Ooh, if you're looking for TMA prompts: I'm starved for Tim & Jon friendship content, and I know you love Tim, so maybe something where Jon is sick (migraine? Fever? Up to you!) and everyone thinks he's just in a mood and ignoring/snapping at them. So Tim goes into his office for something and finds him all miserable and is like ":( boss" (if you don't like this one, I can try again! ☺️)
Set in season 1 around the Jane Prentiss drama llama.
Tim’s starting toward the archives to see Jon when he hears a door shut rather loudly. Not a slam, per se, but as close to one as, he expects, Martin can muster within his too-nice core. Sure enough, he spots Martin whipping around the corner, his face pinched together in frustration that contradicts the pain welling in his eyes.
Martin’s walking fast, eyes cast forward, and he stumbles to a stop right before Tim. Tim arches a brow, cocks his head to the side.
“Where’s the fire, Martin?”
“It appears, Tim, that it’s up Jonathan Sims’ arse.”
Tim doesn’t mean to laugh; he really shouldn’t laugh, but he does, and he brings his fist to his mouth in a poor attempt to cover the laugh with a cough. “What happened?” he asks, clearing his throat, amusement still playing wildly on his face.
“He’s in a mood,” Martin grumbles, “and he genuinely had the audacity to snap at me because I, god forbid, wanted to inquire about the table that was delivered. The table, I might add, that he’s acting so odd about because of a prevous statement.”
Tim hums, trying for sympathy, but it falls short for Martin only looks more irritated yet also more defeated, as if he’s just walked from a high school break up.
“If you’re going to see him, don’t get your hopes up for a pleasant conversation. He snapped at Sasha, too, though she handed it back to him very fast, and he completely ignored Elias.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim says, starting past Martin, but Martin latches onto his forearm with an interestingly strong grip, one that catches Tim off guard, and he stops, eyeing the fingers wrapped around his arm curiously.
“Please don’t tell Jon what I said.” Martin sighs, and Tim looks to see his shoulders slump almosy dramatically. “I’m just tired. Sleeping here is quite.. difficult at times.”
Tim can only imagine. He nods, and Martin’s hand drops back to his side.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Tim tries, light-hearted, unsure of how to fully approach this rather curious side of Martin, but Martin only offers a half-smile that falls far too quickly, and he leaves Tim.
Tim considers dwelling on this, but he has to prod Jon about the follow-up research he gave him two days ago because his work is at a standstill until he hears from Jon regarding his next statement.
When he gets to the door, he knocks lightly, and when he hears Jon’s dark voice griping about the table and how it doesn’t concern him, he opens the door, offering a small smile and wave.
“Ah, Tim,” Jon mutters, and Tim leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watches as Jon slips his glasses from his face to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“I thought you were Martin.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Tim says around an easy laugh that hides his narrowed eyes. Though Jon’s head is cast down, Tim can see that Jon’s normally, sharp, dark skin looks hollow, dull, and his normally straightened posture has taken a huched look that almost makes Tim’s own back hurt.
He looks further down, spotting his follow-up notes scattered across Jon’s desk above his current statement, and he frowns briefly and clears his throat. “Hey, boss, if my notes aren’t up to par with your standards, I can try again. No worries.” His easy tone echoes hollowly against the dark, archive walls, and then Jon looks up at him and sighs deeply.
Nodding, Tim pushes off against the wall and rubs at the back of his neck. He should leave, but there’s something off with Jon, more than just a mood. It’s too dark in the archives, with only a soft table lamp casting a dim glow across the room, and Jon’s jaw is clenched tightly, sharp angles jutting out and trembling slightly. If he didn’t know any better, he would think Jon’s in pain.
“Is there something else?”
“Acutally,” Tim draws out, “yeah.” He plugs in missing pieces, pushing the final one in place when Jon absently massages at his temples. “Do you have a mirgaine, Jon?” The dim lighting, apparent headache, the mood, Tim thinks, all make sense.
The heat behind Jon’s voice has Tim holding both hands up in a visual show of mock defense. “Sorry, it’s just the lights, your sour mood-”
“-I’m only in a mood because I cannot, for the life of me, get through one single, bloody statement without one of you interrupting me!” Jon rises to his feet, but then one hand flies to his head while the other grips at the edge of the desk.
It takes Tim a good few seconds to realize Jon’s swaying, but once he does, he crosses the room easily, and places a hand to small of Jon’s back, gently easing Jon back to the chair.
“Easy, Jon,” he says softly, hand moving to the back of Jon’s neck. Subtly, he checks for a fever, finding Jon’s skin cool to the touch. Definitely a migraine, he thinks, pulling his hand back as Jon leans backward in his chair with a groan.
“Sorry,” Jon mutters through clenched teeth. He moves one hand to cover his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right.” Another sigh. “I feel quite dreadful.”
Tim’s surprised at the admittance, more so that it’s to him and not to Martin. He slips his hand into his pants pocket, fingers ghosting against his cell phone.
“When’s the last time you’ve slept?” Tim prods lightly, and Jon removes his hand, a tired look of annoyance washing over his face.
“I thought Martin was the only one to dote.”
“It’s just a question,” Tim pushes, cocking one head to the side at Jon’s following silence. “I take it you don’t remember?” He tsks quitely, slipping his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call a cab.”
“-Cab or Elias,” Tim interrupts, arching both brows. “No offense, boss, but you look like hell warmed over, and I doubt you’ll be able to concentrate much on anything with a migraine. You’ll be better off at your flat where,” he spares a glance down to see a worm sliding in from under the door, and he smashes it with the heel of his shoe, “you’ll be free of worms and pesky interruptions.”
Jon almost snarls at the remenants of the worm, and he nods. Tim’s face lights up, and he quickly phones for the nearest cab.
“It will be just a few minutes,” Tim relays when he ends the call. “Do you think you can make it to the front door by yourself?”
“Of course I can,” Jon snaps. “I’m not an invalid.”
“Right,” Tim says, laughing lightly. “Well, I’ll be sure to send Martin if I hear you fall.” He laughs louder at the sharp look Jon shoots him as he turns toward the door. He stops, one hand resting on the door frame, and he looks over his shoulder.
“Do feel better, yeah? Give a ring if you need anything. I’ll be sure to let Elias know you’ve gone home for the day.”
Jon nods, an unclear expression pulling across his face. “Of course. Thank you, Tim.”
Tim starts back to his desk, pretending to work until he hears Jon’s office door close. He decides, then, that it would be a good time to head toward the entrance, maybe take a brief walk outside, get some fresh air, not, he tells himself, only leaving the building at the same time as Jon to ensure his boss doesn’t topple to the ground.
