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On the whole, it’s fair to say that Jonah’s ability to plan and execute has improved over the years. Omniscience helps, of course, as do the simple benefits of age and experience. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. He’d heard that phrase in a corporate seminar in 1983 that he’d attended purely for the purpose of keeping up with jargon. Back then it had been corporate synergy and boiling the ocean and 80-20 and I’ll just run that up the flagpole. Now it’s all bandwidth and bottom-up and lean in.
Frankly it’s a good thing that Beholding is obliging enough with languages. Even in English ordering two centuries’ worth of slang in his head isn’t easy; yesterday he nearly used the word benjo for no good reason.
The point is that after a century or so of swapping from body to body as circumstances demand, Jonah likes to think he’s ironed out the kinks in the process. But even he has to admit that this one has been something of a botch job.
James Wright’s body is only in its late fifties when the alarm bells start ringing. Twenty years, or thereabouts, since he’d exchanged dear old Richard Mendelson for James, and Jonah’s plan had been to stay put for the foreseeable. After all, one can hardly go about swapping bodies when one has someone like Gertrude prowling around and sniffing at doors.
And it’s not as if Jonah minds being old, really. He’s been old before. The Eye grants him nowhere near the physical robustness of its Archivists, but he’s sturdy enough to bear age with a little more grace than one might expect. James Wright isn’t arthritic, his back, knees and hips are all in fine enough condition. He’s a little paunchy, maybe, but that sort of thing comes with being a type-A of a certain age, along with grey hair and a predisposition towards occasional, condescendingly benevolent acts of generosity whenever somebody looks too mopey to be any real fun.
Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. One must always be in a position to expect the unexpected. But these days Jonah is a little preoccupied with watching Gertrude. Granted, she isn’t quite what he’d hoped—rather than excessively moral or conveniently immoral she instead seems to have fixed on a ruthless sort of utilitarianism. It’s relentlessly entertaining when turned on other Entities of course, and Jonah watches with great interest as she swiftly dispatches a ritual of the Slaughter, turns her gimlet stare onto the Flesh, researches and networks and cajoles and threatens and displays a delightfully hands-on approach to the world of the Fears.
Of course, there’s the chance—the likelihood—that sooner or later she’ll turn her attention to him. Jonah is already planning for that. In the meantime, his efforts are largely expended in keeping up the banal facade of a corporate beancounter, spooling out Gertrude’s patience against his. They both know it’s a shallow parody, at best. Jonah wants to see how long it will take for Gertrude to outright accuse him of something. Gertrude knows that it’s in her best interests to keep things at least theoretically cordial between them, for now, while Jonah’s resources and contacts are still useful.
Even if there’s a gratifying little sub-vocal growl she gets from time to time when she’s feeling especially intransigent. You bastard, I know your game, I’m onto you, I’m watching you. It’s delicious.
Jonah, of course, has something of an iron grip on his subvocals out of decades of practice and absolute necessity. One can hardly carry out a body-hopping racket if one’s subvocals are going to be trilling look at me, aren’t I evil, I’m getting away with it and you have no idea.
One would think that that would drive him towards type-B bodies more often than not, and the thought has occurred, but being robbed of the sound of everyone else feels like ridding himself of a limb. Never mind that he can read their minds anyway, there’s something so much more visceral about hearing the overflow of emotions, the little interpersonal nuances. And participating in them, too, when he feels the need.
Everything is going fine right up until the point where it isn’t. Jonah, comfortably ensconced in James Wright’s body, is halfway through a budget spreadsheet when he feels the first twinge of—something. Like his axis of vision blurs, something fractalling and glinting at his periphery of his right eye and a wave of vertigo so sudden that he wonders for a moment whether Fairchild hasn’t quite literally dropped in.
He reaches for Beholding, first, of course, a motion as natural as breathing to him by now, and finds the connection disturbed, warped, the information drooping and dangling limply over him as he feels the side of his face tingle into numbness and the vision in his right eye whites out entirely—
Ah. He doesn’t need Beholding to figure this one out, but he uses a supreme effort to at least establish the severity, clinging white-knuckled to the desk and listening to the low, keening whine of his own distress call as he thinks transient ischemic attack and then mini-stroke and then oh shit, fuck and hell.
After that, things get a little more urgent.
It’s a transient ischemic attack which means that he isn’t in imminent danger of immediate death, and a good thing too since he’s hardly in a position to carry out delicate surgery on himself when his hands are shaking. Not for the first time Jonah thanks a god he doesn’t believe in that he soundproofed his office years ago because past the ringing in his ears he can hear his own panting breaths, the ragged choke of help me, help me, I’m hurt, I’m hurting, come and help that he can’t quite bite back.
It’s an hour before it passes, and when Jonah comes back to himself he’s pitched awkwardly half-off his chair, torso hanging from the side of his desk and arms dangling limply. His head feels lanced through with pain and he downright whimpers when he tries to move it, shuddering bodily. His vision, at least, is returning, and with it his connection to Beholding—weakened, not severed, and only temporarily—that tells him that his blood pressure is too high.
It might have been nice of Beholding to mention this previously, of course. The Eye doesn’t quite shrug and say you didn’t ask but that’s the gist. Omniscience is only of any use if one asks the right questions. Berating himself for his complacency and biting back whimpers of pain Jonah drags himself from his office as soon as he feels able, taking himself home to plan his next move. If Rosie notices anything wrong, well, it’s helpful corroboration for James Wright’s death in a few days’ time.
---
He needs a body. One already within the Institute, ideally, one that’s young but not too young, one not so close to Gertrude that she’ll notice an abrupt change in demeanour and mannerisms, nor one so far removed from the Archives that she’ll be suspicious. Options are thin on the ground. Years ago Jonah had hired James Wright for this purpose, to give the facade time to grow and mature such that Wright’s accession to Institute Head had seemed the most natural thing in the world. It won’t be so neat this time.
But, needs must. And Jonah is nothing if not pragmatic.
Elias Bouchard is a little too fragile-looking for his tastes, but he’s thick as two short planks and thus easy to coax to the tunnels, easier still when Jonah croons low and comforting in his chest it’s alright, you can trust me, I’m protecting you, you’re safe. Blatantly unprofessional, but Elias—with his untucked shirt and red-rimmed eyes—is hardly a paragon of professionalism.
The deed itself is messy, it’s visceral, it’s well-practiced. Jonah spends half an hour with his head between his knees fighting the lurch of nausea as he adjusts to a new body, to the tang of fear and viscera and urine lying heavy in the air, to the way his noises of pain have flipped from a low keen to a higher whine, trilling plaintively out of his throat.
He hasn’t had a type-O body in quite some time. He’ll adjust. He’ll have to. Elias Bouchard isn’t his first, second or third choice, but anything’s better than a middle-aged body suddenly at a stroke risk.
---
Changing a body comes with its own problems. It’s not just the practical concerns—disposing of the corpse, cleaning the blood, amending the CCTV footage, dealing with the handover, addressing the staff, dissuading the police, getting the deeds to his house transferred, retroactively amending a Will, etcetera ad infinitum, all of that is accounted for.
Elias Bouchard is half a head shorter than James Wright, and a good deal lighter. Bird-boned, sharp-faced, with a frame that means Jonah’s going to have to replace his entire wardrobe, shoes and all. Jonah spends half of his time cursing his old habit of utilising the higher shelves and the other half swiping for things and missing due to his newly-reduced wingspan. His gait is different, muscle-memory directing him to slouch and tip his weight to the side and hunch his shoulders and hang his head, and correcting it gives Jonah an ache in his spine that’ll take weeks to go away.
Muscle memory also has him reaching for a small tin in his pocket containing rolling papers and ticket stubs at the first sign of stress. He doesn’t mind that so much, not when his eye sockets still burn and his throat is wrecked from all the shrieking that Elias tried to do before he died.
But then there’s the voice. Even hoarse and ragged, Elias is loud. The first time Jonah bangs his hip against the side of his desk he almost has to look around to see who on earth is making that racket of oh! It hurt me! It hurt! only to flush scarlet when he realises it’s him.
That’s another thing Elias’ body does. Blush. James Wright’s body was reliably staid and comfortable, well-worn like a pair of shoes. This volatile, blushing, trilling mess is far from ideal.
To top it off he’s allergic to tomatoes now. His best whisky tastes like bleach in his mouth and he can no longer tolerate coriander in foods.
To put it bluntly, in the privacy of his own home (now legally his again thanks to a thoroughly expedited form of probate), Jonah curls his too-narrow limbs onto a too-large sofa and settles in for what could charitably be described as a sulk. And because Elias’ body is as it is, the sulk makes itself manifest in a half-purred drone. Cross. Oh, I’m cross. Look at how cross I am. I’m small and fragile but I’m pissed off so leave me alone.
“Ooh. Get you.”
Jonah resolutely does not jump out of his skin. He refuses to give Peter the satisfaction of knowing that he didn’t anticipate his arrival, the sudden rush of cold air and the absolute vacuum that he creates in Jonah’s fields of vision.
“Can I help you?” he bites out, not even bothering to turn around, listening to the steady drip of saltwater from Peter’s coat, the cracking of his spine as he stretches and stifles a yawn.
“Mm? Oh, probably not,” Peter says cheerfully. “Just thought I’d drop in.”
Of course he did. The only thing with worse timing than a stroke is Peter Lukas.
Jonah drags in a deep breath and clamps down on his throat as hard as he can before he can trill anything embarrassing like oh there you are. As if he was waiting. As if he was expecting a visit. Which he wasn’t, but it would be just like Peter to infer that he had been.
Peter settles on the sofa next to Jonah who glowers at him sidelong and tries not to notice how much bigger Peter looks from this angle. How his contented little sigh makes something tug at Jonah’s chest in a way that he has to ascribe to his new biology because God knows it can’t be affection.
“This is new,” Peter prompts with an exaggerated swoop of his voice, raising his eyebrows. “Whatever happened to Mr Wright?”
It’s a bad joke. It was a bad joke twenty years ago. Peter has nonetheless been doing it for twenty years. And Jonah is really quite in the mood to take out his bad mood on someone or something else so he opens his mouth to tell Peter exactly what he thinks of him only to pause as he’s interrupted.
Lukases, irrespective of their type, are quiet. Jonah isn’t quite sure how they repress their subvocals to such an absurd degree, but they do—a Lukas wedding, a Lukas funeral, both of them are characterised by an eerie silence. Not so much as a whisper of anything approximating a purr or a hum. Anything that need be said is done so verbally, and anything else is unacceptable.
Nonetheless, Peter’s humming a low, inquisitive note of hello, there that Jonah instantly categorises as interest.
“Really?” he snaps, and Peter looks away as if he’s been caught in the act of something (appropriate, as he very much has).
“This is a surprise,” he retorts, clearly doing his best to sound affronted, and Jonah snorts.
“It wasn’t for your benefit.”
“No,” Peter agrees. No? hums its way underneath it. Jonah curls his lip. This would have been easier in Wright’s body; he could have snarled something appropriately condescending and biting to put Peter in his place. The type-O equivalent that wants to creak out from between his ribs is less I’m a threat, back off and more you’re a big stupid meanie.
Whether or not Peter is a big stupid meanie is neither here nor there. If he doesn’t already know that then Jonah isn’t going to be the one to tell him.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he begins icily, “I’m not in the mood for your typical brand of aggravation. Is there something you want?”
Peter makes a face like he’s bitten on a lemon, already fading at his edges, but the sounds that leave him—
They’re confusing, to say the least. An odd mixture of ouch, I get the message and aren’t you lovely and yes, you, you, you. Jonah leans back and gives Peter a hard stare and thanks every past Archivist he’s had for the practice he’s gained in holding back his own idiot subvocals so he can at least maintain his own dignity.
Because it’s not that this is anything new, per se. He and Peter have their history. Jonah has spent the last decade (on and off, mostly off) taking the occasional opportunity to nuzzle into the crook of Peter’s neck and resist the covetous purr of mine, you’re mine. And if it had broken out, well, at least it’s sufficiently villainous that Peter can only poke so much fun.
It’s just that he’s never heard Peter croon like this before, never seen him flush at being called out on it. Peter’s white-knuckled on the sofa, hands twisting uncomfortably, and Jonah raises his eyebrows.
“Well. If this is how you react to being confronted with me now, just imagine what it’ll be like when I’m in heat.” Bold. Stupid. But it’s worth it for the way Peter’s eyes snap wide open, the creak of his underused voice as he rumbles yes, me, yes, pick me, pick me and immediately looks like he’s going to die of embarrassment.
Jonah thinks he might actually laugh himself into another stroke.
“Stop that,” Peter hisses furiously. “You can’t just say that.” No! I’m—I’m scary! Look at how scary I am!
“It’s my body, Peter, I very much can.” Hahaha, I’m laughing anyway.
“James.”
“It’s Elias now.”
“Jonah.” Ah—and that’s Peter’s hand pressing him into the sofa, splayed across his chest. Good God, he’s enormous. Elias Bouchard’s treacherous, idiot body chirps out a little tri-tone oh, hello and Jonah stops laughing abruptly.
“Let’s chalk this up to experience,” he says after a pregnant pause, watching that odd mixture of arousal and fury and humiliation play over Peter’s face. It’s an irritatingly good look on him. “Really. I’d no idea you were quite so interested in type-Os. Is this a kink I don’t know about?”
“My kinks are none of your business.”
Pull the other one comes trilling straight from Jonah’s throat. Which is fine, actually. He’d have said that one out loud anyway. Peter flushes again, looking away.
“I don’t have a thing for- it’s not- look, it’s just a surprise. I’ve never seen you as anything other than a type-A.” Pick me, pick me, let me show you why you should.
Jonah presses his lips together hard to keep from laughing again. “Ah. So it’s not about the biology. It’s about-”
“Yes. It’s about you.” Peter hisses, looking downright incensed by it.
And that’s alright. Jonah supposes it makes a sort of sense. He’s spent most of his time so impassive, so implacable, so thoroughly in charge of their little altercations that he supposes seeing him in a state of any vulnerability might be of inevitable interest to a man like Peter Lukas. Not that he’s vulnerable. But if Peter’s fool enough to think he is, well, Jonah isn’t going to disillusion him.
It’ll iron itself out in a few weeks, these things always do. Before long Peter will have got a handle on whatever this thing of his is, and Jonah will be back to letting out only those trills and chirps he intends to. For now, there’s an easy hum growing in his chest. All’s well. This is fine. Settle down. And despite himself, Peter does seem to be appeased by it.
Jonah spares a fond thought for how much easier it’s going to be to manipulate Peter after this. He’s still got his hand on Jonah’s chest.
Yes? comes swooping out from Peter. He’s not blushing anymore, lips already curving into that banal, empty smile of his. Yes? Yes?
Jonah tries for that rumble of mine that had once been so nice to purr while he bit into the meat of Peter’s shoulder. It comes out strange and distorted, first by his new throat and then by the press of Peter’s lips against his, a sweet little chatter of home, I’m home, I’m home.
It’ll do for now.