Tim Stoker with hanahaki disease.
He's had it for as long as he can remember. As a kid it was pretty harmless; his crushes weren't ever serious enough to be worrisome. His mom had hanahaki, and it was pretty likely that Danny did too, although Tim was never sure if Danny even got crushes like he did. Now, as an adult, Tim knows what he's doing. When he meets someone new, he tries to get it over with quick - banter and flirt, make them laugh and ask about their hobbies. There's always a quick build of tension and anxiety, wondering if it's going to happen this time.
Nine times out of ten, it does. His new friend will smile and tilt their head just so, or they'll make a clever joke, or they'll gush about something they enjoy, and Tim will feel the sudden prick of pain in his chest. Sometimes it's light, more like an itch than anything. Other times it's sharp and powerful, taking his breath away for a moment. He's learned to laugh it off and call it a "hereditary thing, nothing to worry about" if anyone notices.
See, Tim is the type of guy who falls a little bit in love with a lot of people. All of his friends, really, and a lot of strangers too. Usually, it lasts a few minutes. Sometimes a few days, or even weeks. Sometimes the feelings go away and then resurface at inopportune moments later on. Tim is a lover. He always has been.
So when Sasha James laughs at a Gravity Falls reference he just made and he feels a prickle in his lungs, he doesn't think twice about it. He just tosses her a wink and keeps talking. He assumes that the rush of giddiness he feels ar her approval will fade over the next few weeks of working together.
It doesn't. For the first time in several years, Tim finds himself losing sleep over the itching and aching behind his ribs. Well, fine. Maybe it's time he takes his shot.
It goes well, until it doesn't. That is, they go out on a date, they hook up, and they immediately stumble into an awkward failure of communication for the next week and a half. Tim wakes up one morning in a violent coughing fit. Sasha texts him an hour later to let him know she'd like to stay friends.
By the time they're both transferred to the Archives, Tim's eating habits are beginning to change. He sticks to savory foods now - things that pair well with the ever-present taste of rosemary in the back of his throat.
When the Prentiss attack occurs, Tim is already struggling to breathe deeply enough to run. His lungs feel like they're full of glass, though in reality they're full of tight, clinging root systems and leaves that tickle the inside of his esophagus. At least the dizziness from CO2 fumes eases the pain a little, so he doesn't have too tough of a time talking to Jon and Martin when he finds them.
Then they hear the scream.
Suddenly Tim's knees hit the ground, and he's in the most excruciating pain he's ever experienced. He doubles over as the roots in his lungs rip themselves free. Mangled and blood-covered rosemary plants spatter across the stone floor in front of him as his vision blurs. This is it, Tim thinks vaguely, I'm dying.
Later, in the hospital, doctors will examine Tim's injured lungs and tell him that they've never seen a case like his. Usually, hanahaki flowers only uproot themselves like that if the object of the patient's affection dies. Yet, here is Sasha visiting him, alive and well.
She smiles amusedly to herself as she leaves a bouquet of monkshood on his bedside table.