#tmafanfic

Time passed, Tim finally convinced Jon to call him by his first name and was soundly told off for attempting to call him Jonny. He learned of his preference for tea over coffee, that he was raised by his grandmother, and feared spiders absolutely, having been the unfortunate recipient of a harmless office prank. It was no secret that Jon was not well liked and didn’t seem to care. He became the butt of many a joke and impersonation. That posh accent, put on or not, was too good to pass up and his lack of social acumen didn’t help his case even though he was smart as a whip and picked up any slack by virtue of staying late.

“Bags under your eyes are looking heavy today.”

“Hm? Oh, Tim.” Jon rubbed a knuckle under the rim of his glasses. “Yes, I. I haven’t been sleeping well.” He dropped into his chair heavily, pressing fingertips against his temples and massaging them.

“Take a sick day. You’ve put in enough over time.” Jon craned his neck, blinked up at him with a confused look, as though he were trying to figure out a difficult puzzle.

“M’alright.” Mumbling, the wood grain suddenly seemed very interesting. “You should get to work though.”

“Whoa! Not my boss there yet, Jonny-boy!” It elicited a familiar, nettlesome response and put Tim’s heart at ease. Jon probably was just tired.

“Oi, you daft twit, watch where you’re going.” Tim turned the corner on his return from lunch to find Jon scrambling amongst a sprawl of papers, frantically trying to collect them up.

“S’sorry, I’ll help--”

“Done enough, sod off.” Jon froze, muttered another apology and handed off the pages he’d gathered together.

“You alright?” Sidling up to him, Tim did him the favor of ignoring the trembling line of Jon’s mouth. “Guy’s just being a prick ‘cause his wife’s leavin’ him.”

“Fine, m’fine, Tim.” And in a moment he was, back at his desk and pointedly thumbing through a file and pretending to cross check his notes.

The next morning was no better and Jon arrived under the wire, hair unkempt and tie just slightly crooked. Very unlike him and this time he watched as Jon let his head tip forward for a few seconds, bracing himself on the arms of his chair before retreating into the forest of bookshelves. If left to his own devices, Tim was sure he’d end up ticking the librarians off again. He tended to leave a mess in his wake when searching for what he needed and when he didn’t reappear by noon, Tim went off in search of him, expecting to find him leafing through some manuscript or another and instead discovering him cross legged in the shadows, eyes closed, head tipped back and resting on a shelf. There was a short stack of books pertaining to his research by his knee but his hands were empty and still in his lap.

“What’s wrong?” Jon made a vague gesture. “Headache?”

“Mm. Didn’t mean to, to...uh.”

“End up on the floor?”

“Mm.

“You should go home.” The very suggestion drew his features into a frown and he cracked open dark lashes just enough for Tim to catch a glimpse of glassy brown.

“I’ve barely worked here a month, I. I can’t. I can’t skive off.”

“You’re ill, Jon. That’s not--Look, look.” Tim crouched beside him. “It’s okay to call off sick.” It had the opposite effect, and Tim had to steady Jon after he struggled to his feet with his armful of books. “Jon.”

“No, no. I’ll be over whatever this is by tomorrow.”

Tim sighed. Jon was, in fact, not over whatever he’d come down with, and was now stifling a series of wet, breathless coughs in the crook of his elbow, unaware of the dirty looks the other researchers were throwing his way. The harder Tim tried to make him see reason, the harder Jon resisted, insisting that he was fine, it was allergies or something else but he wasn’t feeling ill enough to miss work.

“I’m holding you up as we speak.” Sluggish, Jon’s eyes tracked Tim’s arm from where it was attached to his shoulder all the way down to the firm grip he had on his bicep to keep him from listing even further.

“Jus’...bit dizzy…”

“Yeah, that’s not a good thing.”

“I can, I can still do my job.” And Tim wasn’t quite sure who he was trying to convince. “I can.” Tim allowed him his arm back, not commenting on his barely controlled fall into his desk chair or the soft groan of pain that ended in another fit, weaker than the last.

“I know you can, I just want to see you take care of yourself.”

“Why?” Bloodshot eyes narrowed in suspicion and Tim didn’t know what to make of it.

“We’re friends?”

“We’re not.” Tim didn’t let it discourage him or take it personally. Clearly, Jon wasn’t well, was trying to convince himself that he was, that he didn’t need help. Besides, Tim looked on the bright side, Jon didn’t sound completely sure.

“Alright. Well, as your not-friend, I’m advising you to at least make yourself some tea.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Christ, Sims!”

“I, I’m sorry, let me, let me help.”

“You’ve done quite enough.” It seemed to Tim that wherever Jon was lately he was in some sort of trouble and when he veered into the breakroom to check on the situation his heart went out to the Lilliputian researcher. Jon had dropped and shattered a mug full of hot water, apparently splashing the man currently yelling at him. Tim took in his trembling hands, the flush high on his vacant face, and the unbearable vulnerability, feeling those big brother instincts rise like a tide. He caught him up again by the arm, drawing him away from the mess and the mumbling.

“You’re like a furnace, buddy.” Gently, with a cupped hand, Tim lifted his jaw and tried to catch his slippery gaze. The heat cradled in his palm was scorching.

“M’not.”

“Now you’re just being contrary.” He led him away with his fingers just at the small of his back stopping at their desks long enough to gather up his things and call for a cab. He balked, hesitating before stepping in and Tim encouraged him with another careful push, helping him back out again when his knees threatened to give. Guiding him inside the flat he dropped their stuff by the door and looked around with a pensive hum. “Next time we’ll go to mine.” Under his breath. Jon’s was cold and not well lit, sparsely furnished with a second hand couch and mismatched tables. It was clean if spartan and somehow very Jon.

“Tim?” Thready, tired, sinking into the couch where Tim deposited him.

“Hey, there. Back in a tick. I’m gonna get you that tea.” Assuming he had any. Assuming he had anything at all. But there was a bottle of paracetamol on the kitchen counter beside an open box tea and a bottle of honey. “Take these, drink this down.” Dimly, Jon followed his instructions, tugging at his buttons and Tim shooed him away to change, surprised when he returned in soft, overlarge clothes. For as prim and proper as he tried to be at work, Jon was a complete bum at home. “Should go to sleep.” Petulant, Jon shook his head, flopping back on the couch and wrapping himself up in a knitted throw like a burrito. “Why not?” This side of his coworker was so soft and unexpected and Tim couldn’t stop himself.

“M’not tired.” Soft, unexpected, and childish.

“Uh huh.” Tim ordered in, something spicy and brothy, and praised Jon’s progress before tugging him, cajoling him into lying his head in his lap. Bad telly droned on, half lidded eyes blinked slow, and Tim was reminded painfully of nights and weekends and mornings spent this exact same way with someone else. Someone gone.

“Why’re you doing this?” Tim dug his fingers into unruly curls, grinning stupidly when Jon melted like a scruffed cat.

“We’re buddies, buddy.” Jon laughed, just an exhale between parted lips.

Mid afternoon the following day Tim proclaimed his work done, confirming it when Jon’s cactus like demeanor made a reappearance with all his fussing. After inputting his number into his cell phone himself, he ruffled already sleep mussed hair, smirking at Jon’s futile attempt to set it right.

“Call if you need anything.”

“I will.” Tim knew he wouldn’t, but it made him feel better anyway. It was the weekend. Jon looked miles better, and he was set up for success with all his tea and meds and snacks within easy reach. Leftover soup waited in the fridge for him to heat later. “Stop fretting, Tim.” But he could hear the thread of affection buried under all the exasperation.

And if he was imagining it, well. He was ever an optimist.

Monday. And Tim was sat on the corner of Jon's desk shoving chocolate digestives into his mouth and rifling through his notes having already ignored one request to leave off.

“You don’t have many friends, do you Jon?” Jon pushed his glasses up from where they’d slipped down the bridge of his nose and selected a biscuit for himself.

“Never needed many.”

“Do you have any?” Jon snatched the pages out of his hand and brushed away any stray crumbs, offering Tim a shy smile.

“Hm?” Martin waited until Jon was beside him again to take up his hand, press his lips to the back of it.

“You’ve been quiet.” Jon tucked himself up under his chin, nuzzling into his jumper and ignoring Basira’s scathing look. His head hurt. Filled with buzzing, humming, crooning static.

“Just thinking.” The crease between Martin’s brows deepened but there was no lie to suss out.

“Okay.” He kissed the top of his head and Jon melted, tangling their fingers together before following after Basira.

Jon was dragging his feet, slowing down more and more with each step further through this realm. He had yet to take another statement, too embarrassed to ask, and he walked with his eyes closed to block out the glare, following the tug of where to go without having to look. He felt flooded with fears, statements begging to be let out, be told, feed the Eye, and he ached for it, stumbling more than once. He didn’t notice Martin’s presence beside him until he spoke.

“Jon, it’s.” If he stopped, he’d never start again, but Martin was in the way. “Hey, it’s been a while since you’ve. You know?”

“Haven’t needed to yet.”

Liar!

He was miserable and unwell and his head was pounding in time with his heartbeat but he shouldn’t need to do this, it’s not human and he thought he was becoming okay with it because Martin was becoming okay with it but now. Now with Basira in the ranks each step was a constant reminder that he wasn’t. He wasn’t human and probably never would be again. None of them have gotten through any of this without being changed.

The Eye was deafening, shouting, shrieking, demanding he give in and he pushed away from Martin on shaking legs, staggering a few feet away to be sick and he hated that he was literally “vomiting his horrors,” as it had been so eloquently stated before. The bitter taste of ink blossomed on his tongue, splashed onto the thirsty ground, and black ichor appeared like a brush stroke on his arm when he scrubbed it over his mouth.

“Jon!”

“No, it’s. I’m fine.” He turned back to him to prove it, taking another step only to drop to his knees when they buckled. “Headache. S’all.” Covering his face with both hands to block out the eerie light, the sky like that before a bad thunderstorm perpetually, aware of the weight of that gaze, pushing him down, down, down.

“We need to keep moving.”

“Just wait a moment, Basira.” Martin shot her a sharp look on his behalf. “Jon. Tell me, darling. What’s wrong?” Jon flinched when she scoffed, just a moment, a moment with Martin, please.

“Nothing, n’nothing.” Martin pressed his forehead to Jon’s, surrounding him, murmuring.

“It’s okay, just you and me here right now.” Some of the tension slipped away, replaced by trembling need.

“Pressure. Jus’...I. Not sure. So much fear and terror filling me up, like it’s. It’s crowding against the door.”

“Jon--” But it was pouring from him in a rush now, all the insecurities he’d been trying to ignore and the pain in his head overwhelming.

“I’m s’sorry, I’m, I’m trying not to l’let it out. I know. I know you don’t like it and Basira--” That small burst of energy was all he had left and his next words were a hoarse whisper Martin had to strain to hear. “It hurts.” Martin’s hand came up to cup the back of his neck.

“Jon, I don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to stop whatever this all is.” Shivering, Jon swallowed audibly. “You’re right, I don’t, I don’t like it.”

“I’m sor--” This time he guided his face into the hollow of his throat and he hid there, arms snaking around his middle, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket and clinging for dear life to his anchor, his reason.

“Let me finish.” Gently, Martin stroked his hair, lessened the ache by the smallest degree and it was bliss. “I like it even less when you hurt like this.” Martin pressed soft kisses to the skin he could reach and Jon sighed. “Alright?”

“Alright.”

“Alright.” Jon held tighter, tears welling up at the thought of letting him go, at the thought of being so exposed when he was feeling this fragile with Basira just meters away. Maybe he could hold out just a bit longer but no, the headache was crescendoing and he felt his limited grasp on the nausea slip just that much more, the words on the tip of his tongue vying for a way out. “Jon?” Once he started it wouldn’t matter anyway, he’d be lost to it, cut off from everything except his statement. But he couldn’t let go, instead rubbing his cheek against Martin’s shoulder.

“Would you?” Stay? He wanted to ask. Couldn’t ask. It was too much to ask. “I m’mean.” He tried to pull away and found himself held fast.

“Until you start. Then I’m running.” He could feel the smile, hear it in his voice, so he sat back and Martin thumbed a stray tear from his cheek before taking his hands in his own and Jon gave himself over to the Eye.

His head was cradled in someone’s lap, Martin’s of course, with his slow, careful fingers carding through his messy curls and he would maintain later that the gutteral noise of acknowledgment he made was completely intentional.

“Hullo, Jon.” He blinked dumbly, fuzzy and thick. “Looked like a doozy, that one.”

“Don’t really remember it, f’I’m honest.” It was comfortable here with Martin and his soft touches, but-- “Basira’s itching to get going.” Martin leaned down and pressed a dizzying kiss to his lips, stealing all the breath from his body.

But he wouldn't abandon him again. Not for anything. And he would keep his own love a secret so Martin wasn't burdened with guilt. He could do so little for him, but he could do that.

“Up you come, Martin.” The train lurched to a stop.

“...Jon?” Exhausted and cold, wisps of fog clung to his hair, escaped his mouth with a sigh. It was like an infection, the Lonely. It would take time to recover. Lucky that. They didn’t have much more than time at the moment.

“Hm.” Jon hummed his assent, staggering under Martin’s taller, heavier bulk until he managed to get his feet under him. “Good, good. You’re doing so well.” The praise was clumsy, foriegn on his tongue and ill fitting in his mouth. Martin didn’t seem to notice, just shivered where they stood, and it was a relief. Cajoling, tugging, Jon got him off the train, bad leg beginning to buckle under their combined weight and he grit his teeth against the pain and pressure. “I know the way.” Voice light, Jon trudged forward, limp agonizing, slow, and they were a pair of ants scuttling up the hill under cover of darkness.

Finally, Martin was tucked up in bed, every spare blanket Jon could find piled on top of him, and he even got a glimpse of tired eyes before he lost him to sleep. Sinking to the floor, Jon tugged at his curls, distracting himself from the ache in his hip with a different sort of pain but with nothing else to focus on save for the slow inhale, exhale of Martin’s peaceful breathing, Jon couldn’t do much else other than endure. An exhausted sentinel trapped with his own spiraling thoughts.

He’d meant it. In that moment surrounded by fog and mist and menace, he meant it. He wanted more than to just survive. He'd known nothing but raw survival for what seemed like an eternity. He wanted so much more for the first time.

And he'd thrown away his chance.

Too hot, Martin shoved at the covers, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and staring up into unfamiliar rafters. The last thing he remembered was the smell of salt and the sound of the sea, wrapped up in a cloud’s soft, cloying embrace. It had been gentle there and he’d been there long enough that being so present, here and now, was overwhelming. There was an echo of a hand in his, smaller, fine boned and familiar. Pulling. Dragging. Leading. Him out of that place.

Jon.

Where was Jon?

Martin sat up, swinging his legs out of the bed and finding clean clothes laid out on the end of it. The scent of strong tea lingered in the pleasantly warm air and he followed it to the small kitchen, the familiar figure doing the washing up loosening the knot tied around his heart. He was here. He was safe. They were safe. At least for a little while.

“Jon.” The naked relief flooding through his veins was embarrassing, the little jump of surprise he’d caused endearing

“M’Martin!” Turning swiftly, Jon almost lost his footing, catching it quickly, mouth quirked in a half smile. “You, you look so much better.”

“I feel better.” Surprised when he found it was really true. A beat of silence passed between them, Jon growing more and more uncomfortable if the caginess about him said anything.

“Oh! Uh! Th’there’s tea. It, I’m sure it’s not as good as yours, it couldn’t possibly be.” He made room for Martin to pass by, jittery and shaking. “I’m sorry, I. Wasn’t sure what you’d want to eat but there’s some--”

“Jon.”

“--Nothing in the fridge of course but--”

“Jon.” With a little more force, punctuated by a step forward, and Martin heard his teeth click when his jaw snapped shut. “I’m sure whatever we have is fine.”

“Ah. Alright. Yes. Of course.” He wrung his scarred hands, something unidentifiable in his expression. “I’ll. I. Of course.” Jon practically fled the room, skirting Martin as if his touch might hurt him, and the ache it left in his wake was debilitating. But Martin had pulled away from him for a whole year; it was no wonder Jon didn’t want anything to do with him. He was altruistic. He saved people because that's what he did and he’d be the first to deny it.

So of course he’d saved Martin.

It wouldn’t do to attribute it to reciprocated feelings. Martin could barely remember what he’d said in the Lonely, what he’d said to Jon. But it felt like a confession. Was that the problem?

Did he Know his infatuation? Was he disgusted that someone like Martin dared love him?

Martin poured his tea, savoring it because of whose hands made it and found Jon in the sitting room, curled up with a book in an overstuffed chair.

“It’s good.” Jon chuffed, laughter like music.

“You’re too kind.” And the wry tone was so familiar and so Jon Martin chuckled along with him. They fell into a comfortable silence, at a comfortable distance.

And this was enough. Martin would make sure it was enough.

When Jon insisted on taking the couch because it wasn’t like he slept much anyway, that was enough too.

Days passed.

Jon withdrew.

Skittish and wan. A ghost skirting the edges of Martin’s periphery, and he wanted so badly to hold him close, ease his trembling, help him find even a measure of peace if there was any left to be found.

Jon thought he could do this. Thought he was strong enough to at least give Martin this one, small thing but the profound ache of what he’d lost without even knowing he’d had it in the first place carved him out and he hugged himself tighter lest his useless heart fall from the gaping wound that was his ribcage. Raw and empty, he wasn't strong enough to hold himself together against the sheer amount of love in him with nowhere to go and it was tearing him apart.

It’s only you. It’s only you. It’s only you.

When it overcame his childish sand castle walls, eating through them like the hungry surf in all directions, from all sides, Jon let the tears come. Quiet. Be quiet. Shh, shh, shh.

But I love him. I love him. I love him.

It wasn’t fair.

“Jon?” You idiot, he needs to rest and look what you’ve done. Selfish. Stupid. Please. “Please what, Jon? How can I help?”

“N’no, no. Go, go back to bed, y’y’you need to--” a sob choked him and he couldn’t finish speaking, could barely breathe, drowning in an unfamiliar want. Fingertips touched his jaw, applied pressure to lift his face and the look in Martin’s eyes stole the rest of the air in his lungs. “I love you.” He slammed his palms over his traitorous mouth, curling forward and inadvertently into Martin’s waiting arms and he was too weak to resist, instead babbling, crying, words night unintelligible. “I love you! And I, I know. I know y’you don't feel the same and I'm too late but. But I want in a way, in, it's frightening how much and I'm afraid I'll do s’something foolish when, when all I, I, I want to d’do is keep you safe.”

“Breathe, Jon. Breathe, it’s alright.”

“I've. I've t’tried to give you space. And. A’and not. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I've. I shouldn't have said anything and I'm so, s’so sorry.”

“Hush now, hush and look at me. Look at me, Jon.” Demanding carefully, and Jon turned to him like a worn and weathered bloom seeking out the sun. Martin immediately, desperately wanted to fold him back up again, touch him softly, kindly, because no one has done that for him in so long. Gently, Martin swept his thumbs beneath red eyes wrung with dark shadows, brushing away tears even when they showed no sign of stopping. “It’s alright, shh. It’s alright.” It’s not. It wasn’t alright and Jon shook his head, stiffening in his arms when Martin pressed him into his shoulder.

“M’sorry, m’sorry, M’Martin.” Greedy, never content with what was offered, always had to take. To take and take and take and he took more now, leaning heavily into Martin, pressing as close as possible, winding his arms around his waist and clutching his jumper.

“Okay, okay. Why did you think I needed space?” Soothing, his broad palm weighed heavy on his back, up, down, repeated. “Why so sorry?”

“I. I--you. Loved me.” Saying it like this was torture, a knife twisting in his gut. he never wanted to hear it again. He could. He could pretend. If he never heard it again. “And I. I never knew. Not until it was too l’late.”

I really loved you, you know?

You know?

Jon was exhausted. Upset and aching. Completely limp in his arms and so confused. Why hadn’t he pushed him away? He wasn’t obligated to keep holding Jon together. Especially not after he’d fallen into so many pieces.

“Jon. I think.” Martin hummed, lips close to his ear, breath a slow warmth against the shell of it. “I need to make something clear.”

“You don’t need to do anything.” Jon closed his eyes, stray tears slipped between damp lashes. “I understand.”

“I’m not sure you do.” Sweetly, Martin cupped the back of his head, brushed a kiss to his pulsepoint. “Because I do love you.”

“You don’t, you don’t have to say that.” Shaky, small.

“I do.” Martin pushed him back by the shoulders only to press their foreheads together. “I do. I love you, Jon. In the Lonely, I. It’s not important. Not right now.” Martin leaned back, bringing Jon with him, tucking him under his chin. “I love you. I’m excited that you love me too.” Muffled in a tight throat still choked with too much emotion.

“I think I’ve loved you for a long time, Martin.” Chaste, gentle, he pressed a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth, smiling when his lips turned up beneath his own.

“Jon-love?” Martin touched his face, bent to kiss his temple, and met emptiness when he pulled away. Give him a moment. Something only Jon could hear drew his attention, and the vacant, hollow way he cocked his head to listen made Martin’s stomach twist into knots. “Jon?” He blinked heavily, looking up at him with a sheepish half grin that did nothing to hide the wooziness.

“Oh, sorry. Wh’what were you saying?” Breathy, tired. He’d fall asleep again if Martin let him.

“Would you eat something for me?” Jon pushed himself up, hiding his face in Martin’s shoulder for a moment and letting him fasten an elastic around the majority of his messy hair. “There, perfect.” He could feel the slow smile being embossed into his skin. “What’re you feeling like today?”

“Mmyou pick…”

Because Jon didn’t really need food or Martin. He needed the Beholding.

Frustration clung to him like the webs in the corners clung to their beams and Jon rubbed his arms vigorously to dispel the itchy, uncomfortable feeling of slowly forgetting who he was and how he came to be here. It was wholly unfair that Jon’s suffering was like slipping into a cottony fog and Martin’s was the desolate waste of a world he’d ended.

And seconds later these thoughts vanished as though they’d never been and Jon sat up in a bed far too big for one. But he was one. There was only one and that was wrong, not least of all due to the fact that he wasn’t sure quite where he was and didn’t remember falling asleep here.

Think.

Even though it was hard, like pulling a particularly strong weed, and Jon went dizzy with it.

Martin. Martin wasn’t there and Jon didn’t remember how he got here in this unfamiliar bed. He didn’t remember changing into these clothes or even where his shoes were and to not know after Knowing everything was terrifying. Had he left? Realized finally how burdensome Jon really was? Especially now when he couldn’t even tell you where he began and the monster wearing him like an ill-fitting skin started? The soles of his bare feet froze when they touched the floor and it was sharp enough that he could hold on to the idea of finding Martin, afraid if he let go of it he’d fall back into the duvet and sleep forever.

“Martin?” Standing made the room spin, dizziness forcing Jon to close his eyes lest he fall over, and as soon as he thought he could run without tripping, he took off stealthily through the house. Each room was empty, ornate, and cold for what they were lacking, and Jon pushed himself forward, forward, forward. Scared and alone and why was he alone? Why couldn’t he remember? His chest was tight with panic. Martin left. Martin left and he needed Martin because without him he was left drowning at sea.

Finally, the library, warmly lit and smelling of old books and Martin was there, leafing through some manuscript or another and Jon staggered with relief, stumbling towards him with tears in his eyes and on his face.

“Martin!”

“Jon?” He turned, caught him up as he fell into him, sick with fear and addled because he didn’t know why he was so afraid. “Jon, what’s wrong? Here, here, come sit with me, you’re half frozen.” Practically in his lap, Jon clung to him.

“I, you. You’d gone. I, I.” The words wouldn’t come, slipping through his fingers like sand and he doesn’t remember.

“Okay, alright, it’s alright. You found me, yeah?” Jon’s breathing calmed, the pounding thud of his heart ceasing its frantic tattoo and he felt selfish, unbelievably so, but he couldn’t remember why.

Later, when Jon stands taller and Martin bends under the weight of the sky’s watching only to hold it anyway, he feels that same selfishness because he knows he’s made a mistake.

And he can’t remember what they left behind.

He’s being selfish again.

Tired.

And it only became worse as the weeks went on though he didn’t know how bad it had gotten until one of the library staff poked him awake at the end of one of the “K” shelves. He’d only sat down for a moment on the bottom rung of a rolling ladder.

“Mr. Sims?”

“Wah--?” So eloquent when the library assistant shook him by the shoulder out of concern.

“Can I help you find something?” They smiled. “Like the door? So that you might go home and get some rest?”

“No, no, I’m alright.” He plucked a book at random. “I was just looking for this.” They didn’t seem convinced and smiled indulgently.

“A book on kinephantoms?” And Jon drew himself up to his full, diminutive height.

“Wha--yes. Yes, or course.” Clearing his throat he turned on his heel and stalked back into the archives.

“Hello? Tim? Um.”

“What can I do you for, boss?” Jon was exceptionally nervous and he didn’t know why but as Tim whirled around in his chair, pen flipping over his fingers, it spiked in his gut, made him sick.

“Ah yes, the, the research I asked for, l’last week.” Deep breath, be the boss, delegate and follow up. “How is it coming along?”

“Oh, yeah! The research. It’s ‘coming along.’ Should have it ready in a few days. How’s after the weekend sound?” Horrible.

If he was being honest.

“Yes, of course.” But he wasn’t. “That would be just fine, thank you, Tim.” He tucked the folder he had brought for him behind his back and left the way he came.

“Jon?”

“Sasha?” He looked up from his reading to find her in his doorway and a cup of cold tea on the corner of his desk. When had that--? “How can I help you?”

“I just had some questions regarding what you needed for that last statement.” Disappointment flooded his tongue with salt. His instructions must have been lacking. He’d have to try better this second time.

It took the rest of the afternoon and Jon, having already worked through lunch, was feeling light headed from lack of sleep and food by the time Sasha was ready to start her research. She. She couldn’t, wouldn’t? Pretend? Not to know would she? All her questions, she was more suited to this job than he was.

No. He was being paranoid. He was just tired.

Disorienting pain lanced through his chin, echoing through his jaw and into his skull and he groaned. He’d fallen asleep propped up on his arm and paid the price for it with a bruised and throbbing face.

“Jon?”

Go’way.

“Jon?”

Lemme sleep.

“Jon?”

“Mmartin?” With difficulty, he was able to pry his eyes open, blinking away the cobwebs, the dust clinging to his lashes.

“What are you doing down here?” Martin was pulling him to his feet and Jon wanted nothing more than to curl back up and drift away.

“Was looking for--oh?” It was in his hand and he lifted it as evidence. “This?”

“You look exhausted.” Automatically Jon was denying it despite knowing the shadows beneath his eyes were like bruises, shaking his head and backing away without even enough stale air in his body to say the right words until he left Martin behind.

It was just a stupid, silly mistake. Nothing tragic or irreversible or cataclysmic, he just dropped a box of organized and neatly filed statements. Just dropped a box representing hours and hours of time and research and missed meals and lost sleep and proof of his incompetence and before he knew it he was on his knees amidst the papers and ink and photos and notes and it was all. Too. Much.

He didn’t even notice the tears at first, not until they hit his hands and he cried more of them in his frustration, wiping them angrily away and only ending up with his face buried in his folded knees because he was just. So. Tired. Jon didn’t know how long he sat there in the hallway, arms tucked around himself and holding all his pieces together, but it was long enough that someone came upon him and he hurried about tidying the pages and stuffing them back into envelopes.

“Boss?” Jon scrubbed his face, turning around with his most dictatorial expression. It wouldn’t do for him to see out how terrible he was at this. How awful.

“Ah, just dropped some files. I’ve got it.”

“Have you been--?”

“No! No.” He began to gather the mess faster, jamming statements into folders, into files, all out of order because if he stayed here any longer under his scrutiny he would end up sobbing.

“Do you need some help?”

“No.” Biting and cold. Drive him away.

“Jon.”

“No, I. I just can’t, I’ll get the hang of it. I just need to work harder.”

“Hey.”

“I’m just. I’m. I’m tired...that’s all.” It didn’t sound convincing to him, let alone to his subordinate. Not to Tim who’d known him before this whole fiasco. He stood, box in hand and staggered into the wall when the hallway tilted sideways, caught by Tim before he could go down again. Defeated, he let him take the statements. Let him leave it on the floor and lead him away.

“Oi, boss. When’s the last time you ate anything?” His hands were trembling in Tim’s and when he went to pull them away, the man held fast, drew him into an awkward hug.

“Oh...uh. I, I can’t, I suppose I can’t remember.” Caught, exposed, Jon let his face fall into Tim’s chest.

“Okay, okay, let’s get you taken care of.”

Suffering Martin’s fussing and fretting, while he didn’t understand it, wasn’t as intolerable as usual. He’d taken one look at Jon and wrapped him up in his well-worn cardigan and sat him at the rickety table with a cup of tea and orders to drink it. With his second mug he handed Jon a packet of biscuits and, not able to escape while sandwiched annoyingly (comfortingly) between Tim and Sasha, he had no choice but to nibble on them. After his third, Sasha tapped his shoulder to get his attention.

“I want to apologize, Jon. I wasn’t doing anything to make this any easier on you.”

“No, you’ve. You’ve been helpful and--” He was horrified that she would think his own shortcomings were any fault of her own.

“Not as helpful as we could have been, boss.” Jon looked between them so quickly it set his head to spinning. “We’re much better at research than we’ve led you to believe.”

“It was frustrating.”

“I’m s’sorry.”

“Not because of you.” He allowed Sasha to tug his head down to her shoulder. “We should have noticed you were running yourself ragged cleaning up after us.” Delightfully cozy and warm, Jon was dozing off and she chuckled. “Okay, okay, let’s get you tucked in. We can make it up to you after your nap.” Jon tried to resist, tried to rattle off all the work he still had left to do but all that came out of his fickle mouth were mumbling, sleepy, embarrassing noises. They set him up on the ratty break room couch and it was the most comfortable he’d been in ages. If he could just manage a coherent sentence…but the pillow was so soft beneath his aching head, the blanket Martin was settling over his shoulders just heavy enough and he tried one more time to say anything at all when Martin lifted the glasses off his face and folded them aside.

“I thought as much.” Shivering and sweating, he looked absolutely godawful when Jon folded back the covers; sniffling and coughing and making pathetic little noises that Jon responded to sympathetically. “When’s the last time you had any medicine?” Tim shrugged with one shoulder, hair messy and sticking up in all directions, but he’d been sleeping for a little while and when Jon pressed the inside of one wrist against his blazing forehead he decided it had probably been long enough. He poured an electric glass of blue and handed Tim an open blister pack of pills, waiting until he’d downed both before tucking him back in and gently shushing his muttering.

Jon unpacked the rest of his supplies, leaving them where Tim would easily find them, now confident that he’d made the correct call before checking in on him one more time. Asleep and considerably less flushed, Jon felt alright leaving him, placing a note with instructions to call him should he need anything else underneath a glass of neon liquid and leaving the way he came.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Jon had been feeling out of sorts all weekend and coming into work certainly hadn't alleviated any symptoms. If anything, he felt worse and though Martin did what he could and made him tea and made him go home relatively on time, Tim was just angry; snapping at him when he blocked the narrow archive hallways, slow from still healing injuries and aches brought about by his cold and drawing attention to the fact that Jon was damaged goods. It wasn't a good feeling, especially when Sasha seemed to join in on the fun in her backhanded way. Or maybe not really at all? Maybe he was misinterpreting it, probably. They’d been so upset with him lately and his paranoia and he didn’t mean to, really he didn’t. Rather than think on it any longer, Jon let his head fall to his desk, closing his eyes against the thin line of hallway light because even that small amount was like looking into the depths of the sun.

Couldn’t record.

Couldn’t research.

Couldn’t ask anyone for help with either task.

Or for. Well. For help at all, really.

And he thought he might like a little help at the moment. Someone to bring him lunch knowing he wasn’t feeling well even though he wouldn’t be able to eat it. Checking in to see if he was set on medicine. Asking after him so he could deny feeling so poorly only for them to see past it and send him home.

He wished someone would just…see him.

He'd always had trouble accepting that his actions had consequences and learning those types of lessons never had been his strong suit.

Martin’s tea was the one bright spot in his day. He could and did look forward to that in the afternoon. Would just lay here until then. Waiting for a bit of perfectly steeped comfort. And he didn’t disappoint because if Martin was anything, he was reliable.

“Jon, you look dreadful.” Blessedly, the light was still off because Martin was smart like that, in the little ways that really mattered, and he was silhouetted against the door, blocking the beams just waiting to fall over him and dig the icepick deeper. When he opened his mouth to answer, nothing came out, lips forming around the shapes of the words he’d tried to say and quickly forgotten in mild surprise at how sore his throat was. He reached for the tea with trembling hands and when did that happen? Pulling it towards him across the desk and sipping from the rim without lifting it. Hot. Lovely. Full of honey and lemon and the noise he made was wholly unprofessional. Humming, he let his eyes close, taking another swallow. “I think you should go home early.” Large and cool against his skin, Jon leaned into the palm on his forehead. “Yeah, you’re burning up, you shouldn’t be here.” Sad at being scolded, Jon hid in his tea and Martin let him finish, pen scratching against a scrap of paper. “Can you make it on the train?” Probably? He made it here didn’t he?

“Y’yes, Martin.”

“Ah, there you are.”

“Thank you. For, for the tea.” Really.

“‘Course. Now, here.” He pressed the note into his hand, wrapping his scarf around his neck after he did so while Jon tried to parse the information. “You’re to stop off at the chemist, all right?” Jon nodded, the squiggles dancing in front of him and he knew Martin’s handwriting wasn’t that bad. “Give that to them, they’ll help you collect the medicine, alright?” A hand on his shoulder caught his attention. “Alright?” He nodded again. “I’d go with you, but, my mum.” And again. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own? I could ask Sasha or Tim--”

“No! No, no need to bother them. I’ll, I’ll be fine.” He could feel Martin looking him up and down, he could feel the weight of his disbelief.

“I’ll see you to the door.” Gently, he steered him through the archives, “I’ll be texting. You’ll be answering.” Nodding, he knew Martin was watching him as he set off towards the station.

By the time Jon staggered into the sitting room, he was ready to collapse. He was weighed down by several medications and the instructions on how to take them and he would make sure he took them. And drank water. Because Martin said and he’d been disappointing so many people lately that the thought of disappointing one more made tears sting the corners of his eyes. A buzzing woke him from where he’d fallen asleep on his couch.

Did you make it home? Oh. Yes. Martin did say. Jon stared at the screen before shoving himself up. He should take some medicine and go to bed. Bed, that sounded lovely. Laying down sounded lovely.

Yes, thank you, Martin.

Good, get some rest. DO NOT come in tomorrow.

Yes, Martin. He waited a few seconds before sending again, Thank you, Martin.

The next day passed in a blur of different medications, glasses and mugs of water, and shifting from bed, to couch, to overstuffed chair in his restlessness, sleeping hours wrapped up in each in between responding to Martin’s texts.

Martin was surprised, to say the least, at how well Jon was keeping in touch. He responded to each inquiry within a few hours, hopefully spending the time between resting, was taking medicine, and keeping himself hydrated. Martin was. Well, he was a little stunned, to be honest.

Got medicine. Even a glass of water. He’d included a blurry picture of said glass and it was so Not Jon, Martin’s laugh got away from him.

Doing fine, thank you, Martin. His standard response.

You don't have to keep checking on me. What Martin was sure was his guilty response.

I'm alright. There was more and more time in between these. More time, and fewer words, and worry settled heavy in his stomach.

tired Unnerving.

And then on Saturday, nothing at all.

Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong and when Jon didn’t text back, or pick up the phone when he called on repeat, he rang Tim.

“Martin.” No. There was no way he was going over there. He’d sooner chuck the key into an open drain and walk into the next fear ritual voluntarily than check on him.

“Tim, I, I can’t, or I would. Please. Please, you have a key and I just know he’s in a bad way.” He sighed. Martin’s voice was shaking on the other end of the line and Tim knew that if he could have been there for Jon, he'd be there already. "Just, just a quick look. To make sure--to make sure."

Make sure.

"Please, Tim."

"I. Fine. Fine. Five minutes, that's all I'm wasting on him."

All told, Jon didn't live more than a few stops away and Tim thrust his hands into his pockets angrily, hunching into the collar of his coat and swearing under his breath. Jon was fine. He was ignoring Martin because that's what he did to people. At the door he stood waiting before finally rapping his fist sharply against it.

"Oi! Jon!" A few seconds of silence and he was counting down his promised minutes. Cheating he supposed because he had yet to see him, but whatever. "Open up! It's Tim!" Who else would it be, you miserable, paranoid, overblown librarian. He'd have to use his key and even touching it made his stomach flip. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be far away from here and he couldn't even do that. But for Martin, he twisted the key in its matching lock, shoving into a chilly sitting room strewn with half-empty mugs and glasses of water littering each flat surface. "Jon?" No sign of him yet, he could have stepped out. Tim picked up his phone, balanced on the edge of a scratched and worn table. A string of missed calls and increasingly panicked messages ending finally in threats to send Tim I know you have a key Stoker. "Christ." He wasn't in bed, the small thing practically hidden beneath every blanket in the place and he pushed into the bath, flicking on the light like he'd suddenly appear and gawping like a fish when he did.

Curled up on the freezing tile, shivering fit to fly apart and soaked through with sweat, lay one ailing Jonathan Sims.

"Jon?" Ashen and struggling to breathe, he didn't respond until Tim kneeled and shook one bony shoulder and even then it took far too long for him to become anything other than barely aware. Face twisting up, Jon blinked, pulling in a labored lungful of air and gearing up to use it.

“T’Tim? How…?” Fucking hell, even with a foot out the door--

“Enough with the paranoia!" The flinch was like a physical blow and Jon began hacking unproductively into his folded elbow.

“S’sorry...din’t…” Breathless and trying hard to catch it. Flooded with guilt, Tim dragged a hand down his face. Here he was in his flat, miserable and ill and now Tim was here out of nowhere shouting at him? “Sorry. D’you n'need somethin'?” He’d always been small, a subject of much contention when things used to be good, but his voice, small and tired--he was barely there, skin and bone, burning away into nothing if the flush high in his cheeks meant anything. He was just sick. Hit hard with a bad flu and trying his best to manage it alone. And how did that make him even angrier? There was medicine scattered around and he even had an empty glass on the floor with him--he'd been trying and instead of just asking for some damn help!

"Do I--no!" Yelling at a half naked man lying on the floor. Nice Tim. What energy Jon had was gone, and he was back to gasping between words, confused.

"Then… I, I don't… What--" He heaved for another gulp of air, like he couldn't get enough.

Multiple types of meds, some with overlapping ingredients. Idiot had probably overdosed himself on the different kinds, too disoriented to keep careful track.

"Jon, how much did you take?" Tim grabbed him now, fingers digging painfully into his hot, hot skin.

"Dose… the, the dose."

"How much?" He demanded and Jon whimpered, ducking his head.

"I, I--" Shaking harder now and crying silently, huge tears rolled down his face. He was scared of him, afraid and pushing himself off the tile in an attempt to put more distance between them only succeeding in bouncing his temple off the tub. With a hoarse cry he curled into himself, and he'd hate the comparison, but like a dying spider. Hunched forward and protecting his no doubt aching head with gangly too thin limbs. "Instructions… M’Martin said. Said water an’ an’..."

Tim was terrible at this. Barging in, yelling and shouting. Jon probably didn't know which way was up, let alone how much medication he took trying to get through this by himself with his only connection being the phone he'd left on the table. Clearly, he hadn't been well enough to retrieve it.

Damn it, Jon.

"Let me see." Another squeak, wretched and sneaking from his throat. "Jon." Stern, not angry, scooching forward and he could see one red rimmed and wary eye peeking between his fingers and the curls escaping from their tie. "Lemme take a look." Gently and after a moment's more scrutiny he was allowed to touch, to guide his trembling hands away, brush back the tangles to examine the forming bruise. It didn't look too bad. Certainly no more than either of them had experienced before. What was bad was the heat under his palm, the tiny shivers, the way his chest stuttered trying to pull each breath into his body. “Okay, the floor isn’t the place for you.”

“S’sorry. I--” Cut off by another fit, this one harder than the last, and it left him winded, apologies forced out by halves. “Been d’dizzy…”

“You don’t need to apologize for being ill, Jon.”

“M’sorry.” Tim sighed, reaching for him again and hating the way he shrank away. But he supposed just minutes ago he was shaking him.

“S’alright, boss.” Relieved by the way the old nickname relaxed him, he hefted him up and Jon was like a new colt trying out his legs for the first time, hands fisted in Tim’s shirt, inhale, exhale, shallow and fast.

Safely deposited on the bedside, Tim handed him an oversized shirt from the half-open drawer, recognizing it as his own, left behind sometime before. It would have been big on Jon back when they worked in research but now. The fight to yank off the sweat soaked tee took it out of him, evidenced by the way Jon had just tossed it on the floor and now he was bare chested, ribs beginning to show, all scarred skin and exhausted shaking. Tim hated it; this man was a stranger and he shouldn't be. He slipped his shirt over his head, leaving him to figure out how to get his arms through the sleeves.

“Lay down.” He’d arranged the pillows to keep him up off his back while breathing was still a chore. “Text Martin.” Tim pressed the phone into his hand, stepping away and returning with a cold compress, smoothing it over his forehead and checking to make sure he’d fired off a message. It was short and poorly spelled, but Tim knew it would put Martin at ease, especially when he followed up in a moment or two.

And he sat at the other end of the bed. Feet up and legs laid beside Jon’s.

Watching.

Watched.

Until even half out of his mind, Jon had to ask.

"Y’you’re staying?" Eyes barely open and just above a whisper.