(tw for. i dunno. just jon being out of it in general. the short of it is hes high off meds and acts different as a result. gets a little angsty but dw!!!!! hurt/comfort to the rescue....)
Try as he might, Jon cannot move at the moment. Not far, at least.
Or, he can, he’d just rather not, knowing he’d collapse to the floor and all. The cot isn’t close enough to crawl to anymore.
But he needs to go somewhere.
Maybe.
He sort’ve forgot where exactly he needs to go, but he knows it’s somewhere.
He taps at the buttons on his little office phone, dialing a number he thinks is important, and bringing the receiver to his ear. At least he remembers how that works.
“Jon? Do you need something?” No. No, that wasn’t right he didn’t want that voice.
“Tim.” That one. He wanted that one. “Martin, can you— Tim. Please. Thank you, Martin.”
And he hung up, smiling. Tim was on his way! Tim, Tim, Tim. He liked that guy. He liked that guy a lot and Martin was getting him.
What an amazing day.
Then he zoned out for a bit and guess what? Tim was actually there. Real and in the flesh, right there in the doorway. He was staring.
“You rang, boss?” Yes. Yes, mhm, that’s what he wanted. More of that.
“Yes, Tim, it’s very urgent, as you can see, I need to, uh—” And he wasn’t moving, was he?
He hadn’t moved. He was too caught up in enjoying the sound of Tim’s name leaving his mouth, rolling the syllables on his tongue.
“How many painkillers did y’ take?” No. No, he didn’t want that. That didn’t matter.
“Enough. Can you— Talk. Can you talk more. I like your voice, Tim, it’s very nice.” And he’s smiling again, a wide, loose-lipped grin.
“Jesus christ, you’re high as a kite. Why are you even here?” He wasn’t in the sky, was he? He felt like he was on the ground. He was on the ground. Two feet on the floor for proof.
“I had things to get done. And— And I needed to talk to you. Needed you to talk to me. Wait, no—” Apologize. Yes, right, that’s what he needed to do. Good job, Jonathan.
“I’m sorry. Yes, that’s what I needed. I’m sorry, Tim, for stalking you and— And being an awful friend.” He sniffled.
“I don’t—”
“No, no, no, shut up, I’m— Listen. Please. I’m sorry for everything. It’s all my fault and, and I shouldn’t have tried to carry it all myself. I should’ve trusted you and, and—”
He choked around the words, sobs tearing through him and tears falling. This is what he had needed to do.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Sasha would still be alive if it weren’t for me. And you’d still, you’d still like me if only I’d listened.”
Oh, yeah, he was standing now, stumbling his way over to Tim. His fingers found themselves clawed into the man’s bomber jacket and his face buried into his chest, tears and snot staining the fabric.
“I, I missed you, Tim, I’m so sorry.”
And, really, that was what he’d needed. He’d been longing to get that off his chest.
Two arms. He felt two arms around him, one on his waist and the other cradling his head. Tim wasn’t just here and listening, he was holding him. He was comforting him.
A violent sob is all he managed in terms of a reply, then another, then another.
“Let it out, boss, don’t have much reason to stop you. You’ve already blabbered on and you’re clinging to me like a koala.”
Oh.
Oh, Tim, listened to him.
Well, crying just a tad harder was certainly his only valid response. Or the one that he landed on at least.
Only worsened by Tim starting to rock and sway, shushing him all the while. Gentle and quiet. When had he last been so timid?
“It’s okay,” He mutters now, resting his chin on top of Jon’s head. “It’s okay.”
But he’s not accepting the apology.
But Tim isn’t forgiving him.
“Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” And just for good measure, with his face stuffed into the crook of the other’s neck; “Forgive me.”
“Not now. I’m—” And Tim sighed.
“Not now, Jon. I just can’t.”
“Why not?” Is all he could get out, clawing and asking, damn near pleading. Why? Why, why, why? He just wants to know why.
“Doesn’t matter.” Tim still hadn’t pulled away. Good. That’s good. He missed this warmth.
“It does.” He chokes, somehow still sobbing. Was he lightheaded? He felt lightheaded.
“It does to me. I’m here. I’m listening now. Please, Tim, give me a chance.”
“You’re high, boss.”
“So?” He could hear the begging edge to his own voice and he let it remain there. He let it seep in and take over.
“So,” Tim continued, pulling himself away from Jon’s grip. “Let’s get you home. You haven’t been working anyhow.”
“Home?”
“Christ, yeah, home, Jon, Georgie’s flat?”
“I, ahm— I don’t, I don’t live with her anymore. I’ve been staying in the Archives. Or, or hotels.”
And Tim all but glared at him. But he could see it, tucked and buried and hidden, was the other’s concern for him.
“Right, of course. With me then.”
What?
“I, uh— Pardon?”
“Come back to my place. You can stay with me for a bit. Just until you’re off whatever the docs put you on.”
(tw for mold, bugs, vomit/emetophobia and other gross imagery. this is a corruption based fic so keep that in mind. most warnings featured in those forms of episodes should apply here.)
Right, so, can Tim get a raincheck on this whole situation? Is that possible?
Because God knows he doesn’t want to be here, exploring a spooky flat with his irritable coworker. Fieldwork.
This field could work his ass.
For starters, the lights in the damned place didn’t even turn on. Just contributing to the overall ‘you will not be leaving unharmed’ vibe he had picked up since first stepping in.
Second, it stunk.
A rancid smell seeped into his nostrils and set up camp in his lungs everytime he so much as thought about breathing.
And he couldn’t pin the source. Not that he wanted too, but damn him for being curious.
“Tim?” Ah. The aforementioned irritable coworker. Right on time to interrupt his inner monologue.
“Mmmmyeah?” He snapped back to studying the place like he actually wanted to be here.
Yep, quite the interesting torn wallpaper they have. He should really ask the ghosts where they got it. Maybe it was custom ordered.
“Do you have an extra torch? Mine is, ahm— Well, it’s dead already.” Oh, silly Jon, don’t you know that’s the first thing that happens in horror movies? Always keep a few spares.
“Yeah, I do. Do you need me to, like, come to you? Or do I get the honor of listening to you flail around in the dark trying to find me like I’m the light at the end of your tunnel?”
“The first one, please.” And try as the stiff might, Tim knew he had made him smile at most. Maybe even a contained laugh.
Ah, well. He can tease him over that when he gets there. For now?
He aims his torch down the way he had entered, the floorboards bowing under his weight. A steady rhythm of creak, step, drip.
Creak, step, drip.
Creak.
Step.
Drip.
He— He had no idea where the dripping was coming from. It was distant, but audible all the same. Background noise.
Whatever.
Jon’s silhouette came into view soon enough, the man standing hunched in a corner of the room with his arms around himself.
He looked like he had been shaking before the torchlight filled the room. Tim chose to ignore how his heart clenched at the thought. He did not need to feel protective over Jon.
Because Jon was Jon. The man was abrasive, harsh, commanding. He used his words like a whip, wielding them in a similar fashion.
When he wasn’t paired with Tim, that is.
Stick him in Tim’s presence and those walls crumbled at record pace. And of course he was proud of himself for being the cause of that.
What used to be scripted interactions between coworkers had turned to jokes and jests in the span of a few months. They weren’t friends, but they also weren’t not friends. Get it?
“Did one Jonathan Sims order a torch to-go?” He teased, fishing the light out of his bag. He did struggle to get it solely because of how much he’d packed. Why’d you ask?
And obviously he had to hold it far over the other’s head. Obviously.
Jon frowned, unfurling from his little ball in the corner like a flower bud in the morning light. Okay, Tim, leave the poetry to Martin.
He was really starting to sound like—
Nevermind.
Compartmentalize. Pack it away for— Forever, preferably. Never unpack it.
“Tim, it would do you good to listen for once.”
Oh.
Ohhhhh.
His favorite. His favorite tone of Jon’s.
He loves when the other gets all huffy and haughty on him, annoyed by his stupid jokes and pranks. It’s all in good fun, of course.
He knew the difference by now, having accidentally prompted a panic attack once. Yeah, he still felt awful about that.
Horrible, really.
He grew more cautious as a result, adapting to any shifts in Jon’s mood that read as ‘I don’t like this anymore, Tim, please stop.’ And it should be concerning how easily he picked up on those slight differences.
Packing that away too.
“What’re you gonna do about it?” He smirked, dangling the torch just over Jon’s head.
A sharp puff of breath out of his nose, his face scrunching as he tried in vain to reach the thing. Adorable.
Wait— No. No, Tim, not adorable.
In his distracted state, Jon was almost able to grasp the flashlight. By jumping off of his tippy toes. Until Tim spun with his leap.
Until he missed and went falling down as he failed to stick the landing.
A loud thud was all that followed. Oh, and, hello loud ringing in his ears! Nice to hear you again! It’s been a while.
The beam of his torch shifted to where Jon had landed and— Oh.
Oh shit.
“Jon.”
“Yes, I know, haha laugh at the guy who fucking fell. You prick.” His voice was gruff, tinged with embarrassment. Tim did feel bad, but—
“Jon, you broke through the wall.”
“I wh— Oh. Oh, good lord.”
Torn wallpaper peeled back around the edges of the hole Jon had made, the chalky rubble from the drywall collapsed in a pile on the inside. And, well—
He didn’t have to describe it. Surely they’d seen enough. Surely this was more than enough horror for one venture.
“Jesus christ.” Jon continued to ramble beside him, eyes transfixed on the scene with pupils blown out of proportion.
Mold. It was mold. He knew that much. It covered whatever this weird room inside the wall was, the floor, the walls, even the fucking ceiling.
It looked as though the flat itself had developed a bad case of acne, bulbous growths and all.
At least they found the source of the smell. And the dripping noise from earlier. Does that even count as a small victory?
Tim decided against that.
Especially when he saw that the dripping was a result of an awful, yellow substance the growths excreted. It seemed viscous and he didn’t plan on testing to see if he was right.
Oh, and the maggots.
How could he forget the maggots?
They writhed and squirmed all throughout the room, squishing and stretching and making a disgusting, slimy click sound as they did.
A fresh wave of nausea crashed over him, barreling into him like a semi-truck. So, he keeled over.
He turned to the side, as any gentleman would to avoid puking on whoever they were with, and emptied his lunch onto the floor. The bile was bitter, coming up in chunks that left his throat burning, but better out than in.
In this case, at least.
Jon wasn’t doing so hot either. His limbs swayed, woozy, and he was trying to keep from gagging, but Tim could see the occasional shudder his body gave when he did.
He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, the acrid taste of vomit clinging to his tongue. Gross.
“We should—”
“We should get our pictures and leave.” He finished. Surely Jon shared that sentiment.
“Agreed.” Thank God. He was stubborn, but definitely not an idiot. Good to know.
Scounging around for the camera whilst trying to hold his breath was a debacle in and of itself. One which involved him sucking in air through his mouth, realizing he could taste the rot, gagging, and then finally retrieving the device.
And its safe to say they did as they said.
A few snapshots here, a few there, then boom. They darted out of that flat as fast as they were able, not allowing themselves to process what exactly they’d uncovered, just moving right on.
Tim paid for their taxi. And chose their destination. And what did he pick?
A pub, of course.
It was, what, roughly 7 o’ clock? They deserved a treat. Even if Jon wasn’t all too grateful for it.
“I’d much prefer to go home.” He grumbled, tapping his fingers against the cab door all too anxiously for a man who was about to get hammered with his coworker.
Hopefully.
“C’mon, Jon! Lighten up! I mean, we just left a spooky flat and you just want to go home and let that simmer? Want to commit that all to memory or something?”
“Well, ahm— No. No, not really. Of, of course I don’t, but—” Can anyone blame him for clasping a hand over the stuttering man’s shoulder? Force of habit, honestly.
“Then come with me. My treat. Promise I’ll pay for whatever you order. Scout’s honor.” He let his free hand rise to cover his heart, promising.
And, oh, that was— Jon laughed.
Not just the barely there huffs he usually got in reply to his jokes, it was— Warm. Light. It lifted a weight from Tim’s shoulders that he was unaware he’d been carrying.
No, not now. Please, God, not now of all the fucking times. Of all the fucking people.
But, alas, his cheeks flushed and his heart fluttered. And Tim was suddenly very aware of his feelings towards this man he sat with.
