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In hindsight, Tim knew he shouldn’t have done it. He had seen Jon being twitchy and cagey. The archivist looked even more bedraggled than usual and was shrinking away from anyone when they so much as passed too closely in the hall. Skittish as a wild animal. But he didn’t want to think about being nice to Jon. Tim was angry and he needed someone to be angry at. Jon made it so so easy. If they were going to be secretive, stalkerish and rude, then Tim had absolutely no reason to be nice. Except, Jon hadn’t been as rude lately, he had been downright avoidant. Not after his encounter with Daisy and whatever he hell had him gone for a month this time. But still, he had done nothing to warrant forgiveness either.
So when Tim came in late, drenched from the cold rain, and began to get an earful from Jon about tardiness, he didn’t think.
“I understand you care little for--”
“Oh, you understand, yeah?” Tim said, cutting him off. He glared at Jon, pulling off his soaked coat and throwing it none too gently on his chair. It landed with a heavy thwap, splattering rain water on the ground. Jon flinched at the sound and Tim found a smile twitch up his lip. “You understand what? How much I hate coming into this prison every morning? Getting a fresh reminder of the lovely death and trauma this place has caused? That you have caused?”
“Tim--”
“Yeah, I’m sure you understand that. Think I’ve made it plenty clear.” He says with a nod to the side. “But what I don’t understand is how you think that I give a flying fuck about what time I come in. Because I’ll have to come in eventually, or else I get supernaturally sick. So, if I come in late, I come in late. Especially in this godforsaken rain--”
“Fine. I-I won’t--” The man stammered, taking a step back. All Tim could think was what a fucking coward Jon was. How disgusting.
“Oh no, I’m not done.” He snatched the archivist’s wrist in his cold, still rain-wet grip. Instantly, Jon went rigid and Tim realized how thin the wrist in his hand was. It was burning hot against his icy skin and so very small. Had Jon always been so small? It would be so easy to hurt him. To squeeze and squeeze and snap! Tim searched the archivist's face, expecting delicious fear and shock. Even rage or irritation would have been unsurprising.
But Jon’s face was blank.
Tim loosened his grip in surprise and vague disappointment. Jon’s wrist arm dropped limply to the side. And their face remained slack. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular, his eyes unfocused and shifting slowly. He didn’t even try to move away from Tim. Just breathing in and out in short forced puffs. Then Martin came in, eyeing the two of them warily.
“Everything… okay here?” He asked warily and Tim just shrugged, focusing back on Jon.
“Oi,” Tim’s irritation flared again at the man’s silence. “Earth to Archivist.” But Jon didn’t respond. He snapped his fingers in front of their face and Jon flinched violently. It was almost satisfying, Tim thought bitterly. Only if it wasn’t so sad.
“S-sorry… It’s fine...” He stuttered, eyes still glazed over.
“Jon?” Martin came towards them slowly, but Jon suddenly bolted for their office. The door clicked shut, leaving Tim and Martin standing there in silence.
“Oops.” Tim shrugged. He was trying too hard to not care, but the guilt was slowly seeping in, tinging his red hot anger a different ugly color.
“What did you do?” Snapped Martin with more venom than Tim realized he was capable of. Soft and loveable Martin. There were days he felt like clawing the man up, just to see what sort of sharp insides he might contain. He seemed like the kind of person who brings cups of tea and wears cozy jumpers, only to reveal sharp shards of ice at their core. But Tim shook away the thought, this wasn’t about Martin.
“I just needed them to shut up. So, I grabbed them.” Of course he knew what he had done. It wasn’t right, even if he tried to sound casual about it. Even if a part of him craved to chase the little archivist down and make them scream like the terrible coward they were.
“Seriously?” Martin looked furious. Everyone knew he had a soft spot for Jon, even if no one understood why. “Sure! Just grab and growl at your traumatized coworker who just got back from a month of being kidnapped!”
“Look, he was the one coming after me about--”
“About what? Being late for work? Like they're oh, I don’t know, your boss?” He said, throwing a hand in the air.
“Don’t act like any of us are in a ‘normal work environment’ anymore, Martin.” Said Tim with finger quotes.
“That doesn’t mean you get to grab them like that!” Martin’s face began to flush an angry red. Once upon a time, he might have thought it cute. Now it was just irritating.
“Yeah, well it doesn’t mean they get to stalk us, or disappear for weeks or treat us like absolute shit either, but that doesn’t stop The Fucking Archivst, does it?” He spat.
“Just stop it! Stop yelling and getting mad at all the wrong people, god!” Martin pressed a hand to his face and breathed for a moment before making a decision. “I’m going to check on them.”
“No.”
“No?” Martin looked at Tim like he'd grown another head.
“Leave him. Let him stew. And maybe if he apologies and actually changes something, I will too!” He shrugged and let himself fall into his chair. He was still cold and wet from the rain. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of Martin’s tea right now. Not that he could ask. Not anymore.
“Tim…”
“If you try to go in there, I will stop you.” He couldn’t look at the other man. Tim knew if he looked up and saw his soft weary expression, something would happen that he would regret. Be it giving in to Martin’s urges for forgiveness or giving in to the growing viciousness inside. “You might be a big guy, but I can wrestle you to the ground, mate.”
“God, what is wrong with all of you?!... Fine!” Martin ran a hand over his face and sighed. “But you have to check up on him if he doesn’t come out for lunch.” Without looking up from his desk, Tim agreed.
Three hours passed. Basira had come in and out, doing her own work, but Tim hardly paid her any mind. Martin passed Jon’s office repeatedly, not daring to knock, but just listening for the distinct drone of the archivist’s voice. It was remarkably quiet in the archives. Under the shuffling of paper and clacking of keyboards, there was something missing. Jon had not recorded a single statement since he arrived. Not a single sound had come from his office and the dreadful feeling in Tim’s stomach was beginning to become unbearable. What was it? Hunger or guilt?
Finally, Martin gave him a look, jerking his head towards the silent office. And reluctantly, Tim started towards the office door. What was his plan for going in there anyways? Bring Jon a cuppa and apologize? Not a chance. Maybe he'd just spark off another yelling match and they'd get in each other's faces. All vicious teeth and sharpened words. But he knew that wouldn't be what happened, even if a part of him wanted it to. Shaking the thoughts from his head, Tim opened the door.
“Boss?” He said, trying to sound casual as he entered the quiet office. “You alive in there?”
For a moment, it seemed the room was empty and silent. He hadn’t seen Jon leave at any point, but maybe had missed it. Tim was about to leave and ignore Jon for the rest of the day, when he caught the near silent shuffle of something beneath the desk. It’s then that he noticed papers strewn about the desk and a few on the floor. Jon’s cane lay abandon near the wall as if it had been carelessly dropped there.
“Jon?” He called out. No response. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he debated just leaving. Why did Jon deserve his pity? Taking care of the twitchy stuck up ass was above his paygrade. Except, getting kidnapped and traumatized was above anyone’s paygrade. As much of an asshole Jon was, he didn’t deserve to suffer alone. Yeah, Tim was angry. And he probably hated Jon for his idiot mistakes and inability to ask for actual help. But seeing him like this brought back some of the old Tim. A version of him that had been burnt away and was crumbling like ash. The one that might have considered Jon a friend. Slowly, Tim stepped around to look at the otherside of the desk. A pair of well worn shoes peaked out from under the desk. Sighing deeply, Tim reached for that version of himself and tried to remember how it felt to care.
Jon was curled into himself, arms twisted protectively around his head. He had tucked himself up impossibly small, pushing his body into the underside of the desk. If Tim hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought it was some scrawny unkempt child and not his full grown adult boss.
“Hey, boss.” No response from Jon. It made Tim feel a bit sick. The awful feeling in his stomach tipped away from hunger and more into something like grief. Grief for a time long past. For people that were dead and others that were simply changed, gone from who they used to be. “You uh, been down here long?” Nothing. “Since I… uh, got in?” Still nothing. “I’m gonna put my hand on your knee, Jon. Alright?”
The moment he did, he realized that was a mistake. Jon locked up. He flinched further into himself, something Tim didn’t think was possible. His whole body trembled and he began muttering in a small high airy voice that has no business coming out of someone like Jon.
“Don’ttouchmeDon’ttouchmeDon’ttouchmepleasenomorenomore”
Jon.
Jon with his low rumbling voice that deepens when he reads statements and raises when he's playfully irritated. Jon, who grumbles and growls and shoots glares daggers at anyone who so much as shuffles their papers wrong. Who works himself to the bone and keeps working because he doesn’t know how else to function but on overdrive. Jon who will drag everyone down with him on this hellbound path because he never understood how to ask for help.
Jonathan Sims. Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Someone who was once their friend. Tim sighed and sat himself down on the floor.
“Jon. Do you know where you are, mate?” He asked, but Jon just keeps muttering ‘no more’ like a prayer. The hot boiling anger has slipped away from him. Sure, it was there somewhere inside, but right now it wasn’t not going to do anyone any good. “You’re at your desk, well under it at least. In the archives. It’s um 12:30 am, Tuesday.” There’s no response from Jon, but he’s not surprised. “You’re here with me, Tim. We had a bit of a...row this morning. You got all growly about something or other, but I didn’t give you a chance to speak. I was angry so I… did something I shouldn’t have. And I know I shouldn’t have and I did it anyway. I’m sorry for that.”
Jon’s muttering chant quieted into a rhythmic hum and Tim exhaled slowly. Once upon a time, Tim had been good at this sort of thing; talking people down and working them through a crisis. But he feels like that part of him got lost, eaten up by trauma and rage somewhere along the line. They’ve all been different ever since the Prentiss attack and Sasha. No one in the archives is doing ‘well’. Except for maybe Elias and that just goes to show how much of a conniving evil douchebag the man is. But Tim knew he’d been wrong. He processes his pain through anger and while it feels good and righteous at times, he knew it was a destructive force. For himself and everyone around him. Jon is… Well, Jon isn’t all that different. Tim can see that. Tim can see how the man copes with his hurt by gritting his teeth and snapping at anyone who gets too close. It's a defense mechanism. But right now, Jon wasn’t in any state to defend himself. He needed help. He needed the person Tim used to be. Even if that person fell apart a long while back.
“Do you remember that first time we dragged you out for drinks? Back just a few weeks after we’d all been assigned to the archives?” Tim gave space for a response, though he knew there wouldn’t be one. After a moment, he continued. “Well, I remember Sasha had been saying we should get you to join in for weeks. I mean, I was still kind of pissed at you for taking the position she wanted, but… well, not sure where we’d be now if that’d happened. Better? Worse? Don't fucking know and I never will. Anyways... I wanted to see what you were like with a couple of drinks in you. Thought it’d be good to have an embarrassing story or two about the boss.”
He recounts how much of a pain it had been to get Jon to come with them. How they had told him it would be just for an hour but in the end they’d stayed until close. Tim had had to call individual cabs for Jon and Martin they were so drunk. He recounts how Jon was a total light weight and had been so much nicer when he was two drinks in; even talking directly to Martin for nearly half an hour, infodumping about the process of making tea. Not a cup of tea, but rather the process of growing, harvesting and drying tea leaves. It had been entirely endearing. Martin had been flushed red the entire time, but blamed it on the alcohol. He leaves out the part where Tim and Sasha had watched them, leaning against each other comfortably in the booth with their hands just barely touching. It felt like such a lifetime ago. Back then, they all were different people.
Throughout the whole story, Jon remained quiet. He hadn’t unfurled from his spot under the desk, but he wasn’t as tensed up either. Tim finished with a sigh and swallowed around a lump in his throat. The story had made his eyes feel hot and teary in a way he hadn’t realized it would.
“It was...good times, then.” He sighed hard and wiped a hand over his face. “We didn’t even know. My biggest concern with the Institute then was that you had a stick up your ass and Elias was a bag of dicks. I mean none of that’s changed, but… I miss those days. Everything is so fucked up now.”
“M’sorry.” Croaked Jon, finally. His voice was hoarse and weak, barely above a whisper. He lowered his hands from where they were threaded into his overgrown hair and for the first time, Tim looks at the partially healed abrasions that ring his wrists. He knew they bruised easily, but Jon’s arms look painful. They’re a mottle of green and purple, with scabs Tim knows have been picked at. One wrist is more freshly bruised than the other, undoubtedly from where Jon had been grabbed by him earlier today. But Tim doesn’t feel guilty for it. He doesn’t. At least, he tries to tell himself that.
“I know you are.” He wouldn’t tell Jon it was okay. Because it wasn’t. None of this was okay and he didn’t forgive Jon for anything. Not yet. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a victim too. “It’s not like you wanted anyone dead.”
“I would give anything to get her back.” Jon’s voice cracked and Tim felt a tidal wave of anger rush up inside of him. It’s enough that he almost reared back to hit him. The smaller man flinched violently, as if he could sense the threat of it. But Tim centered himself and clenched his fist to his leg instead.
“No, no stop it. You don’t get to say that.” He said with pointed control. “I don’t… I don’t want to talk about her with you, okay?”
"Just…" Jon swallowed and took a shaking breath. "I'll be fine in a minute. Just leave me be, Tim."
"Nah, don't think I will." He made a face and shifted into a more comfortable sitting position. “Look, Jon. I need you to tell me what I did wrong here so I can… not do it again. Because, like, you and I have our issues-- A lot of fucking issues, but I’m not the kind of person who likes to go around triggering anyone.” At least he has the mind to remember that still.
“Tim, it’s fine. You didn’t--” Jon bumbled, preparing for a thousand excuses for why this isn’t Tim’s fault, it’s theirs.
“No. No, I kind of did know. You’ve never liked anyone touching you without warning and that was before any of the worms and Not-Thems and kidnapping whatever. I knew something had happened to you and I went and grabbed you anyway. It was a shit move and I won’t do it again. I’m not that kind of asshole. Believe it or not, Jon. I don’t want to hurt you.” The scowl Jon shoots him actually hurts, if Tim is being honest with himself. Because the reality is that he did want to hurt Jon sometimes. Just not like this. “Little jabs at your ego and taking you down a notch when you’re being a shit head or you know, fucking stalking me. But… not this. You don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t I?” He looked up rather pathetically. His eyes were shining with tears, thick lashes clumped together.
“Fuck Jon, of course not!” Now that properly hurts Tim’s heart to hear. The reason he hates statements so much is because no one really deserves to relive their worst moments. Maybe there are some really terrible people out there that do deserve it. But not Jon. “You made some stupid ass bad descsions but, god! No! Just… Look, you don’t have to tell me everything, but please, I just want to know how to not… not do this to you again.”
“Fine,” He said after a moment. “I--... I’ve never particularly enjoyed touch. I-I don’t like being touched without warning or asking a-and… please no cold hands.” His voice pitched and tightened on the last few words, as if just saying it summoned the feeling back into his head.
“Shit, my hands were freezing this morning cuz I came in from the rain.” He wrung his hands together as if he could still feel the chill, despite warming up hours ago.
“The cold and w-wet. It felt like…” They stuttered, sounding thin and panicked all over again.
“Jon, if you don’t want to say--”
“They didn’t...hurt me. Persay.” He made some poor attempt to collect himself, eyes sliding off to some faraway moment in his head. “But, the mannequins. Their hands were bloodless plastic and-and they would hold me down and strip me and they wou--- they would touch me and the lotion…”
“Well shit Jon. You are right and proper traumatized.” His let out some sad excuse for a laugh, but his throat felt tight and painful. The guilt felt like acid in his chest.
“Yes, well… Being kidnapped by murderous mannequins will do that. Can’t exactly tell a therapist that, can I?” Jon rasped, a pathetic shadow of a smile on their face.
“Good that you’re seeing one?” He offered. Hell knows everyone at the Institute needed some sort of counseling.
“Oh… Well, I mean, not in some years. Not since Uni, really.” Their smile vanished just as quickly as it came
“Jesus, Jon.”
“I know. I know. With everything we’ve been through, I should. I still get my meds refilled and all… or well I was before...”
“Well, okay. Anything else?" He cut off Jon's potential rambles, unwilling to touch that end of his pathetic lack of self care. "You said something about lotion, any of the... I don’t know, specific smells bother you?”
“Oh, um, not that I’ve noticed, but… maybe?” He grimaced, staring off into the distance. “I suppose I won’t know until it really hits me, unfortunately.”
“Well, I mainly go for unscented anyways, never liked too many smells. I’ll make sure everyone else that comes around does the same.”
“That’s not necessary--”
“Oh fuck off with this whole ‘oh don’t worry about me’ thing. I’m seriously sick of it.” He snaps, making Jon flinch again. It was getting annoying again, but Tim pushed that feeling down and away. “Look, people ask for places to be scent free all the damn time. It gives people migraines or sensory overload or allergies, whatever! I’d rather get on Rosie about her damn coconut scented hand cream than see you like this.”
“Really?” Tim hated the look on Jon’s face when they said it. So sad and hopeful.
“Is that so hard for you to believe?” Bitterness and annoyance fight their way into his tone, but Jon doesn’t seem to react.
“I don’t really know what I believe these days.” He shrugged. “Can hardly trust myself, let alone anyone else.”
“I’m not out to kill you, Jon.” Was that true? Most times it was, Tim thought. Some days the growing festering dark in him craved something like violence. But if he was being honest, he didn’t think he’d have the guts to carry through.
“Really?” There’s something about the fragile hope in Jon’s tone that just splinters in him. Jon’s eyes are watery and lined with tired smudges, but they are expressive and beautiful. Irritation recedes, leaving Tim feeling out of sorts.
“Unless you’re being an ass or I find out you're still stalking me, then I might kill you just a little bit.” He tried to muster up that old Tim, finding it easier than before.
“I supposed that’s fair.”
“Yeah, now let’s get up off this god forsaken floor. I don’t know about you, but I am not young enough to be fooling around under desks anymore.” He says with a groan, though it's more for dramatics than anything. “Want help getting up?”
“Please.” Tim holds out both hands for Jon to take and pulls him onto unsteady feet. Once he’s standing, Jon doesn’t let go. Tim doesn’t make him. “Your hands are warm.”
“Course. I’m still smoking hot, worm scars and all.” He winks.
"Yes. Yes, still the adonis of the archives." With a groan, Jon rolled his eyes and started looking over his desk as if he hadn’t just been cowered under it for a few hours.
"Finally acknowledging the truth!" They both allowed themselves a little laughter, a little lightness. It was much needed and much deserved. After a moment, Jon sighed, not looking up.
“Tim. I know it’s not worth much, but I am really sorry.”
“Yeah. Wish that changed anything.” He said tightly, not wanting to get emotional again. "You wanna hug it out?"
"Get to work, Stoker." His tone reminds Tim so much of the old days, back in the Research department, when Jon was tired and grouchy, but ultimately a friend. Those days were long past, but they both can’t help wishing that things were different.