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“Most don’t find my work that interesting,” Jon replied. He sat on the couch a proper cushion away from Mr. Bouchard (Elias, please call me Elias). It was a strange way for the day to end.
“I find that hard to believe. Outsmarting forgers and the like. You certainly saved me and the reputation of my gallery.”
Jon chuckled, awkward and stilted. “It sounds more glamorous than it is. Most people aren't interested in me going on about the history of oil based paint and the like. The um… the things in the papers, it's just … that's the culmination of grueling painstaking work in most cases. I'm not Sherlock Holmes.”
Elias smiled behind his wine glass (he could tell from the squint of his eyes, the pull of fine wrinkles). Jon didn't even remember he still had wine glasses until the shorter man boldly stood on one of his chairs and pulled them out of the back of the cupboard (they required a quick clean). At least they weren't drinking it out of mugs. He couldn't imagine Elias Bouchard, curator for the Lukas Exhibition drinking wine out of a mug.
Elias' smile ticked up a little more, no longer covered by his glass.
“But you certainly have your Moriarty, don't you?”
“Oh,” Jon said with a wince. “I really don't think of him as that. Jonah Magnus is good at what he does and so am I. That's all.”
“You make it sound so cut and dry,” Elias said. He had taken his shoes off and reposed a bit on the couch, his socked feet almost, but not quite, brushing Jon's leg. “Don’t you think he might hate you?”
“Hate me?” Jon had never thought of that before. It did make sense. He had uncovered nineteen of his forgeries, taught others how to look for his tells.
And Jon wasn't the most likeable person to begin with. Which he was fine with. Really all he wanted to do was his work.
Melanie had always accused him of an ego, which wasn't entirely untrue (it wasn’t arrogance if he was right), but the interviews and newspapers and sensationalism of his work and himself had been irritating (and uncomfortable). It was all empty praise with little understanding of what it actually was he did. It meant being hired by people with more money than god just to have ‘the famous appraiser.’ An amusement. A trend.
It was good for business and left a bad taste in his mouth.
The Sherlock Holmes of Art Forgery headline haunted him. He was certain it had come about when he had been brusk with the reporter that kept trying to touch things.
A distant, curt personality, but a brilliant mind.
Tim had quoted it at him when it was printed. He had clipped it and put it on the wall. Jon had a low level migraine the rest of the day.
His attention was pulled back to Elias when, in the older man’s recline the socked feet had moved onto his lap.
He had no idea what to do with his hands.
“You don't think the Watcher resents you?” Elias asked curiously, with real interest.
That was probably in part why he had agreed to the thank you dinner and then for the offer to take Elias back to his flat when a cab refused to make itself available.
Making Elias Bouchard walk or take the tube in his two thousand dollar suit at the height of a London heatwave was too cruel to bear thinking.
Jon looked up, giving himself time to think. He ignored the feet but didn’t push them off either. “I… I just never thought of it. It would probably make sense if he did. I don't make his life easier.” Jon shrugged. “But I don't know. I… I hope he doesn’t. I’ve always thought he might appreciate me in a strange way actually.”
Elias laughed, a real laugh, his smile stretching into an incredulous grin so different from his close lipped polite smiles over dinner. The wine must be getting to him.
“I mean,” Jon felt the heat of embarrassment (and wine) on his own face, glad that it would be far less obvious than it was on Elias' skin. “I don't know, obviously. I just… being a prodigious talent and it never being acknowledged or known. It has to be at least a bit frustrating. But I can… see him in his work, in a way few people honestly can.” He took a sip of his wine. His hand was on Elias’ ankle, squeezing it nervously. He coughed. “Besides, he already has the money by the time it gets to me. He can sit back and watch the fallout, his reputation spreading.”
Elias’ expression turned fond. “And you don't have any ill feelings toward him I gather?”
“No?” Jon answered. “Why would I?”
“He's a criminal. A con artist. A thief.”
Jon realised, perhaps Elias, who had almost been fleeced by one of his replicas, might not appreciate Jon’s lack of animosity, but Elias noticed his sudden trepidation and waved his hand.
“I won't be sending him a Christmas card anytime soon, but having been saved I only find myself curious, and of everyone you seem to have the most … intimate point of view.”
The leg was gone. Elias readjusted himself, right next to Jon now, their thighs touching. His attention had an intensity that Jon quite liked, but was also strangely overstimulating. He didn't feel… seen like this very often. Understood.
Or at least someone wanting to understand.
Jon was often taken as he was. A stuffy abrupt workaholic that had little time for anything else. Unkind, unsympathetic, and frigid.
(I didn’t call you frigid, Jon! It’s not about sex, it’s never been about sex!)
And not many people had the energy for a personality like his. Elias had let his protests and rejections slide off his back. Insisted and Jon didn't know what to do when aggressive rudeness didn't work to get him out of a social interaction. He was forced to gamely agree to the thank you dinner (a far too expensive dinner. Was that a conflict of interest? Didn't all of this feel like a conflict of interest? Elias’ hand was on his thigh now).
But it had been because Jon had saved him from financial fiasco. Not because he found Jon himself very interesting surely.
“You're an interesting man Jon,” Elias said as if to disagree with his own thoughts. “If you hold no ill will towards the Watcher, then what do you think? I'd love to know more of your views. ”
“I… well, I don't have much sympathy for the kinds of people that buy art. Erm.”
“Old men who wear expensive tailored suits in the summer time?” Elias said good naturedly.
“No! I don't—I mean…you're not that old.”
He was that old. At least two decades on Jon, but he wore it well. Elias was fit and handsome with his fine suits and star-grey eyes. How would Tim put it? A silver fox?
There was something of a predator in him. Not in a bad way, but he had to be quick and ruthless working as a curator for patrons like the Lukas family.
Elias’ smile ticked up again. Not offended, and clearly only pressing him to tease.
Jon huffed and explained. “The ones that don't feel anything to look at a piece. Who only want it because it's expensive and rare and unattainable to anyone else.”
“Rich snobs that want to own something one of a kind and special and then shut it up in a vault or a private room never to be seen again?” Elias suggested. “I perhaps have met one or two in my line of work,” he added, dry and ironic.
Jon nodded. “Is it terrible to say I didn't go into this work to help people? I enjoy research. Knowing the difference between pigments. The inconsistencies in a canvas. Little details in the background that can throw a painting out of date by centuries.”
“Be honest, you enjoyed those spot the difference puzzles as a child, didn't you?” Elias teased.
Jon ducked his head and smiled. He took on a serious, repentant countenance. “You got me. Years of school and student loans all so I could play my favourite game from the magazines.”
“There are worse ways to choose a career.”
“How did you choose yours?”
“Immortality,” Elias said blandly, and Jon laughed.
“It’s true,” Elias insisted. “Humanity will always make art. Will always try to interpret their thoughts and dreams and share them with others. Spreading and creating. Looking and watching and interpreting.”
Jon smiled, although he wasn’t sure he actually entirely understood the meaning behind what Elias was saying.
Only that there was meaning behind it.
“So, your Jonah Magnus then. You don’t mind him ripping off the rotten social elite?”
Jon was fairly sure Elias counted among them, although he was a lot better company than many of the people (or people’s people) he had to deal with.
“Jonah is just… he's so detailed. So thorough. He sources paint from the period, gets the right wood, the right canvas. He's almost impossible to identify even with all the modern tools at our disposal, he accounts for them. He has such an eye. He sees everything that the original artist captured and makes it his own. He's a talented. I think he could be famous in his own right, but I think he likes getting one over on the multimillionaires and billionaires he targets. He likes knowing his piece hangs in their hall with all the airs of prestige they have assigned to what would amount to a useless piece of canvas and paint in their eyes if they knew.”
“You sound like you admire him.”
“Perhaps,” Jon admitted. He would have denied it if it was anyone else, but he found it hard to lie to Elias. “He's a master at what he does.”
“And yet,” Elias pressed gently. His hand was on Jon's shoulder now, leaning close, direct eye contact. “You always seem to know it's him. Even before the tests.”
“I…”
“I did look you up beforeI hired you,” Elias admitted, unrepentant and warm. “Why is that? How do you know? And why do you call him Jonah Magnus? The rest of the Art World calls him the Watcher.”
Jon remembered that Elias had been startled when Jon muttered to himself: ‘a Magnus. This is Jonah’s work for sure.’
It stuck in his mind. Elias was so deliberate, every move he made, every smile on purpose, calculated, but the name had shocked him. He stared at Jon and Jon thought it was because of confirmation it was a forgery, but no, it had been the name, hadn’t it?
“I’d be interested to know,” Elias pressed.
“Oh…” Jon said. He cleared his throat. “Well… I… it'll… it'll sound daft. Honestly it's probably some tell that I haven't entirely processed. I just …”
“Come on, do tell, Jon. I promise after you saved my gallery from the lawyers of the Lukas family my undying loyalty is yours forever.”
“He always does portraits and… it feels like they're watching me,” Jon finally admitted, keenly embarrassed with himself for such an unscientific reason. “I know it's him because of that… feeling. Other forgeries I never can presume until I get close, but his, sometimes I just need to be in the same room and I know.”
“Fascinating,” Elias said with more politeness than Jon felt he was truly due.
There was a similar feeling now. Elias’ grey eyes so intent on him as he listened, took everything Jon said in. Took Jon in.
“Is it unpleasant?” Elias asked a little breathlessly. “Feeling like you’re being watched?”
His fingers ran through Jon’s hair. His eyes on Jon’s lips.
“No,” Jon admitted quietly. “I quite like the feeling actually.”
“And the name?” Elias prompted.
Jon gestured to the painting in the hall just before the bedroom. With just the light of the table lamp it was harder to see.
It broke the spell, or perhaps it cast a new one. Despite their tangle both of them stood to get a better look, Jon turning on the hall light so Elias could see properly. It was a portrait. 1818, a handsome young man with a curving smug smile. Dark auburn curls, high cheekbones. His steel grey eyes were bright, like he knew something the viewer didn't and was endlessly amused by that fact.
“Self Portrait of Jonah Magnus,” Jon gestured. “I picked it up at an estate sale.”
“Whose estate?” Elias asked. He gazed up at the portrait with a small frown.
“Oh, um…” Jon had to think about it. He often went to estate sales. Older paintings he could analyze. Collect more data. Cross reference historic art trends. He usually kept them at work, but this one was different. “One of the Lukas' actually I believe. One of the black sheep with old relics and no money.”
Elias scoffed. “It probably belonged to Mordechai Lukas,” he guessed. “I am rather unfortunately bound to the family by necessity. They're my biggest donors and often use the space to display their accumulated hordes.
Mordecai was their progenitor. Everything they are now is due to him. The time of it would be right. He was a patron of the arts with an actual appreciation for it by all accounts. He certainly enjoyed the company of portraits more than he did actual people. His descendents resemble far more the rich snobs with vaults you mentioned with only one exception. Who died recently? Mark? He was always scrambling to appear more than he was for that wife of his. She probably had to sell most of the antiques to pay for the house. He must have had it in a closet somewhere.” Elias took a sip of wine, disdain evident.
“Mark Lukas. Yes, maybe, but I don't know… I…” Jon trailed off. Jonah Magnus' eyes seemed to catch him. They were a similar grey to Elias’. A funny little coincidence that.
“I think it's his, Jonah’s. Maybe one of his first. I haven’t analysed it. Just… instinct.”
Elias was very quiet, but Jon couldn't pull his gaze away from the portrait. “An original of his I think. I looked into Jonah Magnus, the real Jonah Magnus.”
“Did you?” Elias was close again, his breath hot on his neck, but Jon could tell he was studying the painting too.
“He was an artist that fell into forgery as well. A prolific one if the list of charges is to be believed. He probably would never have been found out if not for a strange incident involving stolen books and a former friend coming forward about him. He did a brief stint in Milbank and then disappeared. Escape or bribery or died in the collapse. The records are frustratingly spotty of course. Did you know your gallery is on top of the old site for Milbank?”
“I did. Every curator of it knows the history.”
“I have nothing to compare it to of course, but I can't help but think this is one of his. Perhaps practice of his techniques. Perhaps a little joke. One great forger to another.”
“You get the same feeling from it,” Elias said. He was so close and Jon was too warm. The wine and the summer heat, and the old flat. “You feel like he's watching you.”
“I … yes,” Jon said, feeling that gaze on him now, stronger than it had been before, or maybe it was Elias’ gaze that made him shiver.
“That's why I privately call him Jonah Magnus. I've wondered if this is a portrait of the original man, or if this is what the Watcher truly looks like, with a bit of Georgian styling of course.”
Elias fell into a helpless pull of giggles. He leaned heavily against Jon, his head on his shoulder.
“Marvelous,” he whispered, and Jon was half certain he was talking about Jon himself.
The kiss wasn't unexpected, but it was enough to pull Jon's attention away from Jonah Magnus' staring eyes back to his guest.
Elias wove his fingers through Jon's hair and pulled him in, firm. His kiss was hot and demanding and Jon was helpless to resist.
Wine, heat, loneliness maybe.
He didn't do things like this, but he felt a pull to Elias he couldn't explain. Or rather equilibrium. A set of scales finally in balance.
He briefly thought of Robert Smirke, Tim and his talk of balance and hauntings. The suggestion Jonah's paintings were possessed. A joke. Or at least Jon certainly hoped it was a joke. Tim and his odd sense of humour.
The thought floated away as he was pulled back to his couch, straddling Elias feeling ready to burst from nerves. He never did this. He didn't really know what to do and how to communicate how far he was willing to let it go without entirely killing the mood, but Elias didn't reach for his belt, content to just touch and kiss.
“You're lovely, Jon,” Elias murmured. He immediately seemed to know just where to touch to make Jon feel good. Jon's white shirt was unbuttoned and left to hang off his arms as Elias nuzzled his neck.
Jon shivered at the soft little bites that started trailing down his exposed shoulder. It was a little too much, but he yearned for that feeling. That hypersensitivity on flesh that had been ignored for so long. His last partner had been Georgie (years ago now), and physically he had tried to be attentive to her as his own sex drive was minimal (non-existent). He never got lost in her touch, too anxious about how she was feeling or if he was a disappointment to register his own body.
Not like this.
Elias' total focus was on him. Drinking in every sound and tremble of flesh. Repeating what made Jon's body sing. He was taking care of Jon, his pleasure. Playing him like a fine tuned instrument, knowing the moment Jon liked something, or pulling back before it even registered that something rubbed him the wrong way. Like he could read Jon's body better than Jon could himself.
Even then Jon still felt no urge for ‘more’ but Elias still didn’t push them in that direction. He wanted to experience Jon, all that Jon had to show him and Jon wanted him to see, to know.
Jon was lying on the couch now, Elias on top and wrapped around him. Head on Jon's chest. He smelled expensive. Wine and cologne and fresh sweat and maybe paint underneath that.
Was Elias a painter? It wasn't uncommon for curators to have a background in the arts.
He idly wondered what Elias painted as he ran his hand down his back, stroking him like he would a cat, he realised. He really never knew what to do with his hands.
Jon was being snuggled, he thought in bemusement. Snuggled by a man perhaps two decades his senior who had hired him this morning to do an important appraisal before signing for the insurance on the piece and displaying it for one of the most powerful families in London.
Who had insistently invited him to dinner where they made polite conversation about the food and atmosphere and the art world where they overlapped.
Who he brought back to his flat for an additional bottle of wine while they waited before they'd try to call a cab.
Elias Bouchard, who he couldn't dream of drinking wine out of a mug kissed Jon's chin and watched him in amusement as all of that rolled around in his head with no real conclusion to be reached beside liking the weight of the other man against his chest.
“Let's…” Jon suggested. Tired and comfortable somehow. Surely his back would hate him for this in the morning. “I'll … the cab. Maybe we don't need it yet?”
Elias hummed and rested his head against him again, perfectly happy with using it as a pillow. He must do stretches if he was comfortable like that. Yoga?
Yoga felt more appropriate for the man than wine in mugs, but not by much.
Elias chuckled against him. “I love how you think, Jon.”
Jon startled, wondering if he read his mind before it occurred to him he must have meant about the cab.
He relaxed, gazing into fond grey eyes until he fell asleep.
He woke up to back pain.
He gave a stiff groan, shifting to a more comfortable position.
There was no over warm body on top of him, which, judging by his spine’s protests, was for the best.
He forced himself upward into a sitting position. The bottle of wine was empty, the empty wine-stained glasses both neatly on coasters. Or rather only one was stained, the other perfectly clean.
Something was wrong and he couldn't put his finger on it. Elias was gone and that… that wasn't entirely it.
He felt very alone.
On instinct he turned toward the hall.
The painting was gone.
He started at the blank wall utterly mystified by all of it. On the edges was a bitter hurt paired with being unsurprised by the twist.
An ulterior motive made more sense than anyone finding him desirable.
He reached for his glasses. Three pages were stacked underneath. A letter.
Hello, Jon,
Apologies for the deception. For obvious reasons I thought it best not to properly introduce myself. Nor do I plan to make my exit known, although I do hold some regret, not giving you a proper goodbye.
But you are owed an explanation.
I want to begin by reassuring you all of this was never my intention. The ending of our evening was purely driven by my desire for you. It was not a scheme to bring down your guard. Everything that I said, everything that happened before you fell asleep was genuine. The only lie I told you was that my name is Elias Bouchard.
And really even that is up for debate.
You have fascinated me for a very long time, Jon. You are not the first to identify my work as forgeries, but your ability to always know as soon as you see them in that uncanny way of yours thrilled me from the beginning. I wish I could explain to you, those perceptive eyes of yours. How suited you would be to a very different kind of calling.
Maybe one day I will. I need some time to consider.
You are quite correct that I have never resented your successes. Perhaps there is some vanity to it, but being appreciated by you. Being known. It's what every artist really wants at the end of the day. I admit I might have fished for some of those compliments. I'm a wicked man after all.
I’ve wanted to see you face to face for the past three years, but I knew better, or at least thought I did. I’m a patient man, but I do fall into fits of impulse.
I convinced myself that seeing your method first hand would be a good learning experience and set up my little ruse. Hired you to uncover one of my forgeries at the gallery I was curating. The risk was so small. It was all professional interest.
And then dinner. Well we had so little time that wasn't taken up by that cold uneasy Lukas lawyer breathing down both our necks and Mr. Salesa’s offence at the questioned authenticity. Perhaps it was to make it up to you. It was still so innocuous. Still so easy to untangle myself. Easy to explain it all away.
And then coming back to yours I had no more excuses. I simply desired your company.
I didn't expect to adore you, although I always thought of you fondly before our meeting. Knowing you now in person, knowing how you see me, knowing that our affection for one another is mutual, it all went to my head and my heart if you can believe an old con artist like me, speaking of the heart.
So it's painful that I have to prove myself a thief to you.
The painting was a shock. A gift to a former lover. I had forgotten about it.
And you had it. Displaying it in your home because it was mine. Because you knew it was mine .
It should be yours, that painting. The recipient never cared much for it. Not like you did. I hate that I have to take it from you, but I have no choice. You're too good at your job. Or perhaps you're too good at knowing me. Eventually, you would find the key. Figure me all out.
Too much would be revealed if you were allowed to keep it. I’d rather remain a mystery, at least for now.
It would have been simpler if I had left it at that. Bid you goodnight and reclaimed the painting later. Disappeared from your life, a not unpleasant evening you might or might not remember. Kept my disguise and the life I had in place for a little longer, you none the wiser.
But your expression when looking at that painting, telling me your theories. Your eyes, seeing everything I once was in that old piece. You were so beautiful, Jon, and I was overcome.
I am not the gentleman I pretend to be and at my core I'm a selfish creature. I couldn't go without knowing the feeling of your lips against mine, how it felt to hold you.
Bliss, as it turns out.
I hope one day you'll forgive me for all of it, darling. This messy first meeting of ours. I don't intend it to be our last.
I'll be seeing you, and I know you'll be seeing me.
Yours most ardently,
Jonah Magnus
Jon gave a short involuntary laugh at the signature.
Jonah Magnus. He slumped. A mixture of confusion, regret, longing, foolishness, self-disgust and back pain paired with too much wine and not enough water made him feel ill. He didn't really know what to make of the note. Letter. Good lord it was three pages.
He vaguely thought he should call Basira. She was the contact he was to go through on the police force about the Watcher case. She called the Watcher forgeries a ‘sectioned’ case. She explained bluntly that it probably wouldn't get much time considering how stretched the available officers were, having to also deal with things like murder. After that she largely ignored his questions for clarification saying it was better if he didn't know.
Jon wasn't sure why her specialised unit or whatever it was did a large mix of things, but surely she wouldn't say no to a statement on his encounter.
But the wine glass was clean, they hadn't had sex, even the letter had been written in Jon's own tight precise hand.
“Showing off with that really,” Jon grumbled to himself.
The only evidence Elias Bouchard—Jonah Magnus had been here was Jon's strange disappointment.
He'd call on Monday.
It wasn't to give him a head start.
He was just tired.
“Do you think it will be genuine?”
Jon didn't suppress his sigh, or even his eyeroll really.
“How on Earth do you expect me to know before seeing it for myself? Jon asked sharply.
He had been in a foul mood lately, the source of it was painfully clear, but no less needling.
It had been two months and he still felt a strange hole in his chest when he looked at the blank wall in his hallway. He should get something to replace it. Let it fade to the back of his mind and think no more of it.
But hot lips and grey eyes wouldn’t leave his thoughts. Refused to let him forget for a moment that his, what? His arch enemy had made out with him and stole his favourite painting.
And then sincerely apologising for it.
Forged in Jon’s own hand.
Even Martin didn't deserve the prolonged grumpiness, but he was the one that kept putting himself directly in Jon's path and had borne the brunt of it. Sasha and Tim had less patience for his temper and knew to leave him when he got like this, but Martin had to constantly pick at him. He was so close to banning tea from the office entirely. He could think of several good excuses for it too (what if it spilled and got on a million dollar piece of art? Do you think our insurance will cover negligence?).
“I didn't mean you'd know,” Martin said insistently, unwilling to let the silence settle between them, always pushing. “Just if you have a gut feeling. It’s all very strange, isn’t it? That it’s Mr. Fairchild that called about a portrait?”
“Gut feelings are not what we should be basing our reputations on, Martin. I hope it isn’t a habit of your to rely on anything but scientific method and—”
“You know it isn't what I meant!” Martin said in exasperation. “You don't need to be a prick.” Then he looked mortified when he realised he had openly called his boss a prick.
To his face.
Jon strangely liked him better for it. Calling Jon out on his shit. No one else bothered to, just throwing their hands up in frustration and leaving him to his sulk.
Georgie had always called him out (until it was about everything).
Jonah hadn’t needed to. Just knew how to get past all the walls that Jon had erected like they were made of spun sugar.
Licking—
No.
No. None of that.
“No, of course,” he said smoothly, still strangely unoffended by Martin’s mutiny.
The universe righting itself again. Jon Sims was a prick, not the object of affection of an international master forger/con man/art thief.
The tension between them broke and Jon offered the smallest of smiles.
Martin’s shoulders came down from his ears. He tentatively smiled back.
“I… perhaps have been … a bit much,” he admitted.
Martin looked like he wanted to protest (although Jon didn’t know if it was for Jon under or overstating the fact), but in the end he just let his smile get a bit bigger.
The odd calm didn't last. As soon as they entered eyes were on them. The usual pack of lawyers and staff and in the middle of it all the tiny old man.
It wasn't uncommon for there to be arguments and accusations. Especially for clients like Simon Fairchild who could probably buy a small country if he was so inclined.
Jon was weary of the old man (as he was of every multimillionaire he had ever met). Not that Fairchild was malicious or unkind. He was actually enthusiastically friendly for the most part, but he also liked playing games. Loved pitting art critics against each other. As if he took a special sort of glee from their misery. He had casually mentioned to Jon how he detested the entire profession and Jon knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he must have gotten a bad review, although he had never heard of Fairchild putting out his own pieces (it must have been a very bad critique if he never made another attempt).
Hard to imagine anyone would dare anger him, but some people tried to make their name on controversy.
It wasn't just critics of course. He had artists lining up for his patronage. Painters, poets, photographers. All the same subject. The sky. He wasn't sure who was worse off: the failures that were tossed aside, or the successful ones that maniacally painted or wrote or filmed or photographed the same blue patch over and over and over again trying to get it right for him.
When Jon heard he had a portrait he wanted appraised immediately (with a very large bonus for inconvenient timing) it smelled fishy. Mr. Fairchild rarely cared about anything outside landscape (or skyscape as the case may be).
Jon brought Martin because Martin was good with seniors (and could be used as a distraction if escape was necessary).
Martin had protested muttering something about a rollercoaster, but Tim and Sasha had already fled by the time he had put any sort of argument together on why he shouldn't be the one to go.
“Jon! Martin! What perfect timing!” Mr. Fairchild said pleasantly. “Settle a bet for us will you?”
Jon hadn't even noticed Peter Lukas in the corner.
It would be wrong to say that Peter Lukas was the people person of his family because Jon was certain Peter wanted nothing more to be left in his galleries in absolute peace. Completely alone but the portraits hung on the wall.
Jon thought of Mordechai Lukas.
He certainly enjoyed the company of portraits more than he did actual people. His descendents resemble far more the rich snobs with vaults you mentioned with only one exception.
He shook the smooth voice out of his head.
Stop it. He had decided to move on, hadn’t he? The world was right. He was a prick. That was that then, wasn’t it?
Lukas gave them a closed mouthed smile of acknowledgement and now Jon actually felt bad for bringing Martin. Even Jon noticed the unsettling way Lukas would occasionally glance in Martin's direction. It wasn't untoward exactly, more like … a measurement. Like… looking into the oven to see if the chicken was cooked.
There was that quick glance and the slightest pinch of irritation.
Martin placed himself on the other side of Jon and Jon didn't chastise him.
“What exactly was it that you needed looked at so urgently, Mr. Fairchild?” Jon asked, putting on a haughty arrogant tone he used for his richer clients. They responded better to it, and it came easier than simpering customer service act at least.
“I still don't see it.” Lukas said with a shrug. “Not as pretty.”
“Oh come on now,” Fairchild scolded. “Look at the eyes. Look at the lips! Just because he’s not made of paint doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate him.”
Rather than looking at a painting as they argued, they were looking at Jon.
“Sorry, what's happening?” Jon asked, completely on the wrong foot.
“I saw this piece on auction,” Fairchild explained, leading them to what Jon knew was the man's own private gallery. It was so much sky that Jon felt a wave of vertigo whenever he had to go in. Like he might fall into one of the paintings if he weren't careful, or maybe out of one of the clear glass floor to ceiling windows.
“Now, as you know, portraiture really isn't my aesthetic, but I rather felt unable to resist. It reminded me of someone you see, and it only came to me today when Peter came by mentioning you had helped with that business with the fake at the Lukas Exhibition. ‘Jonathan Sims!’ I said to myself. Of course that's who it looks like.”
“Shame Bouchard resigned,” Lukas said cheerfully. “He saved the family a pretty penny by calling you in.”
“Mikaele’s still fuming about the whole affair, swearing up and down a previously trusted source went sour,” Fairchild chuckled lightly.
“Sorry, What?” It was Martin asking this time. “Your painting reminded you of Jon so you just… hired us so you could… what? Compare?”
“It has been driving me mad trying to place him!” Fairchild said in his own defense. “I couldn't get rid of it until I figured it out, and if it's a genuine article Peter said he would take it off my hands. You do know Peter, don’t you? Ah yes, I thought so. So you know his own love of portraits. It's supposed to be by– oh who was it again, Peter? I never remember the names–”
Jon stopped short.
The conversation was replaced by a ringing in his ears.
The painting stood out along the clear blues and sunsets and inky nights surrounding it.
A man sprawls on a couch in dim light. At first glance he looks to be sleeping. He is not. Dark eyes peer out at the viewer under long lashes, as if in moments he will drop off to sleep but longs to gaze a little while longer at the person watching him.
He’s partially undressed; it would be considered a scandalous piece for the Regency era. The white shirt is long, coming down mid thigh. It’s slipped off one shoulder. A line of subtle shadow made the bite marks less obvious unless you knew where to look. His legs bare, curled in a demure shyness.
1818, A Lovely Sight, Portrait of My Muse’s Gaze
…
The artist had taken… liberties. He distinctly remembered not taking off his pants.
“That's… that's you!” Martin stammered, locked on the portrait as well. “There's…that's definitely… I mean…”
Jon was glad his flushed face wasn’t easy to spot like Martin’s which had gone from pale to tomato red.
“Oh,” Lukas said mildly. “I suppose it does look a bit like him.”
Jon could feel their eyes on him. Did they want an explanation?
He couldn't really give an answer. Only notice the fine details. The bite marks, the wine on his lip, two empty wine glasses…
And in the background, not looking at the viewer, was a miniature version of his painting of Jonah Magnus. His grey eyes were on the Jon in the painting, but there was no smug smile. Instead, there was a soft fondness aimed directly at the sleepy figure.
“It's a forgery,” Jon finally said. It didn't even look like one of the cited artist's works. No, this was purely original, a Magnus through and through. Any appraiser that let it slip by should be hung by their ears.
After a beat he left the gallery. He felt very cold all of the sudden, and the vertigo was back.
He was glad Martin was good enough to follow without protest or more questions. Letting him just breathe for a moment in the foyer before Fairchild and Lukas caught up with them again.
He didn't have any answers.
Fairchild insisted Jon take it. “For being a good sport and coming all the way out.” He had said.
Lukas had shrugged: ‘Pretty, but it’s worthless tat anyway.’
Jon wondered if somehow Jonah had known. Had gotten it into Fairchild’s hands knowing it would end up with Jon.
It was the exact right size to replace the missing ‘self-portrait’ of Jonah Magnus.
Martin has been angry and mortified on his behalf. So much so he forgot to motherhen. It was a nice change at least on that front. Martin ready for war was a bit frightening, although far more tolerable. He’d love to know what he'd do if Jonah actually showed his face. Probably a proper scolding. Or calling the police. That would make more sense.
They thought it was a bid to humiliate him. Sasha’s jaw had actually dropped and Tim's eyebrows almost disappeared in his hairline when they saw it. He hadn't wanted them to see, but Martin was already mid-rant by the time Jon thought to stop him.
He said he was going to get rid of it, and that they shouldn't think on it over much. He expected Tim to laugh and make a joke at his expense. He was surprised to see him angry as well. A burning anger that Jon had no reference for in Tim, who was always smiling and joking.
“You should burn it, Jon. What if he's watching you?”
How he might be watching Jon was left unsaid. He hadn't told them about the face to face meeting. Of course he hadn't.
Tim and his obsession with architecture raised in his mind and he was certain he should ask and knew if he did then nothing would be the same again and that maybe the smiling Tim would never return.
And Jon was a coward.
“What if he's watching you?” Tim repeated when Jon didn't immediately reply.
He was sure he was.
That old familiar feeling, stronger now, more active.
The X-ray wasn't necessary, but Jon did it anyway, after the others had left for the night on his promise he was alright, that he would call Basira, that he would take a cab home.
That he was certain it was nothing but an attempt to humiliate him out of revenge.
He almost got himself believing it as the images appeared on screen.
He wasn't surprised there was a message for him.
He was actually…
Relieved.
He took it home and hung it on the empty nail.
My darling,
I hope this replacement reaches you. I like it quite a bit more than the original piece to be honest. The muse has a far more striking pose, don't you think?
It's one of a kind and there will be no others like it, of that I promise. As I have told you I am a selfish man and I have no intention of sharing you. The means of its arrival to your door will surely be convoluted, but I know it will arrive none-the-less. Don’t worry too much about it, alright?
I hope when you look at it on your wall you will think of me.
I will no doubt be thinking of you.
I long for the sight of you always,
Jonah Magnus