Work Text:
“Jon.”
“Ah.” Unintelligent, mind syrupy, thoughts stuck like flies in amber.
“You looked a million miles away, Jon.” Elias was close to him. Had moved around the ornate mahogany desk and was peering with concern into his face. “You must be tired, working so hard.”
“Y’yes. I, I rather have been.” Pulverized glass, each word scraped and clawed its way up and out of his voice box such that in an unconscious gesture Jon rested cold fingertips where the hurt flared most. He blinked, lashes fluttering as he fought to keep them open, be professional. Don’t mess this up, Sims. You’ll never get another chance.
“Oh, Jonathan.” In a gesture so intimate it caught him off guard, Elias placed the back of one hand very gently against Jon’s forehead. Honeyed syllables seemed to ooze into his ears. Concern and understanding. “Burning right up, poor thing.”
“I’m?” He had to pause, fill his lungs with the stale air of the office. “S’sorry. It. I.” Tsking good naturedly, Elias, his boss Elias, pressed a palm to the small of his back, exerting careful pressure to guide him to the leather couch, pushing him to sit and slowing his fall, no, too generous, his collapse when his legs gave way. He’d not thought to bring his cane. Didn’t usually need it on short jaunts within the Institute.
“Easy, Jon, you’re not well.”
“Not...wasn’t.” Eyes he didn’t remember falling shut struggled open, this time to the dark wood of the ceiling. He swallowed, tongue thick and clumsy. He shouldn’t be here. Imposing. Making a fool of himself. Even if it was immeasurably comfortable in the quiet with the only light from the shade on the corner of Elias’ desk.
“Hush, now.” Crushed velvet blanketed his anxieties, muting them enough he could let his eyes close, let go and rest like he hadn’t been able to do in days.
The last thing Jon remembered was Elias’ sports coat settling warmly over his shivering body.
“Go to sleep.”
Like most things that fell out of Jon’s mouth in the heat of the moment, this served only to anger his assistants and drive them further away. The fact that it happened because he was overwhelmed and overloaded didn’t mean the water wasn’t hot.
And, Tim’s voice dolefully reminded him in the back of his aching head, not feeling 100% didn’t give him the right to be an arse.
But they started it. Petulant and sullen, like a child, even if it was true. Ever since this position had been foisted upon his narrow shoulders and snatched away from Sasha’s more deserving, more qualified hands they’d stopped speaking to him outside of email confirmations and the odd clarifying question.
It wasn’t insubordinate.
They were perfectly cordial.
Attended meetings.
Completed assignments.
Ignored Jon.
The build up of hurt and frustration was choking him, closing over his head as he drowned in a sea of files and papers and degraded ink and every time he extended a hand, hoping for someone to reach back, it was slapped away. They needed more time.
Jon could hold his breath for a long while but not forever.
“It’s alright if you forgot, just please don’t lie to me, Martin.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, trying to alleviate the migraine beating an awful tattoo behind his eyes.
“But I didn’t!” Martin’s frown was powerful as he dug his heels in defensively and Jon was convinced that this was just another game Sasha and Tim put him up to. Later on he was sure they’d be laughing behind his back and even the idea closed his throat up with emotion. They might not be friends anymore, if they ever were, but Jon couldn’t stand the idea of being mocked for his inadequacies.
“I require that statement and if you cannot do your job then I will have no choice but to write up a citation detailing your poor work performance.” Measured and cold, cruel if he was being honest, but Jon wanted to lash out, pushed to the brink, and it was either that or burst into tears. “And you wouldn’t. Want. That.” Jon punctuated each word with a threatening pause, ludicrous really since he was certain he stood barely as tall as the other man’s shoulder. “Would you, Martin?”
“Jon--!” Tim’s exclamation of disbelief went ignored as Jon plowed forward, drunk on some misguided idea of vindication.
“Would you?” Martin’s face was red with embarrassment, jaw clenched with the force of his control.
“No. I would not.”
“We have an understanding.”
“Yeah. We do.”
“Wonderful.” Positive that he had gone too far and unsure how to fix it, Jon stalked quickly away on shaking legs, straining his ears after collapsing in his chair. He could hear the raised and angry timbre of Tim’s voice through his door and though he wasn’t able to make out any words Jon could guess what manner of things he was exclaiming.
He wasn’t wrong.
Jon buried his face in his hands, shaking with the effort of not breaking down. He was so tired it very nearly hurt to breathe. His head ached. His body ached, chest strung so tight it would burst if he took a full breath. His thoughts came slow and sluggish. It didn’t matter. He’d stay here, locked away and alone, until every single file was processed.
Which is how he found the misplaced statement, complete with one of Martin’s sticky notes adorned with an inane smiley face.
Guilt rose up in him like a tide, swirling together with the fear and the shame into a potent cocktail that left him unmoored. Do your job, Sims. Deal with the consequences of your own incompetence later. Each stair, each step exacerbated his exhaustion, drawing the strength from the very marrow of his bones. Memories became dull and dim after the folder was passed into Elias’ hands but Jon remembered feeling gradually worse, remembered laying down and falling asleep warm. It seemed he was in the way always and Elias was more than patient with him when he woke him with a gentle touch on his shoulder.
“You don't look well, Jon. Take a day or two. Get your feet underneath you.” The words were right, weren’t they? Maybe he was imagining things. That undercurrent of wrong settling in his stomach. “Jon?”
"Hm? Oh, yes. I'll. I'll see how I'm feeling tomorrow." Knowing full well he wouldn’t entertain the idea. Better he come in early to make up for the time he missed today.
“What do you want?” Jon dropped his gaze to the floor, counting the scuff marks on his wingtips. Off to a wonderful start already. They were a united front, a wall between him and what he needed to say. Tim’s lazy recline may have looked like it put him at ease, but there was a fire behind his eyes, scorn in the firm set of his mouth. By far he was the easiest to read of the three of them with Martin’s posture so carefully curated and Sasha’s cold indifference like frostbite in his bones. The loneliness and alienation was a crushing weight bearing down, bowing his back beneath it. He needed to try harder. He owed it to them to be better, stronger than this.
“I.” His grandmother’s voice rang out in his head; look me in the eye, Jonathan. “Martin, I need to apologize. I misplaced, I f’found the file and I’m sorry I spoke to you like that.”
“You can’t treat us like that.” Sasha stepped over whatever Martin had been about to say. “You can’t threaten us.”
“I, I know. I’m--”
“Being sorry all the time doesn’t mean anything if you don’t even try to change.” Tim was distant, almost impersonal, but his disappointment was clear enough.
“Of course. I’m--of course, Tim.” With a resolute nod Jon turned on his heel, their stares like bullets against his back until he could take refuge behind his closed door, the physical barrier no more than an illusion of separation. If he looked, they’d be there, glaring. Better to hide away to lick the wounds of their rejection. He buried himself in paperwork and was so absorbed in it he didn’t notice Elias step into his office.
“I thought I told you to take a day off.” Jon choked on his surprise, losing the battle with the whistling in his chest and taking long moments to get his breath back.
“Sir!” He’d barely collected himself when Elias brushed back a few displaced curls.
“Still feverish. This is irresponsible of you.” And Jon gestured a little helplessly to the mountains of work. “Don’t your assistants know you’re ill?” Shaking his head, Jon looked grimly past the multiple towers crowding his desk.
“I, I haven’t told them, no.”
“Jon--”
“It’s not important. I can. I can do this.”
“Of course you can.” Elias’ voice was soft with sympathy and Jon let himself fall into the warmth of his praise. “That’s why I chose you for this position.” It didn’t feel like the whole truth but Jon was too weary to spend energy on suspicion.
“Yes, sir.”
“But.” Cultured, matter of fact. “Even an Archivist such as yourself couldn’t hope to complete this task without assistants. Explain the situation, ask for help. I’ll approve any overtime they might need to catch you up.” It was an admission of inexperience to accept the offer but he felt at the end of a rope knotted too much like a noose. “Good man. I’ll see myself out.” Jon gave his rabbiting heart a few moments to calm before doing as he’d suggested.
“Personal visits now.” It wasn’t a question, just stated fact, and the way he said it made Jon feel uneasy, like he was missing something important in the teasing tone.
“Ah, y’yes, I suppose.” Telling them what had transpired wouldn’t help any of them. “But, um. I’m here to ask for assistance with a few cases. Sasha--”
“No.”
“I, I’m sorry?”
“No. We aren’t going to accept any more assignments.”
“Tim, that’s--
“I’d love to see you try what you put Martin through yesterday on me, boss.” A bead of sweat slipped uncomfortably down Jon’s spine. “We.” He gestured to all of them. “Are busy.”
“W’with--?”
“With supplementals you’ve already given us.”
“I s’see.”
“I’m sure you do.” Awkward silence settled, a blanket of snow, cold and deep, over the room, the buzzing fluorescents the only sound. It was a challenge and one Jon was happy to lose in favor of escape. He locked himself away and didn’t leave until long after the rest of them had gone home.
Waking the next morning was a slow, laborious affair and Jon felt like he’d merely blinked instead of passed out as soon as he’d made it to the bed, floating dizzy in the deep dark. He pushed himself up on shaking arms, nearly falling back into the pillows when the room whirled sickeningly around him. When he coughed, it went on forever and after stumbling into the shower, Jon turned the tap to hot, as hot as he could stand it, ending up sitting in the tub rather than risking a fall and barely succeeding in his cursory scrub. Breathe. Breathe. In. Out. The steam worked to break up the wet tangle choking him. He woke, leaning against the porcelain tile, when the water went cold.
Should call out. But he’d only just begun. There was so much work to do and now he was doing most of it on his own due to his own emotional ineptitude. He’d have to make this right. He just didn’t know how.
By some miracle Jon made it to the train, doggedly putting one step in front of the other, leaning heavy on his cane. He greeted Rosie, took the lift, tried to limp past his assistants and it was Tim who stopped him.
“You shouldn’t trust him.” Jon’s vision tunneled, he was looking at Tim’s face as though through a shimmer of heat, trying to comprehend because Elias let him sleep. Covered him with his suit jacket, still warm from his own body heat when Jon was struck with chills. “You especially shouldn’t keep running to him. He’s using you.” It hadn’t felt like that. Not when he was saying such kind things, touching him gently on the shoulder and advising him to use his vast reservoir of PTO. He swallowed, voice stuck somewhere in his sore, dry throat, working himself up to speak to Tim and say the things he wanted to hear, that would make them friends again. But he’d lost track of the time, slippery as it seemed to be, and the man was striding away from him muttering obscenities. “Why do I even bother?” Jon blinked dumbly, “never was one to listen.” But Jon had been listening. Or trying to anyway with his pounding head full of fairy floss. Sasha followed him. Martin seemed like he wanted to say something and didn’t in favor of stumbling away from him down the hallway as swiftly as possible.
Jon wanted to cry.
Was struck still at the box of paracetamol, the brand new blend of tea for his ragged throat sat neatly on the blotter. The thoughtful note from Elias. Embarrassed but touched at the gesture, Jon decided something hot was just what he needed and once he’d gotten his desk in order headed to the break room to fix a cuppa and take some medicine. Get himself together. Show them that he was willing to make things right between them. He heard their voices before he saw them, steeling himself to interrupt, until the mention of his name made him stop.
“Jon's getting gifts now, I see.” Tim was bitter, accentuating his frustration with a fist against the table. “It makes sense he’d cozy up to the Big Boss.”
“Tim?”
“Come off it, Martin. Probably how he stole the job in the first place. Being a suck up.”
"Elias doesn't even care.” Sasha spoke with a mix of revulsion and sympathy. “The saddest thing about it is Jon can't even see how he's being manipulated. I certainly wouldn’t have fallen for any of his rubbish." The last bit was muttered under her breath, almost as if to herself.
"He’s always been that way. One kind word and he trips over himself trying to impress you."
“Us and them now, I suppose.”
Tears crawled uncomfortably down his neck, into his wrinkled collar, and he choked on a stifled sob, watching in horror as they turned as one. Trembling where he stood frozen, the tea fell from his grip, its muted collision with the tile like the crack of a starting gun spurring him to run because he’d known all along what they really thought about him.
Confused, Jon found himself in front of Elias’ office, torn because he was doing exactly what they expected of him, exactly what Tim told him not to do; running to the boss because he’d never been able to play well with others. Couldn’t be an archivist. Couldn’t be a friend. He swayed abruptly, catching himself on the frame, dizzy and shaking as he swallowed down a mouthful of salt.
They didn't trust Elias.
They hated Jon.
He wasn’t well.
He should go home.
He had work to do.
He had decisions to make and the very thought of making the wrong one opened the floodgates. Jon pressed a hand to his mouth, digging fingers into the soft skin of his jaw and desperate for any reassurance, any direction, while acting more like a child than the head of a department.
“Alright, Jon?” Rosie’s voice shocked him out of his spiraling thoughts--he’d genuinely forgotten she was there.
“Yes. I’m sorry for the trouble.” Straightening painfully, piecing together his parts like a quilt of scraps just barely pinned, Jon even offered her a short nod as he passed her. “Thank you.” Panic welled like sour blood in his throat, choking the air out of the cavernous room. He’d have to go back down to the Archives. He’d have to walk past the break room again, hear all the horrible things he already knew about himself confirmed and he couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not now when he barely had back his fragile control.
Where was he to go?
“Well that wasn’t ideal.” Tim swept a hand through his hair and gave it a tug as he stared at the empty doorway. Not ideal at all. None of them had meant for Jon to hear them, let alone these grievances made cruel with frustration and resentment borne from the poor choices they’d all made in handling this promotion.
“We should find him.” Martin was holding the box Jon dropped, brow creased in concentration. “This is a blend for sore throats, fever and congestion.”
“Brilliant.” Sasha rolled her eyes. “Never anything by halves, that man.”
“Where would he have gone?” Martin’s fingers picked nervously at the thin cardboard edges of the container in his hands. “Home?” Shaking his head, Tim sighed.
“No, but I’ve a guess.”
He’d fallen asleep on the job. He hadn’t meant to, of course, the small familiar place was as comforting as it had ever been and Jon’s eyes slipped shut without him noticing. He didn’t feel well at all, empty and awful with his itchy uncomfortable clothes scratching like claws over hypersensitive skin, chest sore and throat raw from an unproductive hacking cough. Heat throbbed in his blood, in his bones, fever casting a hazy pall over everything, drawing the snare ever tighter until he gave into the gathering black.
Hushed voices lifted him out of the tentative peace he’d found in drifting off. The librarians no doubt. They hated coming across him in the stacks. They especially hated finding him here, in the old book return sans cart, left over from some old renovation or another.
“Haven’t needed your hiding place in a long time, boss.” Tim spoke softly and the nickname was cutting, slicing to the brittle core of him, lodging there with an indescribable ache and with nothing else forthcoming Jon didn’t know what they wanted. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed they would leave him alone. “Hey, look at me.” Commanding but gentle, and Jon flinched away from the hand on his arm. “Sorry, won’t touch.” Good. Just leave him alone.
“We, we wanted to apologize.” Martin’s eyes were wide when they met his own.
“Y’you’ve nothing to, to, to apologize for, M’Martin.” He let his head hang. “I.”
“Are you alright?”
One kind word and he--
It was true. The concern in Martin’s voice was his undoing and Jon wept in silence.
“Sorry, s’sorry. M’fine.” Curled up and pressed against the old brick Jon wished more than anything to melt away into the wall.
“Jon? We. I.” Tim sighed. “Come on, just look at me, please.”
“I d’don’t know what you w’want from me.” Please leave him alone. “I. Tell m’me what you want’n I’ll, I’ll do it. I p’promise.”
“Jon?”
“Just. P’please? I, I.”
Miss you.
“We, Sasha and I. We were too hard on you. I jumped to conclusions. Hey, you know how much I love to do that, right, Jon?”
“S’fine, I d’deserved it.” Jon scrubbed the tears away. “Elias. He w’was. He.” Good lord he was stupid.
“He was nice to you.” Sasha offered quietly, and Jon blushed furiously, burying his hot face in his knees in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure they could even hear him. He was whispering so quietly. “You w’were right about m’me.” Needy and aggravating. Tripping over his own clumsy feet as he followed after Elias like a duckling begging for crumbs of kindness.
It was knowing where Jon would go that drove it home for Tim, further reinforced when he actually found him there, asleep and small where he was curled up in the shadows. Honestly speaking, he was a mess. Barely intelligible, words slurred with exhaustion and tears, Jon looked so much younger than the grey in his hair would bely. He wouldn’t meet their eyes, the very picture of shame and defeat. And it was Tim who’d driven him here with his lack of understanding, letting his jealousy and anger on Sasha’s behalf give him reason to lash out and Jon being Jon, had lashed out right back, outnumbered, cornered, until he couldn’t anymore. Until he was completely isolated and alone and Tim grit his teeth at what they’d unwittingly allowed to happen, leaving Jon open to Elias’ weird scheming and machinations.
“Hey, bud. What do you say we head back to mine? I’ll treat you to your favorite takeaway and we can all talk, yeah?” Maybe encourage him to get some sleep. A regular Team Archive sleepover.
“N’no. I couldn’t im’impose.” Jon scrubbed the rumpled sleeve of his button down over his face. “Th’thank you.” Tim’s heart fell at his renewed stuttering, a symptom of stress and anxiety notably missing during their time in Research. This wasn’t even the first time he’d heard it in the past few weeks, just the first time he’d really taken notice. Understood what it meant.
“You can’t stay here.”
“I know.” He made no move to stand, just coiled inward, lashes fluttering like a moth’s wing.
“Jon?” This time when he touched him there was no reaction, just heat, hot and dry skin under his fingers. “Jesus, you’re a furnace.” Tim glanced behind him at Sasha. “How long…?” The shrug was little more than a slow twitch.
"Why didn't you say anything?" More tears streaked into his collar when his eyes finally closed.
“I, y’you.”
“Okay, okay. I suppose we haven’t been very approachable.” Foolish question.
“S’sorry.” All too predictable reaction.
“You really gonna make me crawl in there after you?” Strike three. It was the wrong thing to say, too coarse for Jon as he was, ill and upset, and Tim could see the raw desire to feel safe warring with the fear of what might happen if he didn’t listen. Ultimately, Tim won and when Jon stood it was Martin who caught him under the arms as he immediately fell forward. More apologies dropped from his feverishly moving lips like rain and Martin tried to calm him but he wouldn’t hear it.
“Jon, it’s alright.” But he would only shake his head, muttering brokenly.
“M’so...so tired.”
“We know, Jon.” Sasha lifted his face, brushed back clinging strands and the exhausted devastation so deep seated in his washed out stare shook Tim.
“Dunno wh’what to, to do.” And Martin scrambled to keep him off the floor when Jon collapsed completely, hefting him easily and glowing bright red with the shock of holding his not so secret crush against his chest.
“I’m. Uh. I’ll make him some tea and see if I can get him to come around.” Martin turned, “oh, and I’ve got paracetamol he can take.” Tim watched him go, fixated on the one slender brown arm he could still see, elegant fingers lax and still.
“Well.” Sasha muttered. “Aren’t we shining examples of friendship.”
“You know he gives as good as he gets, worse even.” But there was no heat in it. Not when this was the outcome, made worse with his illness’ poor timing. Her palm lit on his arm like a butterfly taking pause, lifting away just as quickly.
“Tim, we’ll fix this.”
Jon insisted on using his own two feet, clumsy though they were, accepting Tim’s arm when he stumbled and coming to a full stop when he realized that this door did not belong to him.
“W’wait...wait.” Dazed and unsteady Jon shook his head in denial even as Tim nudged him gently over the threshold. “I--”
“Need some looking after. Make yourselves at home, gonna see if Jon’ll sleep some.”
“M’right here.”
“I know you are.” In the warm dark of the bedroom, Tim was careful in helping him change into a spare set of soft clothes. When he lifted the hem of his dress shirt he resisted the urge to run his fingers down shivery ribs just beginning to show like piano keys, instead deftly plaiting Jon’s messy curls to keep them out of his face to occupy his questioning hands.
“Tim…?” Jon seemed pressed into the mattress by the weight of the duvet, nigh swallowed by it, and Tim couldn’t resist tucking some spare flyaways behind his ear, lips upturned as heavy lids finally closed.
“Get some sleep, yeah?” Tim left the door open just a crack in case Jon needed anything, joining his fellow assistants in the sitting room. Sasha was already pursuing a tattered menu from Jon’s favorite eatery in the near area, reacquainting herself with their offerings because it had been a while. A long while, Tim realized. Too long. No wonder they hadn’t seen what was happening. When was the last time they’d all gone out together? Certainly not after the promotion. No, they were too busy being the least useful they could be, too busy using Jon’s irritability and increasing exhaustion as markers that proved him unfit for the job.
See, Elias? You chose wrong. It should have been someone else. Anyone else.
“He’s lost weight.”
“You know how he gets.” She passed the flyer to Martin who held it in his lap and Tim shook his head.
“I didn’t notice, Sash. I know we’re, were, angry, but this?” He gestured helplessly. “I let him shove me away, when he needed us most I took the side against him.”
“We weren’t against him, Tim.”
“Well we sure as hell weren’t making anything simpler for him.”
“And he makes it so easy, does he?”
“Hey, hey.” Martin held a finger to his lips as their volume crescendoed. “Jon’s resting, yeah? And I haven’t known him near as long, but he seems the sort to take everything on himself?”
“He thinks he has to, to prove himself.” And that’s exactly what he’d done. Pushing harder and harder and harder to prove he could do this job with or without them. Continuing to work when they’d refused and not asking them for help a second time. A hoarse, wet cough turned their heads.
“H’heard you.” Jon murmured after he caught his breath back, standing just outside the bedroom door. Painfully bruised, the shadows underscoring his eyes stood out against too pallid skin, quivering lashes like ink spilled on paper over the flush splashed across his cheeks. He was small, smaller still dressed in Tim’s clothes with the neckline plunging so low he could see the swell of his collarbone. He’d lost a sock, just the one, and Jon’s naked toes curled against the cold panel flooring. With his arms he hugged himself tight around his narrow middle. Tim offered him a crooked smile.
“Hey, bud, how do you feel?”
“F’fine.” Unlikely, but he wasn’t expecting the truth.
“Come sit down, Jon.” Sasha reached for his hand, tugging him towards her and he followed, blinking heavily and barely awake, settling between her and Tim, acquiescing when he tugged him into his side. Sasha pulled his legs into her lap.
“Don’understand…” Tim winced in sympathy when another cough nearly tore him apart and with perfect timing and out of nowhere Martin appeared with a cup of tea for him to sip on, praising him easily and testing his temperature with the inside of his wrist. “S’sorry Martin. M’so s’sorry.”
“It’s alright, Jon.”
“N’no. It, it wasn’t. Isn’t. Was, was just too s’stupid to--” Tim rescued the mug, pushing him forward to help clear his chest. “Too s’scared, too st’stupid to admit I was in the wr’wrong.” Martin thumbed away a stray tear and Jon leaned into the warmth of his palm.
“Apology accepted, okay? You’re not well.”
“That, that doesn’t matter.” Miserably he sniffed, collapsing inward like a dying star. “I’ve. I’ve a responsibility.”
“And so do we.” Sasha interjected, running her fingers around the bone of his ankle. “I didn’t handle being passed over very well.”
“N’no!”
“Hush. It’s true. It was easier to be angry and I got caught up in trying to stick it to Elias when really the only one I was sticking it to was you.”
“I didn’t mean to take it from you. I told Elias--no. I. I was foolish. I should have stood my ground but he. He. I’m sorry. Let him get to me.” His face crumpled and he hid in Tim’s shoulder. “One, one k’kind word.”
“Jon, I shouldn’t have said that.” Tim embraced him, tangling his fingers up in messy, sweat damp curls as he shed his tears. “You needed support. Lord knows we weren’t providing any.”
“You, you were right not to. I, I, I was, am, awful.”
“Yes.” Gently, he pressed a chaste kiss against his hot, hot forehead. “And you've apologized.” Profusely Tim added when Jon opened his mouth to do it again. “But maybe it wouldn't have come to that if we'd been more supportive. Actually, god forbid, talked about the things we were feeling. Rather than let it grow into,” he waved his hands, one coming to rest on the back of Jon's head. “This.”
“Tim’s right, Jon.” Martin soothed.
“I’ll fix it. I’ll do better.” His vow was whispered as a prayer, his longing a choking, strangling thing.
“We all will.” Sasha promised. “Now, you need feeding up and Tim still has that ratty menu. My treat.”
“I--”
“You just get comfy.” She disappeared briefly into Tim’s room, returning with an armful of duvet and burying him in it. “Martin, if you would.” When she pointed to her now vacated spot, Martin’s eyes went wide and then wider when she gave him a cheeky wink.
“Sasha!”
“What?” The picture of innocence though Martin had no cause to worry. Jon was already falling asleep under Tim’s hand as it moved up and down his back with steady pressure.
Jon let himself drift, light with the relief that he could be forgiven his transgressions. Tim’s palm was warm, so warm as it traced its path repeatedly along his spine and he felt himself sinking deeper into the sofa, grounded by Martin’s loose grip around his calf and that was nice, he thought to himself, listening to the faint sounds of Sasha placing their order in the kitchen, setting the old kettle on the hob, returning to the armchair. If he stretched out his arm, he’d be able to reach her and their soft conversation floating above him blanketed him in white noise. Martin laughed. Pretty, like the peal of church bells in some picturesque countryside.
“Ey, Jon?”
“Mm.” Glad to be included even if he had no idea what they were talking about, attention caught by the sound of his name more than anything and next aware when he was being jostled upright, voicing his displeasure with a nondescript noise.
“Ah, I know, you were having a good sleep.” Martin accepted his weight when Tim settled him against his side and Jon thought he should be more displeased than he was at the man handling but really, he couldn’t be bothered. Not when Martin was so soft and warm. Another mug was being pressed into his hands, soup this time. Spicy. Good. His favorite. They’d remembered. More medicine, more tea. More sleep.
Nudged this time, tablets placed directly in his hand, following softly spoken instructions to take them. Lord but he was tired and this time he didn’t protest at being carried, cradled in Martin’s arms and tucked into bed like he was something precious.
“What’s wrong, Jon?” He blinked, realizing just a beat past awkward that he was clinging to the sleeve of his jumper.
“T’tomorrow.” Martin smiled, indulgent and fond, no doubt awaiting clarification while the night meds did their job too well. “I’ll see you?” For reasons beyond his understanding, Jon wished so badly to wake up with all of them here in Tim’s flat. Unfortunate that he was lacking the vocabulary to say so, instead banking on Martin’s emotional intelligence.
“Oh! Yeah, Tim’s couch--well you know!” He did. And now Martin did too and warmth bloomed in his body at that, all the way out to his fingers.
“Thanks Marto. I’ve got him from here.” Tim punched him lightly in the arm. “Sleep well, yeah?”
“You too.” The sliver of hallway light blinked out and fabric rustled outside the door, old springs squeaking as Martin and Sasha settled in.
“Smooth Sims. That’s what I’m calling you from now on.” Tim tugged him close and Jon rested his ear against his chest, lulled by the thud of his heartbeat beneath it. “Didn’t know you had a type.” Jon didn’t know what he was being teased about, but welcomed this familiar territory and fell back on silence while Tim’s firm hands worked over his scalp, down his neck. “I’m sorry, Jon.”
“Me too… s’alright.” marble mouthed and half asleep, Jon wanted to provide more reassurance. Having run out of words he wrapped Tim up in his arms and pressed close.
“Yeah.” Tim relaxed, the even in and out expansion of his ribs slowing. “It is.”