Absit Omen RPG
Role-Play Boards => St. Mungo's => London => First Floor: Creature-Induced Injuries => Topic started by: Adon Eleor on March 20, 2011, 04:46:51 PM
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“One receives as reward for much ennui, despondency, boredom --such as a solitude without friends, books, duties, passions must bring with it --those quarter-hours of profoundest contemplation within oneself and nature. He who completely entrenches himself against boredom also entrenches himself against himself: he will never get to drink the strongest refreshing draught from his own innermost fountain.”
--Frederich Nietzsche
Well, Adon didn't care what anyone tried to reassure him with. He was making a miraculous recovery from near death. Great. Soon, he'd be going home. Fantastic. He had time to rest away from the bustle of the world and pressures of a job. Alright.
But Adon was bored to frustration, and this brewing feeling of restlessness was about to hit a boil. And he'd only been conscious for 10 minutes today. He gave a gutteral groan in response to the sharp, rapping knock that rang repetitive into his ears -- boring into his head like a woodpecker.
"What?" he asked irritably, turning to his side and throwing the sheet over it. From beneath the sheet, he spied the grandmother clock on the bedside table -- yet another one of his mother's "homey touches" -- and judged, from the time, that it was most likely his mother. It was likely too late; he had, in all probability slept past her morning visit and offers of cinnamon rolls and pumpkin juice. And it was much too early for Dreogan. Joh'd be at work, and so, really, the only person he could presumably suspect was the doctor or his mother.
Throwing off the sheet, Adon quickly attempted to appear ready by reaching over for the book she brought -- the one she'd been nagging him about and telling him bits and pieces of the story, even though he'd been very clear: no. spoilers. Not that he particularly wanted to read The Mysterious Workings of -- Adon flipped over the book and read the title -- Rhoderic Persamon: a Travel Saga in Three Parts, but if it was a good excuse to hear a little bit less about that time Rhoddy -- his mother and the protagonist were on first-name terms -- and Vesper meet in Italy for the first time, only to realise that it wasn't their first time, and . . .
Why were women so ridiculously sentimental? And they all read exactly the same. "A woman, struggling against all odds . . . a man, with a dark secret. Only she can unlock his heart." It was no wonder why there were so many frustrated, aging cat-ladies out there. Their expectations were vastly unreal, even in the magical world. And it made their books hell to get through. All three volumes! From the dusty and yellowed sheafs of parchment that carried the romantic, florid tale, Adon'd be inclined to say the tale was written 300 years ago, and probably should have stayed in at least the 19th century. This was probably one of those ridiculous "Bewitching" tales that all those pureblooded women were infatuated with. Adon'd even rather read Slither Girls. Mostly to look at the rather appealing photo of the author on the back. He wouldn't mind spoilers, there!
Dropping the book into his lap, he looked up at the visitor, "Jonas Trevelyan," he said as the red hair and long face registered. He cracked a bit of a smile. "You're welcome in, so long as you can provide conversation on any topic but that bastard Rhoderic Persamon."
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It hadn't taken much stretching of the truth to come up with excuses that would keep him away from the hospital. After the assassination attempt, Jonas had been running ragged trying to keep up with the resulting investigation. Identifying their assassin, questioning her, following up on leads, interviewing witnesses, writing reports, compiling the evidence, and then dealing with the very unhappy Department Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, who seemed to be taking the fact that they had managed to blow up half a Muggle street far more personally than he should be -- all of it had ensured that the recently-hired Auror had not had a moment to catch his breath since Sunday.
He hadn't been avoiding Adon, precisely, but his partner's elder brother had been very clear about how welcome Jonas's presence would be if he showed his face at Adon's bedside. With all the chaos of the assassination's aftermath, the red-haired Auror had been too exhausted and exasperated to fight it. Let Dreogan play the part of the noble sacrificing friend and brother; Jonas could swallow staying away if it staved off another battle.
But whether or not Dreogan approved of the visit, he couldn't stay away forever. Jonas had begged a favor off of Dean Bailey, who had used his superb investigative skills to nonchalantly waltz onto Level Four and make certain that the elder Eleor was planning to work through the end of the day. Once Dreogan's work hours were confirmed, Jonas had gathered up the papers he needed and left in a hurry for St. Mungo's, making a couple of stops along the way.
It hadn't been hard to locate Adon's room. He had knocked lightly, waiting for permission to be granted before pushing the door open. Jonas hadn't been entirely certain what sort of reception to expect, but at the younger man's immediately cracked smile, he broke into a grin.
"Oh, hell. There goes the entire line of conversation that I had planned for the next three hours," he countered nicely, any sarcasm in his tone completely belayed by the way he was beaming at Adon as he limped over to his friend's bedside. "Good on me for remembering to bring this chess set, or we wouldn't have anything to do for the rest of the bloody afternoon."
Still grinning, he dropped his messenger bag on the floor and then lowered himself carefully into one of the chairs. "Nice place you've got here," he remarked cheerfully, glancing at the surrounding collection of personal items. "Did you do the decorating job yourself, Houdini? Might have to ask you to come over and help out with redoing the office once you tear yourself away from this place."
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Jonas' jarring perkiness had ceased to be jarring at this point--they'd reached that level of familiarity with one another. Or perhaps it was just that Jonas -- was he actually being genuine? Adon had a glimmering hope. Until chess was mentioned.
"Auch!" Adon protested shortly, turning his head away from Jonas and closing his eyes. Adon had left playing a game of chess in order to get himself blown to pieces and he still hadn't regretted it. In case further elaboration was needed, he expounded: "Not that. I hate chess. I haaate chess." It made him feel peevish and made his head hurt just thinking about it. Except that he was pretty sure he had a headache before this, and by all accounts of his mother, he had most probably always been peevish.
"If that's the best you've got by way of welcoming presents, I'll cast a blind eye--close my eyes for ten minutes, and'll give you a second chance to come back with something," he said, finally. His eyes were already closed, but he turned his face once more in Jonas' direction, waiting a moment.
He cracked an eye open, slightly. "Did you bring me anything? You know, other than your presence. I'm talking presents." Presumptuous. Cocky. He didn't really care. He was in a hospital bed -- it was his right.
Jonas tried to distract by talking about the scenery -- the infamous "small talk before getting to the point" approach -- which made Adon shake his head, open his eyes, and sigh knowingly. "Mother's embellishments. Though I wouldn't mind showing you a thing or two about decorating -- magazine clippings don't count." Adon was waiting for the Witch Weekly articles -- now a month old to start making their way onto the walls.
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Jonas laughed, flashing the other man a crooked grin as he picked up his messenger bag. "What, now I'm getting guilted into giving you blood presents because I got you stabbed?" he asked cheerfully, not looking as though he felt the least bit pressured by the emotional weight. "I would've thought that me presence was enough of a gift, Eleor. Unless you want to go back to chatting about Roderick What's-His-Name," he added with a wink.
Still grinning, he dug into the satchel, retrieving a few crisp-looking, newly purchased books to toss onto the bedside table.
"Reckoned you could do with some reading material," he informed Adon with a lopsided smile, piling them up one-by-one. "I brought a couple with mostly pictures, just in case the reading itself is too much for you. Can't say it's quite as --" He eyed the spine of the three-part Travel Saga, looking as if he were struggling not to laugh. "-- cultured as what you've already got, mate, but there's Israelis in one of 'em," he added, looking incredibly pleased with himself at having managed to identify such an appropriate volume. "And explosions. And a plague killing every last man but one. Thought you might enjoy it a bit."
It took a good deal of self control not to dissolve into further laughter at the revelation that Adon's mother had decorated her son's hotel room. Clearing his throat -- despite his conflicts with her older son, Jonas had liked Hestia Eleor quite a bit and didn't entirely want to invite her wrath down on himself, even if he found her overprotectiveness to be hilarious -- he leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.
"Yeah, don't worry, I finally ran out of Witch Weekly copies after wallpapering your cubicle two days ago," he assured Adon amusedly. Which wasn't entirely the truth; he'd saved enough to hand out to some of the Mediwitches on his way in. Judging by their responses, the Israeli had apparently already earned a bit of a reputation as a Romeo. "Haven't had time to drop in to a copy shop and make any more. You'd be surprised at how much more work there is to be done when a bloke's down his partner," he concluded, flashing the younger man a crooked smile.
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Adon shook his head disapprovingly. "No; I could go back to sleeping. . . unless you make it worth the headache of consciousness."
Adon's body still ached painfully. Particularly his stomach and right hand. Sleep was welcome, but the lack of company was tedious and left one with too many memories, regrets, and forgotten moments that one alternatively tried to remember and dreaded recollecting.
"So what have you got?" he asked, stretching his neck slightly to get a better look. Adon didn't, for some time, bother with the somewhat painful motion of moving until he thought it either worth his time or necessary for politeness. "Huh." he said hesitantly, looking at the cover (http://www.dccomics.com/media/product/1/7/1736_400x600.jpg). "What's with the monkey?" The third picture on the bottom offered an image of a woman in a bra. Probably more interesting than Roddy's escapades.
"Do the Israelis win?" Next question -- if he asked too many more, he'd look interested or impressed.
Which was much easier not to appear while seemingly disgusted at Jonas' perpetual reference to Witch Weekly. "Easy, there, Joan. I don't see you going about to the same efforts for Fox and Radley. I will begin to think you have a little crush on me." He gave a ragged smile as he regarded Jonas, a twinge of sympathy. "Still. Glad to know you're spending the time pining away after me, instead of just taking over the case and messing up my files."
Which was, of course, why Adon'd hunted him down to come after his blood in the first place. . . Three months ago. Shit. Three months?
Life was simply dizzying. Or maybe he was simply dizzy.
"Look," he began before realizing he didn't, exactly, know what he was wanting Jonas to listen to. Adon reached out for one of the comic books, leafing through it slightly. "Thanks."
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The red-haired man chuckled again, flashing his friend a bright smile. "Really want me to ruin the ending for you, mate?" he asked, favoring Adon with a bemused look. "And I thought we'd been over that, Eleor. I'm not that sort of wizard."
The expression of gratitude, however potion-induced it might have been, was far more awkward than any speculation on his wizard-ness might be. Jonas gave an easy shrug, avoiding the younger man's gaze as he pretended to study the cover that housed Mr Persamon, which housed a rather sultry looking wizard who was peering -- gazing? -- as it posed in various manly positions on the cover.
"Keep this in mind when you get back to the office and realize what a state I've left the casefiles in," he replied with a crooked grin. "Speaking of which..."
Jonas glanced back at the still open door, and then carefully boosted himself to his feet. "I won't tax you with work too much, but there are a couple of things I need to ask you about," he informed Adon quietly, starting over to close it. They didn't need a repeat of the Groust incident; if Jonas had his way, that indiscretion would be quietly swept under the magic carpet and Adon would never know that he'd given away information to a reporter. "They didn't by chance give you any sort of Do Not Disturb sign so that you can keep healers out during the nuptial visits, did they, Houdini?"
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"Which gives away the ending? The monkey or the Israelis? I'm not reading it if the Israelis in it are worthless," he threw out his ultimatim doubtingly.
The wizard joke took longer to die than the Witch Weekly ones -- arguably, Adon decided, because it was funnier. And at Jonas' expense. And because he was more persistent than Trevelyan. "That's what she said," he retorted. It was all a bit cloudy, how that one actually worked; he only knew it was good.
So good that he couldn't help but chortle at his own joke for good measure. He grinned. "You know it's funny, Joanie," he chided Jonas. Adon was being particularly nonesensical right now, the rational artifacts of his mind input. Unfortunately neither the rational nor rational consciences seemed to particularly care right now.
"You say 'yer welcome, mate,'" Adon said with a grin in his best Cornish...Cornwallian...his best impersonation of Jonas.
But Jonas distracted himself and moved on. Work.
Rolling his eyes rather dramatically, Adon sighed. "Sock," he replied. "That's universal language for -- and I know you're not into that, but --" Adon shrugged. That's why it was funny. If Jonas actually were into that, Adon sure has hell wouldn't have joked about it. And not because it was incorrect or anything. It was just . . . no.
"Just use a sock. Mum left an entire stash of them . . . somewhere." Because she'd suggested he change his. Which he didn't remember doing. Curiously, Adon tugged the blanket and sheets towards him with increasing force until they broke free from the weight of the mattress, sending him flying back into the pillows. He winced at the tight feeling in his stomach and the shooting pain in both his arms and his belly. "Shhhhit."
However, he'd achieved his goal: his toes were finally visible. His bare toes. "Moloch," he hissed. "Yeh, there should definitely be some socks lying around!" he called to Jonas, watching his toes give an experimental wiggle, trying to catch his breath from the burst of pain.
He glanced back over at Jonas, slightly concerned. "This going to be long? I don't want them to not bring me. . ." there were too many parts in that sentence. He started again. "If they come by with potions, I will want them." Because that didn't feel so good. And because the potions still made him feel sooo good.
Lapsing into silence a moment, he added, "I hear you hit her with a car." The unprecedented display of violence on his behalf was one of the most considerate things anyone had ever done for Adon.
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In the time it took Adon to finish determining that socks were, indeed, the best way to indicate that the room was occupied, Jonas had already dug through the drawers, found a pair, and started for the door, trying to keep himself from obviously laughing. At the statement about the potions, the red-haired man had smiled crookedly and grabbed his notebook, tearing off a page to scribble out a quick 'KNOCK IF YOU HAVE POTIONS' sign.
He'd started for the door with both sign and sock in hand before Adon spoke again. Jonas glanced back at him, raising his eyebrows, and then gave a half shrug.
"Yeah," he agreed, turning away again. That was still a bit of an uncomfortable subject. It wasn't that Jonas had hit the assassin with a car -- he was actually quite proud of that, especially since word of the incident seemed to be spreading of its own accord -- but the fact that the ramming had been necessary because he couldn't do magic. Under slightly different circumstances, the entire situation could have been much, much worse.
But all of that -- his lack of magic, the curse, even the fact that Vedir Prideaux had put the pieces together and figured out the former -- was his problem, not Adon's. Jonas draped the sock over the doorknob, balanced the sign precariously on top of it, and closed the door behind him, returning to his seat by Adon's bed.
"So first," he said, digging into his messenger bag. He retrieved a large, flat envelope, covered with carefully written script. "This came for you. It's Arabic," he added unnecessarily as he passed it to his partner. Determining that and ruling out every other language that Adon could probably speak had taken quite some time the night before when he'd been pouring over Gwenna's computer. Between her help with that and her work on the invitation, Jonas thought he might have to offer his daughter a consulting position with Level Two. "I glanced inside it, but I couldn't make head's or tails out of it. I wasn't sure if it was important or not."
"And second..." He paused, giving Adon a moment to rifle through the contents. What was the best way to phrase this, without giving anything away that the younger man might repeat in less-than-choice circumstances?
"I think I might have a lead," he said carefully, feeling out the words on his tongue. "But I think we'll have better luck following up on it if we can start on the other end of things, at least geographically." His forehead creased as he regarded Adon seriously. "Do you have a contact back in Jerusalem who you reckon'd help us out?"
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"Yeah," Jonas replied with less exhuberance than he'd expected -- or, frankly, hoped for. Maybe Jonas regretted taking Azorma down so totally and completely. . . It seemed unlikely. Maybe someone was giving him crap for it. Much more likely. "Raynor's not on your case about it, is she?" he asked. "Because you did what you had to." There was an edge to his voice. "And I'm not sorry for a second that you did it."
Jonas was dodging. Adon was too tired to pursue it, so with a sigh, he watched Jonas reach for an envelope. At the mention of Arabic, Adon might have laughed, but his brow was already knit as he tried to read the text on the approaching envelope.
Taking it into his hands, he broke the seal and pulled out a loose leaf of parchment. His face turned from one of concern to shock. Quickly, he turned it over, seeing only a blank back. He checked the envelope--nothing more inside--and frowned, reading the message again.
"It's from Thea. . ." he murmured faintly over Jonas' talking. "I don't know. . ." he looked up to Jonas.
He'd known--at least he thought he did--that Jonas had been talking. Because he was the only person in the room, it must have been to him. "What?" Now he remembered -- the words "back in Jerusalem" had just been spoken. But that could refer to nearly anything. Thea was back there. And she seemed to be mentioning, well he didn't exactly know what. A bit more about Katsaros, some mention of her parents. . . He shook his head, trying to clear it.
"She mentions Katsaros. . ." He looked back at Jonas, pleadingly. "I don't understand. What did you ask?"
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Whatever had been in the letter, it had apparently been engrossing enough that Adon had missed the entirety of what he'd just said. Jonas started to open his mouth, prepared to repeat himself ad nauseum, and then paused halfway,his expression relenting as he closed it carefully again.
It wasn't fair to dump work on his friend, not when he was so obviously still recovering. Adon had been hit hard by the attack, and even days later, it was still showing. The Israeli Auror normally seemed so vibrantly full of life, and seeing him like this, tired and worn, was as disconcerting as watching him get stabbed had been. Bringing the letter, questioning him about contacts, didn't seem quite as urgent as it had when Jonas had left the office.
Most of it could wait. Or he could figure it out on his own. The letter was the only thing that Jonas couldn't piece together without the younger man's help, and if it was about the criminal who was supposed going to cause Adon's death, then it was probably better translated sooner rather than later.
"I asked if there was anyone back in Jerusalem that I could get in touch with to follow up on a Runespoor lead," he said with a slight frown. "But that can wait, mate. What does she say about Katsaros?" he asked, his forehead creasing as he changed the subject. "Translate it for me out loud, yeah?"
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A Runespoor lead. Sounded important. Adon didn't exactly have it in him to want to go make flow charts and statistical breakdowns, but he was sure, eventually, he would.
"But that can wait, mate." Jonas had an aggravating way of confirming he was as much of an invalid as he felt.
"No," Adon said, feeling increasingly more peevish. No "playing easy" here. He irritably waved his pain-giving hand -- why did it have to be the right one? -- and dropped it onto his lap, cradling it atop the letter and glaring at it accusatorially. As punishment, he wouldn't use it again for another hour. And it would serve it right. Damn it.
"It was a. . . he was. . . " He hefted a sigh. "Adnan. He was my partner in Jerusalem. And so we worked the same cases. Knows everything I know and lived through a lot more before that. He runs the department, now. Musallam."
Another sigh, of relief to have been able to get that out, before looking to Jonas. That hand wasn't moving, and neither was the letter underneath it. "Nnnng," he moaned, closing his eyes tightly. "What's the point. S'just a letter."
Which required thinking and real introspection. Neither of which Adon felt particularly keen on. The brain-dimming prose of Persamon would be appropriate, now.
Or better: "How're the kiddos? Missing me, I'm sure."
A little compliment fishing. "Has Gwenna dismantled any more furniture recently? What was she building? A barricade?"
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This was, Jonas knew, an exercise in letting things go. He eyed Adon, trying very hard not to look at the letter, and then let a slow breath out. It didn't matter. It wasn't urgent. If it was urgent and the younger man changed his mind when he was slightly more coherent in a day or two, he would certainly let his partner know. For the moment, Jonas knew that he did not need to know everything about every detail, although it was unfortunately one thing to logically tell himself that and quite another to actually take it to heart.
"Yeah, she built a full size statue to you in the living room," he replied, flashing the younger man a grin. He was not looking at the letter. "And it was a gallows, actually, not a barricade. Anna made her tear it down once Artie started screaming bloody murder about it."
He was not looking at the letter. He was not going to ask about the letter. "Of course they're missing you," he agreed good-naturedly, lacing his fingers together. Not looking at the letter. "You should see the office too, Eleor. Since you've been out, the entirety of Level Two's been so morose, it's a wonder we've gotten any work done. Pratt's been breaking down in tears every time he walks by your desk. Radley and Fox moping about. Hell, even Raynor's been sitting around, just staring forlornly at a cupcake," he concluded cheerfully. He was not looking at the --
Oh, hell.
"You sure there's nothing in that letter that I need to know about?" Jonas asked, the words coming out quick and clipped as if that made the inquiry slightly more forgivable. "You need me to follow up on something for you, I can, Adon," he added earnestly, giving the other Auror a half-pained, half-sheepish smile. "Reckon it's the least I can do whilst you're out on paid holiday."
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But Adon knew sarcasm -- he knew that what was said was what was not true. He couldn't imagine any of the things Jonas had described, save, perhaps, the effigy in Jonas' sitting room. It made him wonder if anyone missed him at all. Sincerely. Not just sarcastically. They were all so overworked, they probably didn't even notice. Unless it was because they felt he'd added to their workload by being down an Auror. It was still somewhat perplexing. Adon usually felt like he was A Person to Know most places he went. But here in the London office . . . it wasn't exactly a secret, that Adon didn't get on with many people other than Jonas and -- more casually -- Archer. He just couldn't figure out why. Usually, he didn't have to solicit friendship with people; they solicited him. Here, they were all so worn down or crotchety or soul-less. . . Adon'd didn't exactly understand it. He missed the inviting openness people seemed to have in the Middle East.
Forcing a smile, he nodded. "And here I was, thinking they'd get by without me," he responded sarcastically in kind. "The place is probably overrun with horrible snapdragons, since that's all I'm good for." The second runner-up to a building-up compliment-a-thon was a pity-party. Adon hurt. His ex-fiancee was mad at him, he had two people that either had tried to or would try to kill him, and he hadn't had any form of alcohol in over a week.
That done -- Jonas circled back to the letter, and Adon, who had not had the energy to explain the letter the first time around, found now that he didn't have the energy to keep Jonas from forcing the explanation, either. He just wanted a beer. Then a nap.
Puffing air from his cheeks again, Adon shifted against the pillows, which were slipping beneath his back from his recent lunge for the bedsheets. Speaking of which, his feet were cold. "Socks?" he asked, tilting his head towards the drawer where Jonas had produced the first one.
Blandly, he rattled it off: "She was wanting to follow up on Terry because -- you know -- I'd asked her for any names that sounded like Katsaros and looked at Beit Gaddol registration records. She followed up before. After January fifth. I told her he'd possessed Dree, but we didn't know more, and I'd let her know. I gave her Fox's information."
He rubbed his hand over his face before pinching the ridge of his nose. These potions were already wearing off. Hadn't he just taken them? The pain was supposed to be getting less, right? Why did his head hurt anways?
"Anyways. I think she just wants to talk to me. I don't think anyone else will do. But if you can find a way to get me out of it. . . s'appreciated. I've ignored enough of her letters. They've started to bite. This one didn't?" There was a momentary silence before Adon once more glanced down at his exposed toes. "My feet are cold," he sighed dramatically. Seriously. Nothing in this world was going right.
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The red-haired man listened carefully, glancing respectfully away at the wall as he listened to his friend speak. The situation sounded moderately familiar. He'd never pressed Adon for details about any sort of past relationships; as far as Jonas was concerned, if he didn't ask, that meant that he never had to share himself. But dealing with a significant other when the relationship had gone sour -- that stung. That was one particular type of pain that he could sympathize with all too well.
"I'll see what I can do, mate," Jonas agreed seriously, glancing down at the letter. Avoiding conversations was relatively easy; at least he had plenty of experience with that, even if he didn't have the best track record of successfully dealing with the consequences.
The younger Auror's repeated complaint was enough to earn a smile. Jonas fought back a chuckle, giving Adon an amused look as he climbed carefully to his feet. "What, you want me to park a car on top of them, too?" he asked nicely, tone lightening as he scanned over the room.
Putting socks on his friend's feet was a little too uncomfortable for his liking, but there was an extra blanket sitting on a shelf in the open closet. Jonas grabbed it, unfolding it halfway, and then tossed it over Adon's extremities.
"Have to say that your bit in front of the Ministry was pretty impressive though, Houdini, from what I could see of it," he remarked, shooting the younger man a lopsided grin as he reclaimed his seat. If there was one thing that seemed likely to cheer Adon up, it was bragging about his martial prowess. "Especially with a knife in you. Reckon I ought to get you to teach me a trick or two. That's what they teach you lot in the military?" he asked interestedly, settling in the chair again. "Can't imagine you even need magic to take some bastard down."
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At the offer, Adon forgot to be irritated. He forgot why he was irritated; after all, Jonas was going to fix it, anyhow. "Well. . . see if you could. . . if you mention that I'm here, and can't write back. . ." He frowned as he closed his eyes, considering if there could be any negative effects of this.
That'd buy him "about. . .three days," he mused to himself. After explaining Thea's letter -- as much as he wanted and no more -- he looked back at Jonas, to see what he thought of the proposal, only his partner was busy moving about the room for something. He sighed. "My feet are cold."
"What, you want me to park a car on top of them, too?"
Adon's face grew grave as he timidly looked down at his feet. He tried to draw them closer to himself, to hide beneath the sheet. Still several inches short. Helpless against the prospect of automotive demobilization, he quietly said, in a plaintive tone, ". . .No. . ." He looked sheepishly at the wool blanket curled around his feet, now, still folded. Jonas wasn't even going to tuck them in. Not that he was going to be ungrateful. "Thanks."
Jonas' animation increased, making Adon listen a bit more intently. Usually Jonas only put on tones for some sort of effect from his listener. Adon frowned, trying to figure out what that might be, and if he wanted to give it to him this time. The flattery was, well, flattering. But Adon couldn't fully agree. "Yeh," he said with a bit of a sigh. "It'd've been better if I didn't get a knife in me in the first place. I should have--if I'd had more distance between us, or if I'd thought to listen more carefully to Dree's accent. . .It's like Spence all over again. . ."
He continued hastily, as someone who has had too much time to focus on something, having recited it several times over. He said it all at once. ". . . and I shouldn't have roundhoused it, you know. Because of the balance. If I did less--like not Apparated. . . I'd have had more in me for later. But, I mean, I wasn't really thinking of later. But I should have." He looked up at Jonas. "You know?"
He puffed some air from his cheeks, glad to get that out. "You asked about the military? I didn't really fight like that, there. . . Only used magic a few times; almost always wandless, but sometimes it happens whether I planned for it or not. But I mean, the fighting -- we don't really use it. Not often. Still have to learn it though." He looked at Jonas. Had that been the question? "I use that fighting more in the magical world than I did in the military." Mostly because in the IDF, there'd always been rubber bullets.
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It was distinctly unsettling how much time the younger man had already obviously spent replaying the incident in his head. Jonas couldn't really deny that he'd done exactly the same; running through a scenario over and over again was far more sleep-inducing than counting sheep ever would be, especially when something was lingering on his mind. But he still didn't particularly like the fact that Adon felt responsible enough for what had happened that he felt obligated to relive it.
The reference to Aberdeen Spencer in particular was enough to make Jonas grimace. That was one subject he'd never broached with the younger man; avoiding uncomfortable topics all together was far preferable to referencing them offhandedly in a conversation.
"Well, we ever get caught in a position again where a Metamorphmagus is imitating your brother, we'll know better the next time, won't we?" he asked lightly, flashing the younger man a dry smile. He took a deep breath and then shook his head. "Reckon we came out as well as we could've, Adon," he said with a shrug, his eyes flickering to meet the younger mans' gaze. "I'm sorry you got knocked about so much, but at least no one died from it all, yeah? If we'd waited for them to come after us instead of setting up Mulogo as a target, I can't think it would've ended so well."
That was something that had the potential to give one nightmares. If they hadn't expected it -- even if Jonas and Adon hadn't both been there and somewhat alert, it was all too easy to imagine which way the confrontation would have gone. It made the thought of going back to living entirely alone in his office somewhat foreboding. Without magic, there was no way that Jonas would stand a chance if some other assassin attacked him there.
"And I reckon you did alright with it, mate," he said again reassuringly, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leaned back in the chair. "Like I said, soon as you get out of here, might have to get you to show me a trick or too. Might be worth thinking through some code phrases, too," he added thoughtfully. "Got enough blokes running around with Polyjuice potion and possession spells now, even aside from the Metamorphs. Reckon it'd be smart to be ready if something like this happens again."
-
"Well, we ever get caught in a position again where a Metamorphmagus is imitating your brother, we'll know better the next time, won't we?"
"Yeh," Adon said with a grim smile. "We have possession down already--actually, I thought at first, that that was. . . I might have told Katsaros off. And it wasn't even Katsaros." It felt a little bit funny, now. Thinking about it. Mostly because he'd been kneeing Azorma Hyskos at the time he'd said it. His smile grew timid; more boyish, but faded when Jonas tried to cheer him up. Could have been worse.
"Yeh," Adon responded with a shrug of his own. "I'm actually really angry about that. Knocked around. . ." he explained before glancing back down at the white sheet covering his legs. His candor had, perhaps, been unwelcome. "But it worked," he conceded. Except for that bit where they didn't really break the ring yet, so they'd probably need to spend the rest of their lives guarding Mulogo from assassin after assassin. But they were all alive. He really needed Jonas to remind him all the reasons he needed to be happy about this. He'd already forgotten.
"Is she alive?" he mumbled quietly. Jonas might not have heard; he was continuing about tricks.
Adon looked at the man, heaving a sigh. "Well, sure," he said with a shrug. "Break me from this place, a little booze, and it's th'least I could do." He paused and waited a minute, screwing his face up at 'code phrases.'
"Or you could just work on your magic," he stated bluntly. "The car -- that was fantastic." Adon's drained voice disguised the sentiment--whether sarcastic or sincere. "But you could try something more immediate. There won't always be cars."
-
The red-haired man paused for a long moment.
"Yeah," he said after a beat. "I don't know how much working on the magic's going to help though, Houdini. It's not just like I'm just out of practice," he confessed quietly, interlocking his fingers together. "I mean, I was, but I was trying with it."
He paused again, pressing his tongue against his teeth as if he were feeling the sound of each word out before he tried it. Being out of practice had been frustrating enough. He'd spent hours sitting in his office trying to master simple cleaning spells again; he'd once locked himself out on the street for half a day when a well-meaning attempt to remaster Alohomora had proved less successful than he would have thought. But even then, it had never been a question of doing magic. Jonas might not have had full confidence in his abilities after so long spent away, but even in the worst moment, he'd never had a problem spotting the Leaky Cauldron or getting his wand tip to light with a murmured Lumos.
"You...remember the dagger I told you about, yeah?" he asked, his eyes finding Adon's. "The one Aileen Reid hired me on to find? I was alright with magic before that," he said with a nonchalant shrug. "I mean, not great -- it'd been years since I really used it -- but I still could cast spells and whatnot."
He let out a quick breath, forcing the air out between his teeth. Since November, it was as if the well had all but dried up. Nothing worked. Every magical skill he'd ever had had atrophied and died. Figuring out that there might be a curse had only been a mediocre solution; even though he could get by well enough, especially knowing the explanation, he hated not being in control of it all.
At least he knew that he could get by. He'd faked it. And he'd gotten pretty damned good at faking it. Even when he'd told Adon, Archer, and Tamis about his troubles back in Scotland, none of the three had ever really questioned his lack of an ability to work magic. He'd told Tamis again after she had offered him the Auror badge, and his old rival had still waved the topic off.
But there was a big difference between quietly worrying about something that he couldn't help and could certainly make up for, at least as far as he was personally concerned, and asking a newly close friend to trust his life to something that Jonas could never do. Adon needed to know the truth.
"I could then. But not since," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, glancing at Adon. "Much as we can figure out, there was a curse on the dagger. I got caught up in it, and now I can't do magic. Can't cast a spell, can't use a wand -- I couldn't even see Hogwarts when we went there," he admitted, frustration coloring his tone. The speech was coming a lot more easily now, each work quick and clipped as he plowed on. "I can't get into Diagon without someone else opening the wall. I can't apparate. Can't call the Knight Bus. I don't know what else to bloody well try, Adon," he finished, giving his friend a helpless look. "How the hell am I supposed to do any of this without magic?"
-
"It's not just like I'm just out of practice," Jonas began in that long, drawn out manner that sometimes made Adon want to strangle him or beat him about the head with a volume of Rodheric Persamon. But only when it was handy. . .
Adon looked surreptitiously at the copy laying on the bedside table. His hand inched towards it.
Inwardly, he felt his stomach tighten and his teeth clench. "Not just," Adon repeated. Because that was exactly what Jonas had made it sound like, earlier. But a growled "What the hell!?" was going to stop Jonas on his halting train to reality.
Even the silence was making his head feel cloudy. He leaned in, listening more intently. Dagger. Okay. He nodded numbly, because Jonas seemed to need that just now.
"I mean, not great -- it'd been years since I really used it -- but I still could cast spells and whatnot."
Adon gave a huff as he waited. He could be calm. Silent. Patient. He tried to give a smile, but it faltered and he dug his fingers into the sheets. "Look--" he broke in. But Jonas seemed to have reached his threshold of silence again.
"I could then. But not since."
Adon's eyes widened and he shook his head, countenance stony. This was going from bad to worse. Jonas was a Pan until he opened up Pandora's box. Hogwarts--he couldn't see. . . but then. . . was he just a M--
"I can't get into Diagon without someone else opening the wall. I can't apparate. Can't call the Knight Bus"
"What the hell!?" Adon burst out, finally. He realized, after a terrified moment, that he had, in all his time spent with the man, not seen him perform one bit of magic. He was like Jacoba--had learned a few key phrases, could fake it convincingly. . .
"You did do magic at sometime, yeh?" Adon asked tersely, not in the mood to be hoodwinked. Until now, his friend's helpless expression had gone unnoticed. Finally with a sigh, he flopped back onto the pillows. Exhausted. Running through a string of Hebrew curses has he ran a hand over his face, he considered.
"Damn it, Jonas," he scolded briefly. Another sigh. "Never just a visit with you, is it." The phrase struck like an accusation, and Adon sighed once more for good measure. "Don't mean that," he apologized. At least no one was wearing a Santa suit. Though that might have improved things. "So you're sure it's the dagger, then? How?" Jonas had certainly drawn his round of conclusions. It was time to test their viability. Adon just wished we was a little more . . . that his brain was just a bit more. . . present.
-
The red-haired man tensed, clenching his jaw tightly shut as his eyes snapped back to Adon's features.
"No, I made it through seven years at Hogwarts without ever using a wand," he said, succinct and terse. "Auror training, too. Just kept me mouth shut and the lot of them always forgot about it come examinations."
It wasn't just that the response stung. Jonas trusted the Israeli -- and even more than that, Adon certainly wasn't innocent of throwing ridiculous magical circumstances at him on a regular basis. Between his brother getting possessed and his own supposed predicted death, the younger Auror had slung his own share of curve balls in the months since they'd met.
And Jonas had never flinched. Had never faltered. There had never been a doubt, never even a question that he'd have the younger man's back in the face of adversity. Creepy Middle Eastern magic. Ominous and completely unlikely prognostication. He'd stood by Adon through all of it, and being snapped at now, even when he knew his friend was in pain and on potions, was not the response he had expected to get.
"Process of elimination," he answered shortly. He could lay out the evidence succinctly, whether or not the situation met Adon's expectations. "Reid said the dagger was cursed -- it saps your vitality," he added curtly, slipping into the Runes professor's slight burr. "I could date when me magic stopped working to right after I handled it; was perfectly fine before it. Me wand works for anyone else, but I can't use any at all. Went through and ruled out everything else that had changed about that time."
He looked back at the younger man, clenching his jaw, and then carefully pushed himself up from the chair. "But since it's never just a bloody visit, I can always let you get back to what you were doing before, Eleor," he said tensely, not bothering to keep himself from sounding hurt. "Reckon you can let your brother know he was right about the trusting bit."
-
“What?!” Adon asked, sharply as the man let himself up. “No!” he growled, attempting to reach out forcibly before dropping his hand. The sinews didn’t have the strength in them, even if he’d thought that a particularly wise choice. “Look,” he tried to input reasonably. “Look, just—” He glanced back at Jonas, with that infuriatingly hurt expression on his face, still standing. It couldn’t go down like this; it wasn’t supposed to. He could count on Jonas. Jonas’d always waited it through with him—in the pub where they’d had their first conversation; in the car, with Dree unconscious and possessed; all those times talking about Reid, and the Dream, and Dree, and then in front of the phonebook with his car. . . He wasn’t supposed to just leave him in the hospital!
“Look,” he repeated, swallowing because his throat was so tight he could hear it, “I don’t want you leaving like. . .like this. You didn’t let me, and I always appreciated that. So.” He looked levelly at Jonas. “You’re not leaving just like I didn’t get out of that car.” Because they were partners. And they’d—he’d—screwed it up before. And they’d gotten through it then, too.
But he’d always screwed it up. And Jonas had come. . . bringing him books and visiting, even though he must have been busy. And finally opened up to tell him something he should have told him a long time ago—Adon let out a shuddering breath and squashed the impulse to snap back.
This was all wrong. He’d only felt this sense of self-destruction once: when Thea’d broken off the engagement--moved for the door; when he’d closed it sharply, just as she reached for the handle.
And then, she’d left forever.
Now, wizard jokes aside, Jonas was no Thea and he’d never be. But that didn’t mean he could take any more kindly to bungling this, either. Not with his best friend. In the god-damned hospital. And order Jonas about—but he hadn’t been trying to sound like that. He was trying to reason this out, but he just—it felt so—why couldn’t he just think for a minute?!
“Alrightalright. Alright,” he said, rubbing a tired hand over his face to buy him some time as he tried to pick better words. He didn’t have many more chances to get it right. The humiliation and pressure he was feeling made him grit his teeth. “I’m sorry. I’m—I’m really sorry, Jonas. I’m just so. . . tired. It’s this place. And the bed. And I’m not Dree. I trust you. I do. I just. . .”
His hand gripped at the sheets, but he tried to keep his face calm. “I’m just angry—a little angry—you didn’t tell me this before. We could have been working on it . . . long time ago. Like we have other things. And. . .” he sighed. This was more thought than he’d put into anything in days, and it was—“it would have been nice to know the extent before, you know. . .” Before he’d started a deathmatch with Azorma Hyskos and nearly lost. But even without magic, Jonas’d. . . The adrenaline of his anger had charged him with an energy that’d made his body, his throat burn. And now that it had left him, as it so often did, he was left with the exhausting shame.
He shifted uncomfortably again. His eyes were stinging—what the hell?—and Jonas’ last words. . . they shouldn’t have felt like an insult, because Adon trusted his brother, too, but he found himself insisting once more: “And I’m not Dree. I wouldn’t do that to you. Ever.”
At least it hadn’t taken that much thinking to say that.
“Please—” he said quietly, looking down at his white-knuckled hand on the sheets, “please don’t call me Eleor.” Jonas had called him that plenty of times before. It was just—the way he said it had sounded so sterile. And final. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Look,” he continued in a low voice, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what you want me to say.” Right now, Adon felt like he’d be willing to do just about anything to undo what he’d just . . . done. “Can’t even think straight—harah!” he muttered under his breath.
-
The words caught him mid-step. Jonas stopped, his expression strained, as he listened to Adon's speech.
Walking away was easy. He'd done it once ten years ago; he'd done it again to Anna. Disappearing eased the burden of any consequences. With the current mess at the Ministry and with Tamis, he couldn't honestly say that the thought wasn't lingering somewhere; if the situation got bad enough, he could always hand back the badge and go back to the way things had been. But he couldn't just vanish on Adon now. Trust wasn't a word that he wanted to treat so fleetingly.
The red-haired man pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes briefly, and then let out the breath he hadn't realized that he had been holding.
"Not all that different from usual, is that?" he asked, giving the younger man a tight smile. "That's well enough, Adon," he said quietly, putting a hand back on the chair. "Let's let it be, yeah? I'm sorry I said that; I know you're not your brother."
He let out another slow breath, trying to force himself to relax, to release the tension from his stance. He could process both the words and the emotion behind them. A little angry was probably an understatement knowing the Israeli, but as fierce as Adon's moods could be, they came sharp and brief. Even so, it was hard not to feel like he needed to defend himself.
Jonas gave a nonchalant shrug. "Hard to just throw into a conversation, though, innit?" he asked, trying for a blithe tone. It was incredible how he could suddenly feel as tired as his friend looked. He braced himself against the back of the chair, resting his arms on it; sitting down again so soon felt too much like admitting defeat. "Every time I tried to work it in, the subject just got skipped over," he confessed quietly. "It's not that I wouldn't've told you, mate. I just didn't know how to bring it all up."
He sighed, running both hands over his face. The subject matter had gotten entirely too dire, and there was a whole world of hypothetical horrible pain and suffering that he would prefer to undergo rather than suffer through such an uncomfortable conversation with anyone -- even Adon.
"You think of any ideas on how to fix it, I'd be open to hearing them," he informed Adon matter-of-factly as he glanced back at him, managing a tight smile. "I've managed to get by well enough, though. Reckon it's not hurting much. Aside from the Auror bits," he added. The audible undercurrent of guilt gave an edge to his words; that was another unpleasant subject that he didn't particularly want to dwell on, but one that he owed to the younger man.
Jonas shrugged his shoulders, affecting an entirely unconcerned expression as he let his gaze slip past his friend. "The offer still stands from before, though," he said easily. "You reckon it'd help to have someone who can watch your back, I can ask Tamis to reassign me, Adon. Can't imagine she'd protest much at the moment, anyhow."
-
"Not all that different from usual, is that?"
"What's not? My . . . thinking? Or 'Eleor'?" Adon muttered perplexedly. "You only call me Eleor when you're angry or teasing." Which accounted for 70% of the time. But still. Maybe it wasn't that different from usual. Still, Adon was relieved at the apology. He must have said something right, at least, to make up for the things he'd said wrong. If only he'd known exactly what they were, for next time. . .
"Hard to just throw into a conversation, though, innit"
Adon gritted his teeth and shifted uncomfortably at this. He'd not lose his temper. But Jonas was just so--Trevelian it couldn't always be borne. "No," he interjected sharply before paring back. "You designate conversations about this sort of thing. You bring it up. There's no way I could have known to bring the conversation around to that, because I didn't bloody well--" Adon looked astonished a moment. Flabbergasted, with round eyes at the sounds his mouth had just created. At least his Jonas impersonation was undoubtedly improving. It jsut had an uncomfortable way of slipping into his own person-ation. Clearing his throat, he tried to regain composure. "I had no idea what was going on, so how could I have brought it around to that? You don't try to throw it in," he repeated, "you just say, 'So, Adon. Remember that dagger that I told you about? Well, I'm fu--" he sighed and puffed air from his cheeks . "You don't need to use those words or anything, though. You just bring it up." Really, Adon had learned long ago that there was no real art to bluntness.
"You reckon it'd help to have someone who can watch your back, I can ask Tamis to reassign me, Adon. Can't imagine she'd protest much at the moment, anyhow."
"Like hell!" Adon snapped, angrily. Having Jonas as a partner was one of the only reasons why he'd not up and left, after a time, to work back in Israel. There wasn't a whole lot here on Level Two for him besides the case, and his partner. And he had the case back in Israel, too.
"We will just fix it," Adon responded simply as he turned his head to look out the window and guage the natural light. This was usually his late-afternoon nap. Though, he supposed, the days had been one, perpetual nap, really. "It's just--" Adon broke off to heft a dramatic sigh, arching his back slightly to stretch. "I want a beer." Another, self-pitying sigh.
He took a few moments to return from delirium. "We take the dagger back. Someone in Egypt's got to have noticed, yeh? There's probably a case on it; or it wouldn't be a stretch to say there could be one." he asked. "We let'm know, let'm. . . we don't let them metion our. . . your name. . . but they show up at Ms. Reid's door to recover it, we look into this curse, and then we. . .'re in business, yeh?" He looked hopefully to Jonas. "England's taken enough from Egypt, anyhow. I think my Min--the Near East Ministry--'s downright angry for all that shit you guys keep in the British Museum. Know Dree had to cover up all that New Year's mummy crap. Thea mentioned it, after January 5th, that she'd also needed to do some things on her end; I don't think that I was supposed to know that." Or tell Jonas. "But it's helpful to know, anyhow."
He cracked an eye open on that. "Was Reid there? All that might have been something to do with the dagger." He considered before adding abruptly, "Grimm was." It was--everything was feeling so connected, so clear, so--inspiriation hit! These potions--they helped with that sometimes. Felix-freaking Felicis. "So here's what we do." He glanced over to Jonas, to make sure he was listening attentively.
"We get Grimm." And once they got Grimm, they'd Itake his self-righteous bowler hat and shove it-- "I mean, no. We get him to work with us, and we get him to get the dagger--so that if he gets cursed in the process, well," he said with a shrug. He took a self-indulgent moment to envision what Alberic, sapped of vitality might look like. "And then, he can, you know, bring back some spirits from the dead, and learn the curse from them. I mean the counter-curse, if he can. Not the curse. We don't want him. . . I don't really want him knowing how to. . . welll, anyway." His smile was growing. He was a genius. "And then, when he tells it to us, we can then use the dagger--or whatever the countercurse requires. . ." Adon took a moment's thought to extricate himself from any detail-laden courses of action; he was getting a bit ahead of himself. Time to speak more vaguely--just with what he knew. "We just fix it. Well, first there maybe is a chance we'll need to fight off mummies, or something, or go to Egypt--the tomb where she took the dagger from--but we should be able to handle that, I think. I wouldn't worry too much about that yet, Jonas. And we'll have all the essentials, by then, anyhow. And once it's all over, Thea gets her artifact back, Grimm gets to speak to dead things, we get to know more about the curse," Adon grinned dopily. This was--damn it, he was brilliant. "Bam," he said, giving a fumbled snap.
"No, but think about it. Reid and Grimm--I mean, getting the dagger back. . . it'd work, Jonas," he inisted. "And, I mean, bringing people back--" He'd already said all this. "So?" he asked anxiously for input.
-
Any lingering reservations that the red-haired Auror might have had vanished with the burst of emotion from his friend. Jonas flashed the younger man a smile, his posture relaxing as he lowered himself to sit again in the chair. He could deal with anger. Frustration. Adon could be furious with him for not saying something sooner, but the knowledge that they could simply move on -- that we will just fix it -- quashed any doubts.
Listening as the younger man rambled on, reasoned through his thoughts out loud, was a miniscule price to pay. Jonas waited patiently, trying to nod or flash an encouraging smile at the appropriate moments. The bit about Thea wasn't something that he would have guessed; if Adon wasn't supposed to know it, Jonas doubted even more that his friend was supposed to share that tidbit of information. Apparently his current potion-inebriated state really had opened the floodgate on the Israeli's self-control. Jonas filed the bit of information away for use later; he'd have to make it clear to Adon that there were some things that were not to be shared, no matter how many potions he drank.
He kept his expression carefully impassive as Adon moved on to speculating about the museum. There was no way that Jonas was going to withhold any sort of information from his friend, but now did not seem the appropriate time to share anything that might be sensitive. He could give the Israeli all of the details about the museum escapade, including his own presence there, once Adon was home and fully sober.
It took a bit of doing not to burst out laughing at the 'Bam!', but he managed. At least he had something new to quote besides Witch Weekly, now.
"Sounds brilliant," Jonas replied, flashing the younger man an encouraging smile. "Smashing, in fact. We'll have to sort through all of the details once you're out of here. I'll bring over a few beers, and we'll hash through it all then."
He hesitated for a brief moment, and then met the other Auror's gaze once more. The best way to manage this one was to just be direct. No reason to risk anyone missing the point.
"Can you keep the bit about me magic to yourself until then, Adon?" he asked, choosing each word with care. "Not tell anyone that I can't cast spells? I don't mind if we have to once we start sorting through things," he said with a shrug, "but the fewer folks that know for now, the safer it'll be. I can still bluff with me wand now if I need to. If word gets out at all, I wouldn't even be able to do that much."
-
Adon's smile diminished considerably as Jonas asked--repeatedly and at length--to keep his mouth shut.
He was really worried. Which worried Adon.
"Yeh, Jon. . ." he said, brow knit and voice smaller. "Of course. You know I'd never--I mean, you trust that I wouldn't. . ." he looked down at his hands, then away.
Because of the thought that'd just occurred to him: what if he already had? Not about the magic, because Adon hadn't known then--not the extent at any rate--but the case. . .
"Jonas. . ." Adon still hadn't turned his head, but spoke with forced slowness to ensure this came out right. "Maggie Groust visited-- think acoupla days ago. . . We talked about. . . I don't think it was anything--coffee. . .baked goods. . ." he rubbed his face, exhausted again. "I don't know, though. She kept asking about the nurses. Or something. I think. . . I mean, I think we're good, but if she did ask about anything. . ." he sighed and glanced back to Jonas miserably, just wanting to hear that Jonas would fix it for him, this once: "I'm not sure what all was said."
And they'd just gotten on good terms again. Great. "Only other people to visit have been my mother, Jacoba--" a bit of a smile, there. Persistent, that one. And Muggle. "and the nurses, Healer Bombay--the Dead Doctor--" he elaborated for identification, "and Dree." A lot. Dree'd been there every chance he could. This last phrase with tinged with a degree of awkwardness and guilt. "And none of them have really. . . talked about what happened. I didn't really know myself." Except that he had known who the attacker was. And he'd meant to tell Jonas for days! And he'd been distracted this entire time.
"Except I know who the metamorphagus was; there's only one, I think, who fits the description. Middle Eastern by origin; at least we knew about her in our office: Azorma Hsykos. Hyksos? I don't know. I think . . . I mean--" he puffed air from his cheeks and looked up at the ceiling. That had been about the one detail from the whole fight that he'd figured out in his time mulling through his thoughts at the hospital. And he remembered telling someone as much. "Shit."
-
Apparently he'd driven the point home a little too well. Adon's expression fell, and his voice became uncertain again as he slowly put two and two together. Jonas bit back a grimace at the turn in the conversation; he would have been entirely content to let this sleeping dog lie.
"It's well, Adon," he put in once the Israeli had finished, giving a quick shake of his head. "Groust came by the office this morning with Hyskos's name, but she agreed not to go to print right away. If you said anything, it's under control now." He flashed the younger man a quick, genuine smile. "It'll be useful in the long run, anyhow. I think we'll want word to start getting out to put the pressure on them. Saved me the trouble of risking another hammer by leaking the information meself, it did."
"Would've been nice to have you there to help out with the identification, since apparently you could've just pulled that one out of your hat," he added nicely, giving his friend another warm smile that removed any sting from the words. "Took me a full day and night to settle that one without you, Houdini. But we got there," he said with an easy shrug. "Got her real name, too, now that she's in custody and can't transform. I've been running down leads on her identities since."
He glanced to the door, watching it for a moment before looking back to his friend. It might be dangerous, saying this much, but he needed Adon to know. Fifteen years ago, Tait Aldridge had gone quietly into the night with barely a whimper to mark his passing. Fifteen years later, they were still only prodding at the wreckage; they still didn't know what the murdered Auror had uncovered that had caused his death. If taking up the same investigation meant that Tait's fate was inevitable, if looking under the rocks of the Runespoor smuggling ring meant that one was bound to fall on his head eventually, then Jonas had no intention of being removed so neatly. Carrying on the fight meant being certain that no crucial information would die with him.
"And I think we got lucky with this one," he said, keeping his voice low. "Her family back in Egypt were trading basilisk parts to the Ministry until 1993. Sounds like they had a contact in the Department of Mysteries, and there's at least one British businessman who I reckon was backing 'em." His eyes found the younger man's, his expression firm and resolute. "Not much of a stretch to reckon that the family business might've included other sorts of reptiles too, innit?"
-
“It’s well, Adon,” Jonas dismissed and Adon’s lips twitched into an awkward, sheepish smile. “Okay.” It didn’t feel it. And while Adon wasn’t exactly sure what hammers had to do at this, or who would be throwing them at Jonas—though he had some suspicions—the general presentiment that Jonas was, once more blithely dismissing an undercurrent of frustration began to nag at him.
Until the compliments came. And the continuation to real matter. Jonas was in a good enough spot now for Adon to feel comfortable. He smiled somewhat as Jonas began to explain; not because the news was particularly pleasant, but because this felt normal, once more.
The potions were wearing off; with the rise of pain came the return to alertness which, for the first time since he’d arrived in the place, he’d welcomed as a suitable trade-off. “Mm,” he said, pressing his lips together as he thought. “No stretch. The family name—what is it?” There was a possibility he’d recognize it. A couple of potential names were on the tip of his tongue before he sighed and looked down. Best not to get too mouthy. He wanted Jonas to know—to trust that he didn’t just throw out names like they threw out potions, here.
There was a new throbbing at the base of his skull, and residual exhaustion—from the wasted emotion of several minutes ago. Adon identified it well enough, sober: “Hey. Jonas. They’re going to come in with potions in a few minutes; I want to talk about this, but,” another helpless sigh, “it’s probably not the place. They tell you when I’m out of here?” Adon hoped it was different from the date they’d quoted to him: April 23rd. They’d said, if the recovery was somehow accelerated, it could be as early as the 21st.
After a yawn, he said, “Adnan’ll have access to what you need, anyhow. When I break from this place—more specifics?”