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Who Watches the Watcher MDNI 18+ Jonah "Elias Bouchard" Magnus x reader wc: 3,831

You weren’t sure who to tell, or if you should. He hadn’t done anything technically inappropriate, that was all your own doing, your mind supplying you with scenario after scenario. It had started innocently enough, your interview had been quick, and then the onboarding. He’d been so polite sitting behind the desk, which had felt so intimidating at first. But the longer you sat there listening to him explain your duties for the Institute, the more at ease you’d felt.

He’d seem to know the anxieties that prickled beneath your skin and managed to smile just wide enough to be reassuring without overdoing it. Nor was he patronizing when you asked what felt like a silly question. Had kept his hands threaded on the desk in front of him and motioned as he talked with his thumbs, a minimal controlled response instead of seeming in a hurry to wrap things up. The only discomforting thing had been the way he looked at you, it was intense, as if he were seeing things you hadn’t meant him to.

But that had only been towards the end of the process, moving to stand and pausing halfway until you did as well. It had all been so polite, and reserved, but amiable. So now, weeks later, you were wondering what you’d missed during that initial interaction. When he came upstairs from the archive you knew because you felt his gaze on you before he came into view. Which was obviously impossible, how could he see you if you weren’t in his line of sight.

Except you knew that he did.

What was worse was the fact that he did not in fact hunt you down. Somehow you were the problem,and you weren’t entirely sure how that had happened either. It was you who bumped into him. In the hallway, the breakroom, by the front desk, near the filing system. It was you watching him talk with people fascinated by the way his entire face changed with only the curve of his lips. Or how his hand moved in graceful arcs as he responded to gossip offered by your coworkers.

You’d tried not to, really you had. Even going so far as to leave the area he was in to do something, anything, else. But even as you were returning documents to their rightful place you were imagining him. Was he talking with the intern who had started this week? Perhaps he was in the breakroom getting a cuppa while discussing the weather. It was ridiculous and more than a bit concerning how often you saw him whether he was there or not.

Mr. Bouchard was nice enough not to call you out on it. You knew that he’d caught you staring, and it could be called nothing else. The way the slim gold chain hung from behind his ears to drape over his shoulder fascinated you. You’d thought that the whole chain for your glasses thing was very granny, and had always been amused by it. That wasn’t the right word now, though you hesitated to look too closely at the new label.

If it was just a work crush it’d be nice for it to end, sooner rather than later. There was something a little pathetic about the way you’d find reasons to be able to watch him, you didn’t like it. But no matter what you tried to think about in order to shift your focus, you couldn’t not watch him. The way he leaned in a bit when someone told a good story, the flash of very white teeth under the precisely maintained moustache with its flecks of grey. Which of course always drew your attention to the streak that started at the center of his brow, teased up and arching over the quiff in a feather like way.

Sometimes you’d find yourself watching, looking at the way his breathing shifted fabric, the light playing on the accents of gold among the green and charcoal grey, only to realize he was looking at you. Not directly, that might have saved you from whatever this obsessive behaviour was. It was always from beneath his lashes, or out of the corner of his eye, something subtle. As if the two of you were sharing a secret that no one else needed to know about. It made it intimate, the brief connection, the upward lilt of the corner of his mouth.

Maybe, just maybe, if he’d looked disturbed or disgusted, it would have been the catalyst for change you needed. A sharp slap that woke you the hell up. But instead you received a look, however briefly, that held a heat to it that made your cheeks hot as blood rushed to them. Like you’d been caught imagining him naked, and he knew it. But you hadn’t! You hadn’t fallen that far, the word yet a hollow echo to your thoughts as you sorted through returned files.

A yet that came about three months into your working at the Institute, looking up to find him grinning down at you, eyes locked on yours after slapping his hands down on the desk to get your attention. The most insincere apology you’d ever heard trickling past his bared teeth, your heart refusing to steady itself as he loomed there. It occurred to you, at the angle presented, this is what you’d see as he climbed on top of you, your eyes widening, with dread, as his did too.

You’d have thought that it was him mocking your expression, he’d seemed a bit manic when he’d arrived, but no there was obvious delight in his gaze as his fingers flexed on the paper making it crinkle. Another apology, this time softer, harder to hear, practically purred, for his little joke. Joke? Oh, right. Startling you with the smack of his hands on the table, not the fact that he’d given you a brief glimpse of what it felt like to be prey.

You just knew he bit. Hard.

Lips pressing together as you smiled, you nodded your acceptance. When he didn’t move, as if he could stay there forever, you found your attention flicking between his eyes in an attempt to look elsewhere. You couldn't, watching the too sharp grin fade away into a smile, the minute way his lids lowered. And then the spell broke, his hand reaching out to lightly pat the back of yours, with a cheerful wink before straightening and sauntering away.

What made it worse, and why did you have to keep thinking of it getting worse when nothing really happened at all, was that no one else seemed to notice. A group of people all chatting away less than two feet from you, and not a single one sent you a curious look for the interaction. Or any of the others that followed. Did you want them to notice you getting attention from Elias? No, that would be foolish, that’s how HR got involved.

But you knew he didn’t offer those small intimate looks to anyone else. Of course you knew, because you watched him any time he was nearby. And even when he wasn’t, though that didn’t really count because that was just an over active imagination. It wasn’t as if your thinking about him in his office, sipping tea while reading a statement, could be real.

Obvious really, especially because sometimes you would find yourself focusing on how he would skim the edge of the paper. Breath caught and held wondering if he’d get a paper cut, would it be deep, and how pretty the red would look against his skin, dropping onto the page. It was becoming rapidly apparent that something was terribly wrong with you. The way the arousal coiled low in your belly as you sat at your assigned desk repairing pages was absolutely insane. Imagining the way he stoked a piece of paper?

And if he’d come upstairs to talk to the head assistant with a plaster around the top section of his index finger that didn’t mean anything at all. It just meant that at some point you’d subconsciously made note of the injury and incorporated it into your… fantasy. Was that more or less concerning that you’d seen such a small detail on the fly, when he’d… …. He had been upstairs at some point before then, hadn’t he? Watching the way he grinned as he accepted the folder, that flash of sharp white teeth, his gaze flicking towards you ever so briefly.

He’d definitely had, watching his expression shift as he looked back at you, searching for something though you weren’t sure what. Or why you were so sure that he was off balance today. It might be that the buttons on the cuff of his shirt weren’t done properly, or the fact that there seemed to be light smudges under his eyes. Was he not sleeping?

You weren’t, the dreams you’d been having recently were… intense. If it had just been sex you might have put up with it, let it run its course, but there was more to it than that. Watching him slide the rings off his fingers, the way he toyed with the lapel of his suit before pulling it off. The deep breath he took as if it had weighed on him. Fingers starting with the bottom button of his vest before peeling it off his shoulders. It was so intense because you found yourself invested in each little motion.

Tie pin plucked gently from fabric, the way the tie was loosened before being unknotted and pulled from around his neck with all the relief of removing a noose. The way those eyes found yours after a moment of hesitation, the weary sag of his body disappearing as he tensed. Hadn’t he liked your watching him? He’d seemed to be invested in it before, fostering it, but in the moment he seemed off put. Your gaze lowered to where his fingers had curled into a fist around the length of fabric, knuckles mottled.

Fascinating that the once fluid movements were almost jerky now, as though he were attempting not to while still needing to. It was the way his chin lifted slightly, watching you as he thumbed off his braces one strap at a time. Deliberately, attempting to regain some control, you could see it in the tension of his arms. You’d have thought of leaving if it wasn’t just a dream, a silly thing your brain had decided to taunt you with.

Though it would have been nice to remember how you’d gotten there. Had it been a date? Maybe it was something so cliche as a moment in the office that had led to meeting up that night. You couldn’t remember the how, but you did know the why. Watching his hands hesitate briefly at his waist. Shirt or trousers? Did he untuck and walk around in the tailored slacks that didn’t need braces, or did he shuck off the trousers leaving him modestly exposed from the waist down with his shirt covering the indecent parts.

You wanted to know, and the longer he took to finish undressing, the more the tension in the room crackled like static. There was an edge of fear to the stern line of his lips, gaze shuttered by heavy lids as his breathing picked up pace. Was he nervous, what an interesting concept, the charming flirtatious Mr. Bouchard struck by modesty. Surely not. But his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard, before finally reaching for the fastening of his slacks and undoing it.

A part of you wanted to help, to try and soothe the discomfort that made the set of his jaw stiff. But it was a small part, little more than a whisper, and easily ignored as he pulled the shirt loose and began unbuttoning from the bottom like he had the vest. Consistent, you thought as your gaze followed the jerky push of his fingers on each button, the way his hands clutched just under the collar before slowly divesting himself. Hard to know what you liked better, the slowly exposed skin as the fabric was dragged over it, or the way you could see his pulse beating rapidly at his throat.

The way he’d jerked his hands loose had made all sorts of interesting things shift and bounce, having forgotten to undo those buttons at the cuff. A flush across his chest and up his throat had been arresting, watching the colour darken from a dusky pink to a muted red as it worked its way up to his cheeks. It was breath taking, and the sharp inhale seemed to mollify him slightly. Or it could have been the time he took to collect himself, turning from you to straighten the shirt and hang it from the corner of the mirror over the chest of drawers

His gaze meeting yours in the reflection did things you hadn’t wanted to explore, face shadowed, looking at you over his shoulder. And then you’d woken up, which explained why you were tired. That had been an awful lot of tension for nothing to happen, and then you hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. So of course you were exhausted, but why was he? You’d love to know, to get a peek at what he was thinking about. It wouldn’t be you, of course, this wasn’t some romantic comedy. But it’d be… nice if it were.

You almost wiggled your fingers at him, if only to shift the stagnant moment, beginning to feel trapped the longer he stared. And then he looked away, catching sight of one of the archive assistants and moving to follow him downstairs. Clear as day in your mind’s eye you could see him roughly tousling his hair before finger combing it back into order as he followed them. Flustered would look good on him, you just knew it would, maybe a quick look over his shoulder back up the stairs.

Jerking as you realized one of your co workers had been asking you something, you forced yourself to focus on work. You could day dream later when you were left alone with musty files and pages that needed organizing to be in the proper order. Why people couldn’t just respect things that weren’t theirs was beyond you. Nodding, you took the box and followed to the bac - der area. One of your favourites, because it sounded like back there, which was ridiculous because it was close to the front of the Institute.

As were you when walking home, deciding to take a roundabout way to enjoy the weather. It was going to turn on you sooner rather than later, so you might as well, had been the thought. Except now that you were actually paying attention, taking in the building you’d stopped in front of, you realized you had no idea where you were. Very scenic then, pulling out your phone to begin typing your address to orientate yourself. Movement in the window caught your attention, and you could feel the word sorry bubbling in your throat though there would be no way to hear it. Except you recognized the figure that had come to stand in the window.

You would have dropped your phone in shock had it not been for the way you were clutching it like a lifeline, as if it were the only thing that could keep you from simply sinking into the ground in mortification. It was one thing to fantasize about watching him, it was another to be stood outside his home and staring in his window like some pervert. You should move, leave, look down at your phone and start heading home. Something! But he was staring at you with a muted look of surprise that was tinged with what seemed like exasperation. As if he’d expected it to happen.

And it kept happening, sometimes in the middle of the night, you’d find yourself standing outside his window waiting. Watching his silhouette move across the curtains before they inevitably were pulled up as he sought you out. You were immensely grateful that he didn’t just phone the police, you would have if someone from work kept showing up outside your house to stare. But the more it happened, the more he seemed pleased by it. So really, of the two of you, who was the real problem.

…. You. It was definitely still you.

A fact that was hammered home when you were called to his office next month, feeling your stomach twist with nerves. Not guilt, which you should have been feeling, but a healthy dash of anticipation battled against it before claiming victory. Knocking politely on the door, you entered when prompted and stood hesitantly behind one of the chairs. He didn’t motion for you to sit, so you didn’t, instead taking the briefest of comfort that its shielding you offered.

Not that he looked upset, or distressed in any way, if anything he seemed… hungry. It made you even more hesitant to breach the makeshift barricade between you, gaze lowering to where he lightly toyed with his tie. The way the fabric seemed to shimmer was fascinating, not that you were immediately remembering the way he’d tugged it loose in your dreams.

“How are you finding work here at the Institute?’

You felt your mouth move, could hear an answer tumble past your lips, but the only thing you could focus on was the fact that he must have had a manicure recently. Tracked those same fingers as they lifted from the tie to skim along his jaw, to his lower lip, before managing to drop your gaze as he smiled. People watching was normal, wondering what kind of life they led based on what you could see.

But it wasn’t people, it was just him, the more you watched the more you had to know. It was obsessive and leaving was the only appropriate course of action, but the idea of no longer being able to so easily observe the little tics that were wholly his own… The feeling of loss seemed excessive, but it didn’t change the fact that finding new work elsewhere made your chest ache.

“You’ve attuned faster than I’d assumed.’ He murmured, leaning back in his chair as he adjusted his clothing, a brief scowl on his lips. “And not in the way I’d intended.’

Were you meant to apologize? Apparently not, as soon as your mouth opened he held a hand up, flapping it slightly as he urged you to sit. You didn’t, and he snorted softly.

“Very well, we need to discuss your… visits.’ The way he said the last made you cringe, opening your mouth to attempt to explain. Not that you had a good one. “I don’t mean your charmingly frequent house observations, that’s outside and not my problem.’

He shifted and you found your gaze settling on the hand briefly resting on the desk, the way the tendons shifted. Higher to pause on the cuff links, simple things, before moving higher to see his bicep flexing under the thin fabric. When you finally managed to reach his face there was a flush across the cheeks, one you already knew extended much farther down.

“Don’t do that.’

You weren’t sure what he meant by that, remembering the blush started over the sternum and slowly spilled upwards as though his skin was slowly absorbing a spill of crimson. It didn’t help that he covered that section of his chest as though he could hide it from your mental eye. As if the imagery were so simple to banish, following his hand as it slid lower, feeling your throat tighten as he stopped just over the gold plated belt buckle.

Courtesy said you should not have done that either, should have had the courtesy to look away, anywhere else. But how were you supposed to do that, watching the way his pinkie shifted, moving towards the bulge in his trousers. Maybe you should just call HR on yourself, that was an option surely. Even you hadn’t seen that in your dreams, finding yourself waking on the bed, skin damp with perspiration and the palms of your hands hurting from how deeply your fingers had dug into it from clenching your hands into fists.

You knew that he tucked to the left, that he didn’t put on his rings until after carefully situating himself when he got ready in the morning. Assumed! You assumed, because you had far too much time on your hands in the morning even as you were getting ready for work. Not that you were interested in finding out for yourself, sex didn’t have quite the appeal of the idea of his enjoying himself while you watched. For learning purposes, though the chances of your becoming Elias’ lover were distressingly low, and your being able to put that learning into practice an non-existent possibility.

But you still wanted to know.

Wanted to know if he eased into it, as he was obviously a man in love with himself, or if it got in the way of his getting things done. You could feel your imagination struggling to focus, to lock in on a single option before locking in. He eased into it, feeling vindicated when his pinky flexed slightly, the manicured nail scratching the fabric loud in the strained silence. A teasing gesture if you’d ever seen one, and why wouldn’t he take his time. He had all the time in the world.

“Stop...’

The office would clear out in an hour or so for lunch, for some reason most of the staff didn’t like eating at work. And it wasn’t as if any of them came to his office to eat with him. Actually it was very much the opposite in spite of his charming self. Which meant there was a solid block of time in which no one would be in the office, and most men didn’t last longer than a few mi-

You jumped at the sound of his chair abruptly slamming into the wall behind him, gaze finally lifting to meet his. Had it been that obvious that you’d been looking at his lap and not the desk? Maybe. … Most likely. Especially with the way he was clearing his throat, that flush on his cheeks still bright. But he didn’t look embarrassed, or ashamed, his breathing a bit more ragged than it had been…

“That’ll be all for now.’

So this wasn’t an evaluation? Then why had he called you in, let you stand there silent and- Nodding your head, hand lifting to offer an awkward thumbs up, you hurried out of the office to go on lunch yourself. You needed a minute alone to mull over if you still had a job tomorrow. What the hell had you been thinking ogling him like that?

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