I was looking for spooky books to borrow and came across one called Valley Versus Vision: Folk horror of the Willamette Valley! I immediately thought of you and wondered if you'd heard of it. If not, it comes highly recommended by the subreddit I'm looking for recs in <3
OOH THAT SOUNDS INCREDIBLE IM GONNA LOOK INTO IT THANK U 🙏
Okay but. Jon saying to Tim "I don't know where to go" when they're all estranged and sad and stuff and Jon's been mauled or something else we all enjoy putting him through. What a dynamic.
Hey there friend! This turned out a lot angstier than I planned, but I hope you like the torture. Just 2k of Jon and Tim season three feelings.
Tim’s pulling out of the Institute’s tiny car park when he sees him.
He heard that Jon had been gallivanting across America from Martin; that’s how he got most of his Jon-related news, lately. Wasn’t like he was going to ask the man himself.
“He was kidnapped, Tim,” Martin furiously whispered to him after Jon’s bout with the Circus. “The least you can do is ask after him.”
“Looks fine to me,” he shrugged callously, turning his chair around as Jon walked into the room. He was walking and talking. That’s more than a lot of people can say.
Jon’s standing there, looking lost and small against the austere backdrop of the Institute. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, just staring straight ahead like a lost child. He looks...sick. Hurt. Hunched over, like someone just out of sight is going to hit him. Jon always looks that way, sure, but Tim needs him to be alive and functioning if they’re going to take on the Circus. And what the hell was he wearing? He’s decked out in some sort of baggy flannel button up and torn jeans, a giant green coat over the whole ensemble that makes him look like a vagrant. It angers Tim how tiny and stupid he looks in it.
Against his better judgment, he finds himself pulling over and opening the window, tamping down the concern with annoyance. “What are you still doing here?” he says in his gruffest voice, hoping to spur him into action. Even watching him skitter down the street would be easier than this.
Jon startles, jumping in place with a wince. “O-Oh, hi Tim.” The happiness on his face is at odds with the rest of him. Tim has noticed the way Jon’s eyes light up whenever he so much as glances at him, desperate for any attention or reconciliation he can get. “How are you?” Tim rolls his eyes.
“What,” he repeats, as if talking to someone particularly slow. “Are you doing here?” Jon shuffles his feet and looks down at the pavement. He’s sweaty and twitching, like a junkie looking for his next fix. Probably another spooky side effect of whatever the fuck is going on with him.
“I-I, well- you know I’ve been away,” he begins, ever evasive and stuttering. “I was staying with, with a friend-” Tim didn’t know he had any of those. “-but I don’t think she’d appreciate me showing up like this-” An embarrassed glance down at his clothes and a self-deprecating laugh. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve been evicted, so- to be honest, I don’t know where to go.” He says the last bit with such sadness and open vulnerability that Tim’s not sure whether to hug him or hit him.
His mouth quickly decides for him. “Get in the car.” Why am I doing this? He’s unlocking the door and pushing it open, gesturing roughly.
“W-What?” Jon stumbles a bit as he steps forward, his body eager to follow Tim’s instructions but his mind still hesitant. “I don’t- really, Tim, you don’t need to-”
“What are you going to do, sleep on the street?” You look like you already did, he doesn’t say. “Get in the car. Just stop...standing there.”
Jon quickly but gingerly gets in the car, probably afraid Tim’s going to change his mind. He still might. But Tim pulls away from the institute and onto the road, already on his way. “Thank you,” Jon murmurs. He doesn’t respond, just watches as his arms curl around his torso in a protective manner. Now that he’s closer, he can see the man’s face is flushed, likely with fever. But there’s something odd about the way he carries himself, like he’s about to keel over even while sitting.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, his voice blunt and sharp. “You look like shit. America didn’t treat you well, then?”
Jon chuckles humorlessly. “More like Daisy,” he says. Tim remembers Martin complaining about the way she had marched him back to the Archives “too roughly,” as if Jon were a piece of fine china that should be handled with care. “There was an incident with er, some stairs. But I’m really just not feeling well, I’m afraid. Probably caught something on the flight.”
“Hang on- did she push you down a stairwell? What the fuck, Jon?” His outrage surprises him and he slams on the brakes too quickly at the next light, jostling Jon in his seat. “Isn’t she supposed to be, I don’t know, babysitting you? For Elias?”
“It was just the last few, and I was kind of dragging my feet-” Jon tries to school his face into calmness, but it’s clear the mention of the woman makes him anxious. “Elias doesn’t really care about that- as long as I get the job done.”
“Stop- why are you defending her?” His hands grip the steering wheel with a painful force as he bites out the words. “Stand up for yourself, for Christ’s sake. You just let everything happen now. You’re not even trying.” There’s years of pain behind the words that Tim can’t hide and he watches as Jon shrinks in on himself, curling further into the passenger seat.
“I’m trying,” Tim hears him whisper. “I am.”
They don’t speak for the rest of the drive.
__________
He doesn’t take the lift up to his apartment as it’s only on the second floor; he swallows down the guilt as Jon struggles. There’s only so much sympathy he can spare. Jon trails behind him as they enter the flat- its dark, and messier than Tim likes to keep it. He hasn’t been one for tidiness these days.
“Sit,” he points at a chair by the kitchen table as he throws his bag on the floor. “I have leftover Pad Thai. That’ll have to do.”
“Oh I’m fine, thank you,” Jon shifts in his chair, uncomfortable. Probably in pain. Tim will give him some paracetamol with his food.
“You’re sick,” Tim’s getting tired of pointing this out. “Hurt. You need to eat something. It’ll make you feel better.”
“I already had a statement-”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Tim yells as he slams his hand down on the counter. He’s sick of these strange conversations. Jon will do anything that fucker Bouchard wants him to do, but now he’s being contrary? “Just eat the fucking food, Jon.”
“Okay,” Jon capitulates at the angry tone, eyes looking down at the table. Good and quiet. Tim can work with that.
It only takes a few minutes to heat up the food. When it’s done he slams a bowl in front of Jon along with three pills. Jon had always taken a bit more than the usual dosage; Tim used to fight him over it. He doesn’t anymore. Jon swallows them sans water and pokes at the food with his chopsticks. He’s not going to let Jon up from the table until he eats at least some of the food- he thinks Jon subconsciously knows this.
But Jon isn’t interested in eating right now. Jon wants to talk. Tim can see it in every line of his shaking frame, the buzzing urge to ask a question, to dig. Tim knows what happens when Jon asks questions and he freezes, clenching his jaw in preparation.
As expected, Jon begins to speak. “I’m- I’m worried about you, Tim.” Dear God. “Martin says-”
“Oh, what’s Martin got to say about me, Jon?” He clenches his hands into fists and narrows his eyes at the man across the table. “Go on, then. I’m waiting.”
“He’s worried too!” There’s a bit of fight in Jon’s eyes, his words are sharp and biting. It’s strangely comforting. “He says you’re getting reckless, that- that you’re willing to do ‘whatever it takes’ to stop the Circus and I-”
“I am,” Tim confirms. He’s never made a show of hiding it. “And I thought you would be too.”
This time it’s Jon that slams his hands on the table- it’s a mistake, Tim can see his body shaking and straining with the pain. “Goddamnit Tim, I’m not going to watch you die!”
The temperature drops and Tim finds his breath catching in his throat. He’s thought about dying. He thinks he’s made his peace with it. Go out in a flaming inferno, taking whoever’s in his way down with him. Jon looks devastated at the idea. He doesn’t know why. He thought they were past this.
“Sasha died,” he says, relishing Jon’s flinch. “My brother died. Sometimes, Jon, people die.” His own eyes are stinging but he doesn’t want to give Jon the pleasure of seeing him break. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
Jon's body wilts at this, slumping further into his chair in a way that must have been painful. But his eyes burn with a strange, manic fire and his hand reaches across the table, grabs Tim’s own and squeezes with a force he didn’t think Jon was capable of.
“Don’t,” Tim whispers- but he doesn’t pull his hand away, just averts his eyes because he can’t stand to see this broken, shaking mess of a man trying to comfort him.
“I’m so sorry, Tim-” and that’s when he rips his hand away from Jon’s. Apologies were never his forte.
“Don’t be sorry,” he snarls, standing from the table and pushing his chair back with a bang. “Just promise me that when the time comes, you’ll get out of the way and let me do what needs to be done.” His chest heaves with an emotion he’s never been able to put into words- it’s more than grief. It’s fear and pain and uncertainty and emptiness all rolled into one and spilling at the seams. “Please.”
Jon just stares- his face is ashen and there are so many words he wants to say, Tim can feel it.
Instead, he says nothing.
__________
Jon is curled up in Tim’s bed. He tried to refuse it multiple times, but Tim wouldn’t hear of it, practically shoving a pair of pajamas into his hands as he studiously avoided Jon’s eyes.
“The sheets are clean,” he said, the words flat and monotone. “You always liked it when the sheets were clean.”
He did. He remembers a time not so long ago when Tim would laugh as he buried his face in the pillow, relaxed and smiling. “Like a cat!” he teased.
Jon always slept easy in Tim’s bed but tonight rest evades him and it’s not just the pain or the fever. It’s lonely, cold and empty in here. He wonders if Tim is already asleep on the couch.
He’s not. Jon’s standing in the doorway and watching the tenseness in his posture, arms curled into his chest and eyes clenched shut. Tim was always an open sleeper, legs and arms akimbo as he sprawled across whatever surface he laid claim to. He also snores, though he denies it whenever Jon brings it up.
Despite knowing the rest is feigned, he jumps in shock when one arm reaches out in a beckoning gesture. Is he-?
“Don’t think about it,” Tim says in a clipped tone but his arm’s still out and Jon hurries across the floor, hoping this isn’t some sort of fever dream. But Tim settles him against his chest, warm and real and Jon chokes with everything he wants to say and never said, wants to ask him about Sasha and Danny and-
“Stop thinking,” Tim interrupts his musings again, his arm tightening around Jon. “This means nothing. Just go to sleep.”
“Okay,” he whispers hoarsely back, burrowing his head in Tim’s chest. This means nothing. Go to sleep. He listens to Tim’s heartbeat, slow and steady and thrumming with life.
I used to have this recurring nightmare as a kid when my mom started dating my stepdad.
He used to go hunting for deer/turkey/duck all the time and had shotguns that used the big red shells (all safely locked up of course). The dream always started with me somewhere innocuous/safe. The couch, in my room, in the backyard. And my mother would show up out of nowhere and shout "Found [them]!" BANG! Everything would go dull. Except for the spent shells. No matter where I hid; I tried climbing trees, running into the woods, going into the spooky scary attic, under the covers (I was around 7 or 8 at the time), at the neighbor's. Never mattered. Mom would always find me. Dad would always shoot. The shotgun shells were always red.
Oh WOW this one’s interesting! I haven’t read through all the nightmares I’ve gotten yet (there’s literally hundreds LMAO) but I haven’t seen any about guns/hunting yet! This is a Hunt domain nightmare for sure :o Very strong visuals, especially the red shotgun shells. Thank you for sharing! 🙏
Hi! Some pals and I were talking about Japanese onsen and baths and thinking how cute it would be if Jon took Martin to one :3 That is all! Just wanted to share a cute thought about your Jon who I think about at least 3 times daily <3
Awwww that is cute!! I’ve never been to an onsen but I want to so bad whenever I get a chance to visit Japan 🥺 and that’s really sweet that you love my Jon so much, thank you!! 😊🙏💕💖
HI! I LOVE the recent Robin and Teddy arts and was wondering if you'd ever consider doing "my ship in 5 minutes" with them or if it would reveal too many secrets? :>
Yes I think I’ll actually do that next! Someone asked me for that while I was recovering from surgery and I’ve had it on my to-do list ever since 😁 I don’t think there are any spoiler-y questions on there, so we’re gucci babey ✌️😘✨
Prompts? This is a happy day! If you wish! I'm writing something similar but I need more cakes in the flavor and you write emotions so well! But early days in the archives and Tim and Sasha are giving Jon the cold shoulder and maybe there's an accident or something Jon really needs help with but he doesn't think he can go to either of them and he doesn't know Martin. And the next day he rolls up sick, or beat to hell, or has a cast, or a black eye, and Tim and Sasha are like WAT? And then feels!
Here you are! How do you know EXACTLY what to prompt me??? This is so my speed. So here you go- I hope you like!
“You’ve survived your first month in the Archives! That’s cause for celebration, Martin. Drinks on me!”
Tim’s cheerful tones weren’t hard to miss. Perhaps he didn’t notice Jon standing in the doorway, small and timid. He realized it was the middle of a rather stressful work week, but he just needed a little bit of help with some boxes. He’d been tired and worn out for the better part of the week, and the small ladder in Document Storage was rickety at best. Martin and Tim were both much taller and stronger than him- hell, even Sasha could’ve probably gotten the job done. Just a few minutes and then they could be on their way, to wherever they planned to go. Without him.
Sasha was the one who noticed him. “Oh- hey, Jon. Did you need something?”
He looked at the other two, twitching with clear impatience. Martin opened his mouth to speak but Tim made some sort of hushing motion with his hand. A sinking feeling made its way through Jon’s chest and to his stomach- the thought of asking for even the smallest of favors filled him with anxiety. He didn’t think he could bear seeing their faces when they said no.
“Er, no, just- have a good night, yeah?” His voice sounded off, even to him, but they didn’t seem to make much of it, nodding awkwardly.
“You too!” Martin called after him as Jon scurried down the hallway, biting down whatever sadness stuck in his throat. He’d be here all night most likely.
It didn’t bother him.
______
Jon stared up at the boxes looming tauntingly on the shelf, filled with statements that were likely just as disorganized as the ones on the shelf below. But these were labeled with the most recent dates in the Archive, and that’s what he planned on going through for the rest of the week.
Back in research, Tim used to prank him by putting things on the highest of shelves- books he needed, tea he wanted. It irked him but Tim would always be right around the corner to lend a helping hand and a teasing word. It got Jon out of his head for a moment, something very few people could accomplish.
Tim still put things on high shelves in their break room but it just felt cruel, now that he wasn’t comfortable enough to ask for help. Now that Tim was never around the corner.
He put a tentative foot on the step ladder, grimacing as it leaned to the side. He’d put in an order for a new one at the beginning of his tenure but Elias never responded. He felt bad bothering the man with such a petty request when he could just ask his assistants for help. What was he supposed to tell him? ‘Hey my assistants seem to hate me and I’m too scared to ask them’ didn’t inspire much confidence.
Jon took another step forward, willing the ladder to stabilize. He needed to get to the fourth step to even have a chance of reaching the box, high up as it was. Just a bit further.
He made it to the fourth when everything went to hell. As soon as he reached his hands toward the box the ladder creaked and listed dangerously to the side, throwing him wildly off balance. He flailed right off the side, landing with a yelp and a crack on the cold concrete floor of Document Storage.
The pain emanating from his left arm was almost paralyzing-it had taken almost all his weight in the fall and was lying awkwardly across the floor. It brought tears to his eyes as he tried to move it so he just laid there for a bit, willing himself not to pass out from the pain. How ridiculous he must have looked, lying prone on the ground, defeated by a fucking stepladder.
When he finally decided to sit up his head spun- he only got as far as scooting back and leaning his head onto a shelf, trying to control his breathing. He had his phone in his pocket. If he needed help, he could just call Sasha or Tim or even Martin. His arm didn’t feel right and he would probably have to go to a clinic or the A & E, something he hated doing. He didn’t think he could brush this one off.
But what if they didn’t answer? He thought about the three of them at the bar, laughing and talking. Tim would be regaling them with some ridiculous story, his phone would ring. He would glance down at it, see Jon’s name and flip it over, ignoring it.
Or worse, they would come, see him huddled on the floor and laugh. They would try to hold it in at first- they weren’t that rude. But as they helped him to his feet they wouldn’t be able to contain it. How embarrassing he was, how ridiculous. Jon couldn’t bear to be laughed at.
Two weeks ago he had walked past the upstairs break room on his way back from a meeting with Elias. It was entirely unproductive; he could sense Elias’s growing frustration with his lack of progress. Jon wondered if he regretted making him his Head Archivist, if he was already thinking of suitable replacements. Jon wouldn’t blame him.
And that’s when he heard it- an odd, mocking voice that he knew belonged to Ryan from research. Ryan and Jon never got on- Ryan was talkative and prone to gossip, and every attempt he had made to talk to Jon had been shut down by his inability to carry a conversation. On the odd times they were paired together to work, Jon took the brunt of it with utter silence, unwilling to complain about the man lest he be deemed more difficult than he already was.
But the voice he put on- stuffy and posh- was a caricature of Jon’s own. And sure enough, when he glanced in the doorway he saw Ryan hunched over a table, someone else’s glasses on his face as he screwed it up in a scowl and carried on as “Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute” to his captive audience.
His captive audience which included Sasha and Tim.
He felt his heart shatter as the group laughed at the impression. It was accurate, why shouldn’t they? God, why hadn’t he realized how much everyone hated him here? Any respect he thought he earned faded quickly with this showing. He found himself sprinting down the hallway and locking himself in his office, ignoring Martin’s concerned inquiries as he desperately tried to blink back tears.
Remembering the incident brought the shame and embarrassment back tenfold. No, he would deal with this himself. That was the best course of action.
He took fifteen minutes to properly wallow but once his heart rate lowered and the pain was at manageable, dull roar he got to his feet and staggered down the aisle, constantly searching for a handhold. He had everything he needed on him- it wasn’t so cold that he couldn’t go without a jacket, and he knew he wouldn’t get any work done this evening.
Making his way down the hallway and up the stairs was almost tortuous; he paused several times and took deep breaths to avoid passing out and making the problem worse. By the time he got to the lobby Rosie was already gone for the day and Ed, the janitor, was idly mopping by the front door.
“‘Ave a good night, sir,” the man said without looking up. “Careful though, s’slippery over-whoa there, Sims!”
He must have looked as awful as he felt because the man dropped his mop and made his way over to his side, his face the picture of concern. Jon was holding his arm at an awkward angle so as not to jostle it. “S’fine,” he wearily started. “Have a good night, Ed.”
“Don’ look fine to me, Jonny.” Jon hated this nickname, but he never let on. He didn’t want to upset the one man who still greeted him day and night, no matter how stressed and irritable Jon looked. It was a nice, comforting routine. “Somethin’ happen?”
“Just took a fall, nothing serious,” he lied, well aware that his palm was scraped and crusted with blood. “I’ll just be going, got a train to catch-”
“Let me get you a cab, son,” he said, a paternal hand on his shoulder. “Shouldn’t be on the tube looking like that, bound to make it worse.” Jon began to voice his protest but the man was already out the door, waving and stamping in the street. He would smile at the scene if he had the energy for it. Instead he just staggered after him, wincing with every step.
“Over here!” the man shouted, standing by a cab a little ways down the road. Ed opened the door and ushered him in, hands helpful and gentle and so kind that Jon has to blink away tears. “There’s a good lad. Take ‘im to the closest A & E, will ya?” Jon watched as he shoved a pocketful of bills in the cabbies hand.
“Ed, you’ve already done enough-”
“Nonsense,” he waved Jon off, still looking at him with that mix of warmth and concern that Jon so desperately needed. “You just get that checked out, y’hear? An’ come back in one piece!” With that, he shut the door and gave him a wave, standing in place until the car was out of sight.
Jon couldn’t hold back his tears after that.
_______
Jon comes in the next day, arm freshly broken and in a sling, medicated to the gills. He paused at first, considering not taking the pain medication but he eventually gave in as the pain progressed throughout the morning. He’s a little late and he’s going to have to march past his assistants’ desks and attempt to avoid questions.
“Whoa there, boss! What happened?” Tim says immediately upon his arrival. Jon avoids his gaze and looks to the ground, walking as quickly as possible to his office and shutting the door. He deserves a bit of peace before the inevitable interrogation.
Of course, he would never be so lucky. All three assistants are soon hovering around the doorway, looking at him with a worry he doesn’t deserve. He sighs as he casts his eyes to the desk and slumps down in his chair.
“Took a spill yesterday, nothing serious,” he mutters in as staid a tone as he could manage. “Now, if you could please get back to work-”
“You’re not getting out of this that easily,” Sasha says, coming over to his desk, Tim not far behind. Martin stays in the doorway, ever polite. “You were fine we left!”
“It happened shortly afterwards. I advise none of you to use the stepladder for the time being.” He manages a weak smile that none of them return.
“Stepladder? Boss, I told you not to use that anymore!” Tim plops down in a chair, legs immediately going over the arm of it. Jon always imagined them talking in the office like this- a stupid fantasy he entertained when he first got the position. No one had ever sat in those chairs, they just stood in his office and counted the seconds until they could leave. ‘Why didn’t you ask us for help?”
“I-I was going to,” he begins, feeling instantly guilty at the thought of making them feel bad. “But- well, you looked like you had plans.”
Tim and Sasha exchanged a look. “You should’ve at least called us when it happened,” Sasha says, a hand on his desk. Jon aches to take it. “We were right around the corner.”
“I know,” he says. He feels out of it, vulnerable and loose and unmoored. Likely from the meds.
“You knew and you still didn’t call?” Martin this time, his voice incredulous.
“I didn’t think you would come,” his voice is no more than a whisper and his chest aches something fierce. His hands tighten into fists at the silence that follows; he nervously starts to fill it.
“I know-look, it’s fine we’re not friends any more,” he starts, trying to keep his voice level. “But it- it just seems like you don’t want me to be your boss either?” His voice goes higher in pitch and he can’t seem to stop babbling. “I just- I need to know where I stand. So I know what’s okay to ask. I know this isn’t ideal but I- I need help sometimes. Not a lot, just...just sometimes.”
“Jon,” Tim has a hand on his arm and an urgency in his voice. “That’s not- of course we would have come. Of course.”
“I didn’t want you to laugh at m-me.” Christ, could he not get a handle on his emotions for five goddamn minutes? Why was he still talking?
“We would never laugh-”
“But you did!” The words burst forward, almost a yell. “I-I saw you the other day. With Ryan- laughing at me. You know I don’t-” The breaths come quick and he can feel the tears coming down his face. God, what a mess he was. “I don’t understand where it all went wrong. If- if you don’t like me, why did you accept this job? Why are you here? What- what do I need to do better? Why were you laughing at me!” Jon dissolves into a mess of sobs as he slams his chair back from his desk, desperate to put as much space as he could between himself and his assistants.
But Jon never gets what he wants. Tim has his arms wound gently around his body, taking care to avoid the sling. And Sasha is there, a hand on his back as well.
“We- we weren’t laughing, Jon,” Tim tries, but Sasha cuts in.
“But we didn’t exactly tell him to knock it off, did we?” Her voice is angry and Jon doesn’t know who it’s aimed towards. He feels so stupid, so childish for breaking down like this but he knows what he saw. What he heard. “Ryan’s a jealous dick, he was just being mean. And...I guess we were being sort of mean, too.”
Tim takes over from there. “Look- things have gotten messy since we came down here, yeah? We’re...adjusting, that’s for sure. And I’m sorry that we made you feel like you did something wrong.”
“I- I did though, I must have-”
“No- Jon, look at me,” He hazards a glance at Sasha’s face, looking anywhere but her eyes. “You know me. Emotions aren’t particularly my forte. It’s- it’s a lot easier not to talk about things, but that doesn’t mean it’s right. It was a lot easier to hold onto my anger at being passed over, y’know?”
“If you told me- I would’ve had Elias switch us, I swear-”
“We don’t have to switch. To be honest, I don’t think I know how the fuck an Archive is supposed to be run either. At least not one like this,” She gestures to the room and Jon manages a weak smile.
“I’m not very good when things get messy, either,” Tim admits, leaning awkwardly on a file cabinet in order to keep an arm around him. Jon hopes the gesture is genuine, and not just an attempt to placate the man having an emotional breakdown in the middle of the office. “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’ve been a right ass. So while I’m trying to make it up to you, how about you let me and Martin handle the top shelf from now on, yeah?” The joke feels familiar. This is territory Jon can manage.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jon wipes a hand across his face, finally feeling a bit more stable. “S’fine. I forgive you.” He takes the tissue Sasha offers. “Sorry for being so- er, dramatic. The pain medication is quite something, to be honest.”
“Oh God,” Sasha is suddenly all business. ‘“You shouldn’t be at work right now. Not like this- Tim’ll take you home, right?” Tim nods, tightening his arm around Jon’s shoulder.
“Yeah- you’re not going to get anything done like this, Jon. Have a rest, Sasha’ll tell Elias what’s going on, yeah?”
“Of course.”
There it is again- of course. Maybe if they keep saying that, it’ll make it true.
Jon doesn’t argue as he’s ushered out of the Institute- whatever that was took a lot out of him, and he knows he’s useless to his team like this, dazed and unstable. Martin follows them outside- Jon had almost forgotten he was there. He had slipped out of the office during the worst of it, kindly giving them some space. He wants to thank him but he doesn’t know how. Instead he listens as Martin rattles off all the things Tim should watch out for, like a nervous mother hen.
“I got it, Martin,” Tim says patiently. “But I’ll call you if anything happens.” Martin reluctantly backs off, giving the two of them a wave as they drive out of the parking lot.
“Jon,” Tim begins, putting a special emphasis on his name. He missed being called Jon. “You know I’ll always come when you call. I promise. I’d- I’d never laugh at you, not like that.”
You know. Of course.
“Okay,” Jon responds, staring out the window. He hopes it’s true. If not, well- the words are a start, right?
