#tmafic

The first thing that Tim becomes aware of as he’s pulled unwillingly from slumber is the gentle weight pressing down on his legs. The second is the cold hand resting lightly on the strip of bare skin where his t-shirt has risen up in the night. He stirs reluctantly. When he finally opens his eyes, his bedroom is blurry, and he has to blink a few times to clear his vision and his head as the world forms in pieces around him. There’s a low thrumming in his skull that bears the potential of a fully fledged headache if not dealt with swiftly. Perhaps that’s why it takes him another few moments for the implications of the small body snuggled against him to set in.

He can’t see the face of the person in bed with him, not without turning and risking waking them up, but his memories from last night are pouring in too quickly to leave him with any doubt.

---

“Shame Sasha couldn’t make it,” Tim said, sliding into the booth across from Jon.

Jon nodded as he shrugged out of his corduroy jacket. “She’ll be missed,” he said, and if Tim hadn’t spent so long studying his facial expressions across his desk, he might not have noticed the slight upward quirk of his mouth.

“The first round shall be in her honor,” Tim said with only half Jon’s solemnity, lifting a hand to catch the waiter’s attention.

Jon let him order for the both of them, seemingly content to sit back and glance around the pub while Tim spoke. It was a quiet, if kitschy, little place, and Tim had chosen it strategically for that reason. He might not mind the atmosphere in some of London’s more crowded bars, but it had only taken one outing with Jon to realize how desperately uncomfortable that sort of chaos made him. He seemed appreciative of the location tonight, even gracing Tim with a reserved smile once the waiter had disappeared. Tim wanted to take that smile and store it in a treasure chest with all the other beautiful things Jon had offered him throughout their slow-blooming friendship. He smiled back.

“So, that case you were working on this week. Did you ever get past the hurdle with the widow?”

Jon leaned forward eagerly to explain his findings. Tim settled in to listen.

---

It’s Jon. Jon had come home with him. They’d both been too drunk to deal with the hassle of bundling Jon into a taxi, especially when Tim lived only two blocks behind the warm little pub they’d spent their Friday night in. It was convenient.

And now Tim is in bed with Jonathan Sims. Not just in bed, either - Jon is practically on top of him, with one leg slung over both of his own and the hand not resting against Tim’s hip nestled beneath the pillow Tim is lying on. If Tim is very still, he can feel the soft puff of Jon’s breath against his neck.

He resists the urge to hide the smile tugging at his lips. He’d suspected before last night that Jon was more tactile than he let on, but he hadn’t imagined he’d be this clingy.

He understands, of course, that Jon doesn’t feel safe often, that others have not allowed him the time to be cautious with his affection. It’s no secret in the research office that his snippiness and chronically furrowed brows have won him few friends. It’s taken Tim months of steady, gentle friendliness to break through Jon’s carefully prickly exterior into the softness he’d seen hiding beneath. It feels, in a way, like reaching a new level of a video game - once he’d gotten past the grouchiness, the wariness, and then the bashfulness, he’d unlocked the awkward but horribly endearing kindness. And cuddles, apparently.

It’s worth being patient for, worth earning. Tim’s chest feels tight with the weight of his fondness. He wants to pull Jon into his arms and hold him close like he had in the pub last night.

Before Tim can move, however, there's a mumble near his ear as he feels Jon shift. The leg draped over his own slides down. He hears a soft yawn, and then, before he can process that, Jon is rubbing his face into the back of Tim's shirt like a sleepy little cat. Tim grins and faces him.

"Good morning," he says.

Tim half expects Jon to be embarrassed, but he just blinks up at him, still apparently in the dazed, barely conscious state of waking. Then he stretches, arms reaching over his head and back arching slightly. He makes an honest to goodness squeak as he does. Exactly like a little cat.

Tim wants to kiss him.

Oh. Tim wants to kiss him.

So it hadn’t just been the alcohol last night, then.

Jon peers at him, apparently roused to alertness by whatever expression has taken over Tim’s face. "What?"

"Rest well?" Tim says in lieu of a response, because if he dwells on this development any longer he might do something foolish, like brush a hand through the wild mess of dark curls spread across both the pillow he had offered Jon last night and Tim’s own pillow.

"Yes," Jon says.

Ah, there's a touch of the primness Tim loves. “Glad to hear it,” he says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ll take the bathroom first, if you don’t mind.”

He thinks Jon burrows deeper into the blankets as he leaves the room.

Across the hallway, Tim stares at his reflection in the vanity mirror. His heart is beating a little too quickly. "Keep it cool, Timothy," he warns himself. Then he splashes some water on his face and knocks back a couple of ibuprofen tablets before he brushes his teeth. "All yours," he calls into the bedroom when he finishes. Jon makes an unintelligible noise in response, and Tim huffs out a soft, breathless laugh as he crosses the flat toward his kitchen.

---

“... but my landlord is utterly heartless,” Jon concluded, looking rather dejected as he finished off his third pint. “He wouldn’t budge on the no pets rule, even for the Captain.”

Tim made a quiet, sympathetic noise, handing back Jon’s mobile after having admired the extraordinarily fluffy cat on the shelter’s front page for an appropriate length of time. “I would have,” he vowed. “For the Captain. Anything for him.”

Jon’s eyes shone briefly, and Tim wondered if he was going to cry. He just sniffed with marginally less dignity than usual and accepted the mobile. “Yes, well,” he said after taking a beat to gather himself. “You’re nice. Of course you would.”

“You think I’m nice?” Tim grinned, propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin in his hand.

“Yes,” Jon said simply.

“Careful, Jon, if you keep up this sweetness I’ll have no choice but to hug you.” Tim was only half-joking.

Jon ducked his head and mumbled, “Well. You could.”

“What?” For a moment, Tim thought he’d misunderstood.

“I said you could.” Jon didn’t look up at him. “If you wanted. I wouldn’t mind.”

Tim could feel his cheeks begin to ache from the force of his smile. He stood quickly and slid into the opposite side of the booth. Jon didn’t pull away as he moved closer, only sat looking at him expectantly from the corner of his eye. “Bring it in, then,” Tim said, and he draped one arm around Jon’s narrow shoulders.

Jon sat stiff and awkward at first contact, but then he melted against him. He rested his head in the crook beneath Tim’s collarbone, sighing so softly Tim could barely hear it over the quiet clatter of the pub. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Tim asked. His voice came out a bit strangled from the sudden warm pressure in his chest.

“For being a nice person,” Jon said with a trace of his familiar exasperation but none of the spikiness. As if it were obvious, as if Tim could see it if only he paid attention.

Tim had been paying attention for a while now. He thought he understood what Jon meant. “Of course,” he said. He didn’t pull away. Neither did Jon.

---

He’s measuring out flour into a glass bowl when he hears Jon pad into the kitchen, and for one exhilarating second Tim wonders if he’s going to hug him from behind. He doesn’t. Tim lingers over the bowl for a few breaths more, then turns to face him. “I’m making muffins,” he announces.

Jon looks surprised. “You bake?”

Tim is momentarily distracted by the way Jon’s hair is piled on top of his head, wrangled into what might generously be called a bun. There are strands hanging around his cheekbones that Tim desperately wants to tuck behind his ears. He clears his throat and tosses a grin over his shoulder as he faces his mixing bowl again. “Why Jon, did you not notice the stupendous cakes I’ve brought to every office party this year? Of course I bake.”

“Oh,” Jon says. “I don’t usually stick around those long enough to eat anything.”

“You will once you’ve had a taste of my baking skills,” Tim promises. “These are going to be the best muffins you’ve tasted in your life.”

“My expectations are high,” Jon says in his dry voice. Months ago, Tim might have thought he was mocking him, but now he recognizes it for the friendly teasing it is. It makes something warm and lofty expand in his chest. Then, a moment later Jon asks, “Can I help?”

Tim opens his mouth to say no, that he’s a guest and should sit down and relax while Tim takes care of everything. He glances over again as Jon steps closer, fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie. It’s too long, dangling a few centimeters past his fingertips.

It’s Tim’s hoodie, he realizes with a start. His mouth shuts with a click. He wants to stare at Jon. He wants to turn his face away in case his adoration is too obvious. He still wants to kiss him.

Jon just watches him, picking restlessly at the fabric. He almost looks hopeful. Oh.

Tim gestures with his head toward the fruit basket on the countertop. “Dice an apple for me?”

“Sure.” Tim can hear the smile in his voice.

They work quietly for a few minutes, the only noise coming from the soft click of Jon’s knife against the cutting board and the muted sound of Tim’s whisk in the bowl. Once the fruit is mixed in with the batter, Jon watches as Tim carefully measures equal portions into his muffin tin and slides them into his oven. Tim has a sudden urge to turn on some music, to see if Jon might let him wrap his arms around him and spin him beneath the dim kitchen light.

“How much do you remember from last night?” Jon asks before he can.

Tim leans against the countertop. “Everything,” he says. Then he hesitates. “I think,” he adds nervously. “We weren’t that drunk, were we? Why do you ask?” He would have remembered if he’d -

Jon crosses the floor to the little table in Tim’s entryway. He has a habit of dropping his things there when he walks inside each evening, keys, wallet, and whatever else has accumulated in his pockets throughout the day. Jon rummages in the clutter before waving a short, shiny strip of paper triumphantly.

“Oh,” Tim says. No, he hadn’t forgotten that at all. “Right.”

---

Jon was the one who had pointed out the photo booth. Tim knew it was there - he’d spent a couple of tipsy evenings in it before. The last time had been with Danny. Maybe that memory was the reason he hadn’t brought it up to Jon. Maybe it was just that he didn’t think Jon was the sort to relax enough to enjoy something as trivial and objectively silly as a photo booth.

But Jon herded him away from their table and into the little box at the back of the pub with the same determination he directed toward his work, drawing the black curtain closed as Tim fiddled with the buttons. It smelled vaguely of wine inside. Jon didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve never done this before,” Jon confessed. He’d had enough drinks by now that there was an airy quality to his voice. He suppressed a yawn. “But I’ve always wanted to.”

“Really?”

Jon nodded. “Never had anyone to do it with,” he said, sounding almost ashamed.

Tim decided not to point out that wasn’t the part he’d been surprised about. “You have me,” he said, settling back as the countdown began for the first photo.

Jon stared at the camera, head tilted slightly as he arranged a smile on his face. “Yes,” he said, then jumped at the flash. The countdown began again. Jon moved closer to Tim, brushing their arms together. “I do have you. I’m glad for that.”

Tim faltered, turning from the camera to look at Jon. Jon glanced up at him, and the careful smile on his face faded to something softer, gentler. Tim’s breath hitched. He’d like to kiss Jon like this, he realized, when he’s open and vulnerable and trusting. He leaned down slightly, suddenly breathless as he lifted a hand to cup Jon’s cheek. “Jon -”

The second camera flash made them both flinch hard, and Jon let out a startled noise that was almost a laugh, hiding his face in the collar of Tim’s shirt as if embarrassed. Tim laughed too, though he could barely hear himself over the pounding in his ears. He let his hand slide around the back of Jon’s head, cradling him, as if that was what he’d meant to do all along. He wondered if Jon could feel his heart thudding against his chest.

Before the last flash lit up the booth, Tim closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into Jon’s hair.

---

“I told you, you’re adorable,” Tim crows.

Jon splutters again, looking down at the photos in his hand in disbelief. “I’m an adult,” he says petulantly. “I can’t be adorable.”

Tim gasps, affronted. “Jonathan Sims! Are you putting an age limit on adorableness ? Please tell me you aren’t suggesting that I can’t be adorable.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jon grumbles.

“Good. I didn’t want to fight for my honor before breakfast.” Tim smirks at him and hopes the teasing is enough to distract from the painfully obvious yearning in his eyes on the strip of photo paper. His hand itches to take it from Jon, to cover up what feels practically like a confession, but he forces himself to be reasonable.

His oven timer beeps, drawing him from his nervous thoughts, and he busies himself tending to the muffins. Mercifully, Jon sets the photo strip aside to rummage in Tim’s cabinets for a pair of plates.

They migrate to the couch and eat quietly. Jon admits that Tim’s baking skills are rather spectacular, and Tim preens a normal amount. He wants to hug Jon again, but he resists. Whatever ease with which Jon had touched Tim the night before seems to have faded. His posture seems a bit stiffer, and he keeps his hands tucked closely in his lap, though Tim does catch him casting contemplative glances his way when he thinks he isn’t looking. He wonders how long it’s been since Jon has received affection.

Jon should receive affection always, Tim thinks, and should be held gently at each opportunity. He hopes he’s given another opportunity to hold Jon soon. He doesn’t push for it, though, doesn’t want to make Jon uncomfortable. He’s waited months to earn the trust he’s been allowed so far; he can be patient again.

“Tim,” Jon says after they’ve sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Yes?” Tim gives him an encouraging smile.

“I’ve - I’ve had a lovely time.” Jon doesn’t meet his eyes.

“That’s the Stoker guarantee,” Tim says with a smirk, though his chest twinges uncomfortably. There’s a but in there.

Jon takes a deep breath. “Yes. Well. Thank you. And - that is, I wanted to say…” He pauses. Opens his mouth and shuts it again.

That feeling in Tim’s chest is sinking lower. He waits.

Jon shifts abruptly, turning to fully face him on the couch. “Tim,” he says.

“Jon,” Tim answers quietly.

And then Jon surges forward and presses a chaste kiss into Tim’s jaw.

"Oh," Tim says. His hand flies up to touch his face.

Jon scrambles backward, blushing deeply. “Yes. Well,” he says again. “That’s all. Sorry, I should have -”

“Jon,” Tim says, “can I hug you?”

Jon makes another one of his soft little squeaks and nods wordlessly before tumbling forward into Tim’s arms. After a moment, he curls himself up smaller, wiggling onto Tim’s lap so as to better cling to him. Tim, very carefully, does not move except to tighten his hold on him.

“If you’re amenable,” Jon finally says, voice muffled in Tim’s shirt, “I would like to do this again sometime.”

Tim stifles a laugh. “And by this, you mean…?”

Jon sits up slightly, though he pouts a bit as he does. “Drinks? Dinner? And then cuddles. And I would like you to hug me again as soon as possible.”

“I don’t have to stop hugging you,” Tim points out. “You don’t have to leave. You can stay right here -” He pats his lap for emphasis. “For as long as you like.”

“You don’t mind?” Jon asks, peering up at him.

“Do I need to convince you how much I like hugging you?”

Jon considers. “No. But you could demonstrate anyway.”

It’s evening.  At least Martin thinks it is.  He’s rather lost track.  Time stopped making sense for him a while ago.  Had it really only been this morning when he was in his office, doing an endless stream of meaningless paperwork? 

Weeks and weeks and weeks and months and months and months of small meaningless tasks.  

He really hadn’t thought about it until now.  Is it really that much work to fill out a single form?  It shouldn’t be.  It isn’t.  But the sheer number of them… that’s what makes it drudgery.  Makes minutes and hours stretch beyond all logical comprehension.  Not to mention the endless intrusions of Peter Lukas.  

No.  Not thinking about that.  He’s …dead?  Right?  

Martin isn’t sure.  In the Lonely… out of the Lonely.  Everything a blur.  A cold, miserable, sandy blur.  And all he wants to do is sleep, but apparently that isn’t happening.  His brain is still trying to catalogue the endless, meaningless tasks he is leaving behind.  Still trying to run the budget and the expenses, and the personal reports that have been sliding over his desk for months.  

Paperwork heavy on the brain… heavy on the body.  Especially when that body has nothing to look forward to at his empty flat with its empty fridge and its empty bed.  

He is very tired.  

He can’t shake the feeling that this is a vaguely unsettling dream that he will wake up from in that cold and empty bed and search for breakfast in that empty fridge (because breakfast is the most important meal of the day, some distant parental voice tells him every morning even though the thought often turns his stomach) and hurry out of his empty flat for his empty office and that infernal ticking clock.  Measuring out every word he types.  Every breath he draws.  Every paper he signs.  Every spreadsheet he makes.  Every thought of Jon that he carefully does not think.  

‘For all the compasses in the world, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.’  

Had he heard Jon say that once?  A quote from a play that Jon liked.  Hadn’t he read it to impress Jon, once upon a time?  A lifetime ago?  A death-time ago?  Three deaths ago?  

“‘For all the compasses in the world, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.’”  He says it out loud, this time.  The first words to drop from his still frozen lips after leaving that Forsaken place.  Was?  Was that a joke?  

Jon’s head shoots up.  His eyes are wide and locked on Martin’s.  (Not that that is new, Martin keeps catching him staring.  Even as he tears around the archives gathering clothes and and statements and toiletries.  (Has Jon really just been living here?)  “Was that… that was… did you?”  

Martin blinks at him.  It might be his exhaustion making whatever Jon is trying to say incomprehensible, or it might be Jon’s exhaustion, for that matter.  

“That was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” Jon eventually stutters out, looking dumbstruck, half of a jumper that Martin thought he had lost sticking half out of a very battered backpack.  “You read it?”

Martin doesn’t have the energy for more words.  He nods.  

“I didn’t know you read it!”  Jon has perked up considerably.  “I read it in primary school, maybe a bit dark for a child, but my grandmother just bought me what was inexpensive… I was actually in it in uni….”

Martin would very much like to be paying attention to what had to be one of the most verbal and sharing Jon moments he has been witness to, but he’s very tired and it just sounds like white noise and he’s still thinking about that ticking clock floors above and an office he won’t go back to and paperwork that will never be finished and a half finished granola bar he had in his drawer for emergencies.  He could get his phone charger and laptop, in fact Jon probably already had… but ….but all that work.  All that he has done and all that he hasn’t… it’s all there.  And it’s going to stay there.  And Martin very much has not accepted that he doesn’t need to finish it.  Because he has been told every day in every email that he needs to finish it.  That there is a never ending stream of work that he can never catch up with that he can never overtake.  So he stayed long hours, turning himself into quite the hypocrite.  And Jon is still talking, his too-tiny form slightly revitalized with his excitement and nervous energy as he continues to pack.  

They are in a car.  Daisy’s, Martin thinks.  And Jon is still talking.  Possibly still about the play?  Possibly not.  Martin can’t tell.  He thinks he just heard Jon mention something about Scotland being a conspiracy of cartographers?  Is that right?  

Martin barely feels like he is there.  Is he tangible?  Or no… that isn’t what he is wondering.  He feels TOO tangible.  Too heavy but still not solid.  Like he is a wavering stack of signatures and numbers instead of a person.  Just a vehicle for meaningless work.  A thought that makes him dead tired.  What is he without that structure, those spreadsheets.  He has lost himself in the lines and fine print.  And he doesn’t know what is left.  Half fog.  Half paperwork.  All gritty eyed, and salty haired, and bone-weary.  

Jon has stopped talking.  He is… a passible driver.  Passible at best.  Having run himself out of things to say, the exhaustion is creeping back in.  His hands shake slightly on the wheel and they still have to stop by Martin’s sad, empty flat before they can leave London and make the terribly long drive to wherever it is they are going.  And Martin doesn’t have it in him to drive, and even if he did, he really really shouldn’t.  An ex boyfriend had tried to teach him once.  Once when he thought maybe he could drive a cab and maybe that would bring in enough money to fill his stomach, but that relationship didn’t last, and Martin was still scared shitless of driving anywhere but an empty suburb going 32 km/h or less.  

He curls around himself, trying to ward off the guilt that starts to gnaw at him then.  Jon shouldn’t have to drive the whole way.  Jon is exhausted.  And they don’t even have time to spend the night somewhere.  At least… that’s what Martin managed to get from the conversation with Basira that he… had technically been physically present for.  

No.  No.  No.  He’s fine.  He can pack.  He will Not make Jon do that for him.  Jon is clearly shaking.  Jon can take a shower and have a nap on his sofa (or his bed a little part of his brain says, leading to a dangerous heat in his cheeks) while Martin packs.  He can pack his own clothes.

 But they are at his flat now.  And Martin can hardly drag himself out of the car and up the two flights of stairs (broken lift).  His head is swimming and his limbs are heavy.  He sits heavily on the couch to gather himself, and Jon is already rushing around riffling through his things, stuffing jumpers and boxers and binders and socks and tea into a duffle bag that has seen better days.  He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed.  He wishes he could help.  

Then there is tea in his hands.  Made completely wrong, but Martin appreciates the effort.  and there are their bags at his feet and Jon is next to him.  There is no distance between them, and Jon leans into his side and Martin finds himself holding back tears.  Or failing to hold back tears.  In any case, he is tired and his face is wet and Jon is shaking slightly against his side and he can’t tell if this is the worst he has ever felt or the happiest he has ever been.  Perhaps both at once.  

Jon is easing him to his feet, nudging him towards the shower so he can wash the sea-salt from his eyelashes and hair.  

Martin is in his shower.

Martin is divested of binder and in an overlarge hoodie.  Hair wet but not salty.  He can’t help trying to picture Jon in that jumper.  Even large on Martin, Jon would be swallowed whole by it.  Jon is in his shower.  In his (Martin’s) less empty flat.  But his flat is hollowed out and gutted.  Jon asked him about 20 times if he would be alright on his own while separated by running water and water vapor and a door.  Martin had nodded each of those times.  Clinging to the sounds of Jon singing softly through the door.  

Martin gets the feeling that Jon is doing that just to ground him and Martin can’t say that he minds.  He wish Jon doesn’t need to, but he is grateful.  

He is coming down from a panic attack, and Jon is done in the shower but has yet to return.  Martin feels like he has been hard reset.  He is curled up on his couch.  The last of his possessions have been packed.  He isn’t going back to work.  He can rest.  Well… soon.  He can rest in the car.  He can rest in Scotland.  They both can, with any luck.  

Jon is coming out of his washroom, drying his hair and in another jumper Martin thought he lost months ago.  

Jon is in front of him, hovering and looking like he isn’t sure if he is allowed to touch.  Martin reaches out and grasps his fluttering hands.  And Jon sinks to the floor in front of him.