. Actually asked me what he could do to help feed me. I...do you...I wonder if you think he's sane."

“Do you?!”

"I am...possibly not the best judge of that," Jon said. "It doesn't sound sane, does it? I-I mean, he actually didn't want to avoid them because they help me. That's...that is insane, ri- um. I mean. But he seems...stable? I think."

"It's definitely not . . . not insane," Eliot said. "Is it . . . helping?"

Jon clutched his hair with his free hand. "It's...better than not. So...yes, I think. A little," he admitted. "But it isn't right! He doesn't seem to understand what's really going on. Just, 'oh, I can handle a few nightmares', like they're..they're normal ones, and 'how can I help you' like I'm not a monster feeding on his fucking trauma, and...I have no idea what to do!"

...he might be freaking out about this. Just a little.

“Okay, well. Step one is probably, you know, breathing. I know you maybe don’t technically need to, but it might help just a little. Step two is . . . maybe stop looking the gift mullet-horse in the mouth?”

Eliot was not actually a great moral compass, no.

"I...I don't know if I need to." Jon did his best, though, sucking in a breath and holding it for a moment. "I just...I do. I didn't, for months, but I wasn't awake for that."

He rubbed his face. "I wouldn't expect you to be so calm about it. You know what it's like."

"I know what it's like for me," Eliot said. "And frankly, if this guy doesn't react that way and can keep you fed, more power to him."

"But it's...it's wrong," Jon insisted weakly. His friends...Basira had promised to put him down if he took another unwilling statement. It was monstrous. He was monstrous.

Key word there being unwilling, Jonathan.

"Is it though?" Eliot asked. "It doesn't seem to be hurting him. If it starts to . . . Margo and I know how to cut you off."

Well, he hadn't been willing to give it!

"I did mention that to him," Jon said. "He...I don't think he...well, no. I know he doesn't like magic."

"But . . . eldritch horrors invading his dreams is just fine. Sure."

"I didn't say it made sense!" Jon threw up his hands. "I don't understand how he can be okay with any of it, but you'd think trying to help would be a good idea."

"Maybe it's a self-harm thing," Eliot said, much too casually considering the topic. "He's been bad and the nightmares are his just punishment."

No, that was Jon's thing.

"I...I don't know." Jon sighed. "And the Eye's no good with...with emotions and motivations."

It was probably even worse with them than Jon, and that was saying something.

Eliot eyed Jon knowingly. “Mmhm. The Eye is bad at that stuff.”

"It is!" Jon protested. "It observes, but it doesn't understand. It can tell me what someone's doing, but not why."

The fact that Jon was the man who'd described his feelings about walking through the apocalypse he'd created as "sad" wasn't exactly helping, though, no.

"Yes, isn't unfortunate when the eldritch horror in your life can't assist you with your emotional intelligence."

Jon scowled. "My emotional intelligence is just fine!" he insisted. "Just because I have no idea what's going on in someone's head who may be certifiable doesn't mean I have a problem."

Of course not.

"And I'm sure that's a very comforting idea for you," Eliot assured him. "Anyway, yes. This guy sounds absolutely batshit. But I don't think that means you need to turn him down if he shows up offering again."

Jon sighed and wrapped his arms around himself. "And what if...maybe it will just make me more monstrous."

"And what, exactly, do you think the alternative is?" Eliot asked. "Just starving yourself to desperation so you start sucking on random people?"

Or until a well-meaning friend slipped up again and let him smell something juicy?

"I..." Jon sighed and deflated. "I don't know. I just don't want to lose myself."

"Well, then, you're going to have to figure out a way to rid yourself of the thing entirely," Eliot said. "Which, considering I gather it can basically read your mind. . . . Good luck."

Jon shook his head. "That's not the biggest problem anyway. I...I've been to places where the Eye couldn't reach me," he said quietly. "It doesn't end well."

"Yes, you got quite loopy on my evil eye cocktail. I recall."

"Yes. That was...that was mild," Jon answered. "Just a sort of...fuzziness between us. Not far off of being drunk, only faster. Being without it was...I don't remember, because it all went away."

". . . It all?" Eliot asked, hoping Jon would elaborate.

"In the apocalypse, there was a man with an artifact," Jon explained. "It blocked the Eye entirely. We stayed with him for...about a week, Martin said. But I don't remember any of it. I think...I wasn't very coherent. I know Martin was...he was worried. About what it meant. But as soon as we left, it started fading. Or maybe before that? It's like a dream."

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The Magic Box, Monday

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