you say 'seriously injured' like its a bad thing

day 4 - "i won't leave you"

Grace gets a migraine and Rocky does not believe a word he says.

the Archivist

"another world is not only possible,

she is on her way

on a quiet day,

I can hear her breathing."

Weapons. Trained, tested, forged in steel and fire. Failure is an inevitability that ends in death. Pain should not be felt--it should be recognized, familiar, and inconsequential

Martyrs. In the form of servants and princes, of leaders and underdogs. If blood is necessary, the martyr will lift their hands and offer it all

Shields. Like tempering a sword, but only to bear and not to lash out. Wounds are medals--not symbols of pride, but symbols of worth. A pretty shield is useless; scars mean a job well done

Experiments. Raised on the cold comfort of a lab table. Restraints are only necessary when they're not in their right mind. Is it honorable, to be twisted beyond recognition? Or is it just a necessary evil?

Monsters. Cruelty, caution, and regarding one as a creature beyond reasonable thought is tempering in its own right. But if you keep a leash at the right length, perhaps the massecre won't reach you. One can hope.

Idols. Pretty face, pretty name, pretty hands around their shoulders and throat. There to seduce, manipulate, force any feeling to come to the surface and twist it to their favor. Any genuinity stays locked behind the guilded cage that surrounds their pretty little heart

Trophies. Status and wealth and the traditions that keep someone at their heels, on their knees, to display and serve and decorate one's ballroom.

Jon would swear that his shoes are squeaking louder than normal as he walks down the linoleum hallway from his office to the bullpen. Everyone along the way must be looking up because he can feel Eyes on his back the whole way. They’re judging him. Even the people in this building whom he barely knows are thinking, God, what a lazy good for nothing that Head Archivist is. At the very least, Elias is going to think so. 

He’d stuck it out for as long as he could, but he’s at the end of his rope. His head is pounding steadily in time with a rapid heart rate that pushes syrupy blood through his veins, to his heart, then away, to, then away. It’s hard to think, hard to breathe. He’d been fine when he’d woken up in the morning, then, several hours of hot and cold flashes left him feeling confused, muddled, and pained. 

“Elias,” he calls, knocking on his closed door. Even when he’s not busy, Elias has a closed-door policy. It might be to send the message that he’s too busy to be bothered by anyone’s anything. “Can I come in?” 

Papers shuffle; Elias sighs. 

“Come in. Shut the door behind you, will you?” 

Jon does as he’s asked. Though he hadn’t planned on taking a seat, his head is swimming from the short walk down the hall, and his knees are quivering. 

“Are you alright? I’m sure that if you’re coming to me, something has gone awry.” It’s a not-so-subtle dig, a jab insinuating he shouldn’t be bothering him disguised as concern. Since he needs the latter, he ignores the former. 

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he begins in a voice that’s rough and wrecked, like he’s been swallowing rocks, “but I’m afraid I’m having a… well, I’m… Erm.” He can’t bring himself to say he’s ill. Years of people ignoring that very complaint have taught him not to make it, but it can’t be helped. His only other option would have been to send an email saying he’s headed home early for the day, and he doubts that would have gone over well. At least if he does this in person, Elias can see what a state he’s in. 

“Jon? I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re asking.” Get to the point, he’s thinking. No one cares, anyway.

“I’m not feeling well,” he manages, the words coming out a little louder and faster than he’d hoped. He supposes he’s proud of himself for saying them at all.

“Hm,” he hums, disinterested. “I’m sorry to hear that.” That’s all he says. Doesn’t ask if he’s alright, whether he needs to go home. Just fake pity and an impatient, pointed glance toward his stack of paperwork. How can someone be a prick just with their eyes? 

“I was wondering if you’d mind me leaving a little early.” 

“How early?” 

“Now,” he says. “It’s a bit urgent.” 

“Jon,” he sighs. “You know that normally, I’d say yes.” Does he know that? “But I’m afraid there’s just too much to be done. You’ve not recorded a statement all week, and we need to keep a steady pace if we’re ever going to finish taping them.” 

“Of—of course,” he stammers. “I promise I’ll record more than one next week, I just need—” 

“More than one in a week isn’t a promise;it’s the expectation, and currently, you’re failing to meet it.” 

“I’m—”

“I know you’re trying. I just can’t shake the feeling that perhaps this position is overwhelming you, particularly if it’s affecting your health like this. You really do look terrible.” Again with that faux concern. 

“I’m happy to record it,” comes a voice from the doorway behind him, so sudden he startles. Tim. “If Jon’s asking to leave, it must be bad.” 

“I’m sorry, but that’s Jon’s duty. I can’t justify allowing you to perform a duty above your pay grade.” 

“You drive a hard bargain, but I suppose I’d accept more pay for it.” 

“Not exactly what I meant,” Elias says without a hint of amusement. “Jon, though I can’t force you to stay, I do highly recommend you do, at least until after you’ve recorded a statement. If you do that, you’re free to go.” 

The thought of reading makes his head throb, and his stomach does a lurch, like he’s trying to read in a moving car rather than at his stationary desk. 

“Of course,” he replies. “Yes, I can—I can do that.” He hopes. 

Tim follows him to his office so quietly that Jon doesn’t notice until he nearly slams the door in his face. 

“What was that about?” he asks. “You’re ill?” 

“A bit. Nothing a rest won’t fix, and that can wait.” Tim looks dubious. 

“You’re sure? You look wrecked, mate.” It’s true, but that doesn’t mean it’s nice to hear. “Elias can’t make you stay. What’s he going to do, hold you down? I’d go home anyway, if I were you.” Well, that’s because Tim isn’t at risk of demotion. If Jon disobeys a direct order and takes unapproved time off, he could be placed right back in research, this time with no friends and no second chance at upward mobility. 

“I don’t remember asking for advice. If that’s all, I’d appreciate you getting back to work.” It’s shitty of him, and he knows it. Tim’s trying to help because he’s a good guy, and Jon is pushing him away because it’s easier than letting him in. He’s right, too. He should be prioritizing his health over his job. However, as with everything in his life, it’s not that simple. 

“Right. I’ll come check on you in a bit, alright? And if you start to feel worse, you know where I am.” 

“Thank you,” he says, soft words punctured by a sharp tone. With that, he shuts his door and sits down at his desk, desperate to get this over with. 

By the time he’s finished recording, he’s exhausted. The strange pull of the statement always leaves him in a foggy, nearly blissful haze until he returns to reality and crashes, but that’s not enough this time. When he’s back with himself, it’s immediately obvious that something is very wrong. He’s shaking again—how long has he been doing that? Nausea crashes into him like a choppy wave and he has to lean over his trash can to dry heave. Luckily, he hasn’t eaten anything in hours, so all that comes up is a mouthful of tea and stomach acid. 

True to his word, the next thing he registers is Tim kneeling beside him, hands outstretched like he thinks Jon’s going to fall. Hell, he might. 

“Are you back with me?” 

Jon frowns. 

“Where was I?” 

“You were pretty out of it for a minute there. I had to call your name three times.” 

That’s not good, given that he can’t remember even one of them. His headache is now a migraine. Even blinking at Tim as he tries to absorb what he’s just said hurts. 

“Sorry,” he says because it feels like a safe answer. “I’m—I don’t feel so well.” 

“I bet. Come on. Get your coat and leave your folders. I’m taking you home.” 

“Elias—”

“Elias can take it up with me if he has a problem with it. You can’t work like this.” 

Normally, he’d rather stay the night here on the cot than take off early, but sleep sounds so delicious that he can’t say no. Pulling his coat tightly around him, he stands, wavers, and steadies with Tim’s help.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sick in all the years of working together. I was beginning to think you escaped from a laboratory somewhere.” Jon huffs a puff of air through his nose. “I suppose we found your limit, then, hm? Next time, we’ll do better to avoid hitting it.” Tim must know that he doesn’t consider his human limitations until they’re tailgating him. This can and might happen again. In fact, it’ll be surprising if he’s never again in a physical pile-up. But he doesn’t have to tell Tim that. He’s being so kind and to say he’s not going to change will be a slap in the face. 

“Thank you,” he says, this time sincerely, warmly. Because he’s in no shape to take the tube home, Tim calls a cab, and they board it when it arrives. Tim tells the driver Jon’s address because he knows it by heart, and by the time he opens eyes he hadn’t noticed he’d shut, he’s in the car park outside his flat. 

“Let’s get you upstairs.” With a lot of support, Jon manages to walk the short distance to his doorstep, then turns around to dismiss him. 

“I’m sorry to have put you out like this.” 

“Are you kidding? I’ll take any excuse to skip out on work. I’m coming in with you, just to make sure you’re situated. I’ll leave after that, I promise.” He wants to tell him to stay as long as he wants, but he lacks the energy to do anything but nod. Once he finally manages to shove his key into the lock with shaking hands, Tim leads him straight to the couch, steals and covers him with his duvet, and rummages through his things until he finds a thermometer and some surely expired flu medicine. 

“You need to stock up on things. Your medicine cabinet looks like you’re only allowed war rations.” That makes him smile. Tim offers him a thermometer, and though it’s awkward to sit in complete silence while he waits the minute it takes to beep, he places it in his mouth. As soon as it chirps, Tim swipes it from Jon’s hands before he has a chance to even see the number.” 

“Jesus, Jon. You’re roasting.” 

Jon shrugs. “I’ll be fine after a nap.” 

“I’m not so sure. Hey, I’m going to head to the store for a few supplies. When I get back, I’m not leaving until that temperature comes down without fever reducers.” 

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m not doing it because I have to. You’re my friend.” It’s that, so simple and light that it fizzes in his ears like a freshly opened seltzer, which breaks him. A friend. He’d always suspected, but Tim has never said it aloud before to confirm it: they’re friends. Not coworkers, not boss and employee, but friends. 

All I could think while drawing this is how impractical it would be if jon cried.

Kept thinking about how weak and disorientated Jon gets when cut off from the Eye, which got me thinking about Martin having to help him as his state got worse.

“I met the war.”

“He told me it had three faces. One to play its pipes of scrimshawed bone, one to scream its dying battle cry and one that would not open its mouth, for when it did blood and sodden soil flowed out like a waterfall. Those arms that did not play the pipes were gripping blades and guns and spears, while others raised their hands in futile supplication of mercy, and one in a crisp salute.”