Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

With one eye on the grey sky Tim was acutely aware of his loose hands, empty of the umbrella Martin offered him on his way out for lunch. Fingers opened and closed in his pocket, scars stretching as he returned from the cafe he frequented with Sasha. Well, he used to. Her new boyfriend – “Tom” - really? One letter made the difference? – had outranked their traditional bitch and chips session to start the week. For the third time.

He supposed he could forgive today's absence. Elias’ manic scheduling had brought half the Institute in on a Sunday. Reinstallation of the buildings CO2 system months after the Prentiss attack reeked of business malpractice, scheduling the process on a Friday and forcing the staff into a warped Friday-Saturday weekend was the overripe cherry on top.

Reaching for his phone as it vibrated to life, Tim kept turning over Sasha’s ever polite dismissal of his lunch break invitation. The injuries forcing him to take a month off work couldn’t have been more ill timed; he could have used those weeks to talk her out of starting a relationship right after a traumatic life event. Hell, he could have done it from home if she bothered to text him back.

Tim still hadn’t met this ‘Tom’, despite the appearance of an actual printed photograph balanced on Sasha’s reorganized desk. One month and she was investing in a framed reminder? Why hadn't she changed her lock screen like a normal person? But no, instead the collection of office origami attempts were replaced, along with the rainbow post it notes and the cup entirely filled with black sharpies. Tim didn’t blame her for binning his shitty butterfly, but Martin was uncharacteristically proud of the tiny, lopsided cow he folded from a disproved statement. Or was it a police report? Or…? The memory was flimsy, crumpling under inspection like the well creased scraps Sasha so abruptly discarded.

Shaking off latent, self-righteous indignation over a paper bovine, Tim grinned at his phone caller ID. The screen was populated with a hyper focused Martin surreptitiously fixing the tag on Jon’s cardigan during a rare breakroom appearance of their boss (Tim had taken the photo a week and a half ago. He hadn’t informed either of them. Yet.) Rain drops were collecting on the screen as Tim thumbed to answer. A particular oddness percolated at the base of his skull; Martin hated calling. Tim could count on one hand the number of calls he had from his friend. He shook his head, scattering a few water droplets. Probably nothing.

“Hey freckles. To what do I owe the pleasure of –”

Martin’s voice crashed over the phones speaker, cutting Tim off in a whirlwind of blurry articulation. “Tim, thank god, I can’t find Jon and he isn’t answering and Jon always always picks up if I call him more than five times, I don’t know if he’s dead or–”

Tim pulled up short, hand moving instinctively to cover his ear and block out the London traffic. “Whoa, whoa Martin slow down.”

Martin did not.

“There is blood all over the office and Sasha said Jon was here a minute ago but he clearly isn’t now, and there was some woman giving a statement and nobody has seen her either, what if she kidnapped him or–”

“Okay, nobody is getting kidnapped,” Tim said, quickly resuming his route with a sharp purpose to his steps, sound of his shoes on the pavement speeding up to match his climbing heart rate. He forced his voice into something manageable. “That would be a bit much, even for the Institute.” Tim hoped the assurance sounded better than it tasted.

“Yeah, but–”

“Martin.” Information. Tim desperately shoved back at the rising tide of ‘she’s back she’s back should have known’. He needed information he could act on, sifting through every worried stare and cut off comment Jon made since his limping return to the office. Should have paid more attention, should have known. “I want to help. I will help. But I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Well I don’t either!” Martin choked out. Exactly how awful the sufficiently awful situation was sunk another claw in as Tim realized Martin was crying.

“Look, I’m almost back,” Tim said, nearly stepping blindly into the street. “Just – start from the beginning?” He bit down on a curse as the light changed. Waiting a beat, Tim was met with nothing but shaky breathing from the other end of the line. “Martin, really need you to talk to me buddy. What are we up against? Should we be calling the police?”

“Maybe?” Martin said, voice small in a way Tim had heard once before, through a door. Nearly missed over the whir of the tape recorder and the lines of pain as he reached for his bag. Martin’s apology to Tim came later, more composed and following strings of texts and reassurances that Tim didn’t blame him. Nothing like the raw scrape of guilt he caught from the office, prompting Tim to loitered around, picking at fresh bandages until Jon acknowledged the heartfelt sorry. “There – there’s a lot of blood.” Martin finished, nearing a whisper.

“Okay,” Tim said, heels bouncing as he turned on the spot. How long was this damn light? “Let’s start there – where is it?”

“I found,” Martin stopped so short Tim had to spare a glance to check if the call dropped. If not that...

“Breathe,” Tim said lightly.

There was a rush of unsteady static. “Yeah – right. I found, I found blood in Jon’s office. And the hall. And the break room.”

“Right.” Tim said. He wasn’t sure if there was anything else he could say to that. He shifted restlessly from foot to foot, eyeing the inordinate, impassable barrage of vehicles blocking his path. Traffic had lulls, right? He could find a gap to bolt across. Clinging to that, Tim watched and watched and was not at all imagining an office splattered, hallway trailing, or breakroom puddled with the bright angry smears on his clothes, on his arms, on his chest when he jerked awake in quarantine.

“And Jon was, he’s just gone.”

Tim swallowed, hard. Felt the stretch of skin pocketed across his free hand, clenching and unclenching, beginning to chill from the steadily increasing rain dotting his shoulders. The shadow of pain forced him back to the moment. He banished a bloody Archive menagerie to one of so many boxes hastily labeled ‘repressed’ and really wished he didn’t work in a building where the next question was relevant. “Did you check the door to the tunnels?”

“Of course I checked the trapdoor!” Martin snapped. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Not what I said.” Tim chanced half a step forward and was nearly side swiped by a bus. Fine. He would wait.

“No – I’m sorry.” Tim winced at the hearty sniff as Martin tried to clear his blocked nose. “I just – nobody has seen him. The lock isn’t broken or anything and Elias isn’t here. Rosie said she can't unlock his office so I can’t exactly search his desk.” Martin’s voice was pitching up to dangerous octaves again. Tim was preparing to run for election with the sole purpose of improving crosswalk timing. He tried to distract himself with a muted pride for Martin's willingness to search Elias’ office as Martin carried on. “Unless the walls are moving I’m supposed to believe something hurt Jon and he snuck out without telling anybody.”

Martin's hypothetical stuck through Tim’s fluttering concern, viciously pinning the frantic beating of his heart like some struggling winged thing might be stuck for display. All the closed doors, the suspicious glances – an unexpected burst of frustration made an unbecoming pass at Tim’s mounting concern. “Would you put it past him?”

Martin went deadly quiet. Well fuck. “Mart–”

“Look, even if he did,” Martin said, obliterating Tim’s ill formed half apology, “he needs our help.”

“No, you’re right.” Tim conceded firmly. Took less than a half seconds retrospect to conclude this was not the time for airing grievances. Copious amounts of blood at play or not, under no circumstances would Tim take out the conversation he needed to have with Jon on Martin. Across the intersection, the light finally, finally changed to yellow. Tim resolved silently to apologize better after the crisis was... averted. Dealt with. Something. “I’m almost to you, okay? We can deal with this together.”

“Okay,” Martin said, sounding miserable.

“Great. Good,” Tim said, taking the zebra stripes two at a time. He hit the pavement running. Rounding the corner, he swerved to avoid a stumbling pedestrian. “I’m hanging up now, go ask Sasha to – oh shit, sorry – Jon?!”

Tim had thrown a hand out to keep from accidentally shoving the unbalanced figure to the ground, his fingers brushing their sleeve. The weird material of Jon’s favorite jacket pushed recognition past Tim’s lips before other details – height: short, hair: dark curly mess – began to register. Jon had the same damn jacket for years. It was heavy and checkered and hideous and indisputably Jon. Peripherally Tim could hear Martin calling from the phones tinny speakers, concerns melding with street sounds as Tim tried to reconcile the past minutes ballooning fears with the decidedly un-missing Jon in front of him.

Jon looked awful, and Tim was right there next to him when a swarm of aggressively parasitic worms made a meal of the both of them. The blood Martin had been on about wasn’t particularly eye catching on Jon’s green sweater but the dark stain was undeniably beading bright red over Jon’s shaking fingers. It wasn't raining hard enough for the sheen across his forehead to be anything but sweat, his glasses tilted precariously and heavily smudged. Without his cane he was listing hard to the right, each labored breath bringing him closer to folding over entirely. For all his heavy breathing, his cheeks were devoid of color as Jon leaned into Tim’s hasty shoulder grab.

“You’re bleeding.” Tim said dumbly. Not his finest appraisal of a situation. The appearance of Jon out of the halls of the Institute met with a disbelieving ricochet of not dead not dead thank fuck not dead and spun so fast Tim was nearing dizzy.

“Yes,” Jon said faintly, taking a stumble step into the wall for support. “It would appear so.”

Jon’s voice broke the paralysis his unexpected arrival had over Tim. Okay, mystery one solved. Now to deal with… this. Distantly, Martin yelling from the phone shuffled into place amid a rapidly developing list of priorities. Martin cut off the moment Tim replied.

“Hey – I found him.” Tim ducked his head, but getting a good look at the injury was nigh impossible one handed. Jon curled over another inch, pulling away from Tim’s grip towards the brick front of the apartment complex where they had nearly collided. “He's..." Tim faltered, trying to sum up Jon's state in the least number of syllables. "Alive. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

However quickly he rationalized it, Tim knew hanging up on a confused and desperate Martin was already twisting into one more horrible experience to add to his collection. Tim grimly figured he could make it up to him by keeping Jon from bleeding out on the pavement, rapidly darkening under the rainfall. In the four seconds it took Tim to finish his call, Jon had managed to stagger a few paces further. He left a thin, incriminating streak across a selection of brick behind him. Wincing, Tim maneuvered quickly to cut Jon off.

“Where you headed boss man?”

Jon’s eyebrows pinched, the same surprised scrunch when Tim sent him memes. A rare moment of pure Jon confusion Tim usually had to work a lot harder for, one that recently took to flattening into ill disguised glares. But there was no follow up frown, and no confidence in Jon’s halting reply. “The… clinic?”

“The clinic is that way.” Tim said, nodding over Jon’s shoulder to the last block. Ah. Another masterful observation. The absolute abruptness of this entire encounter had robbed him of intelligent recourse – he needed to do – something.

Jon reached a similar conclusion, turning with with agonizing slowness. Tim hovered awkwardly, watching Jon’s attempt to favor both his injured side and bad leg. “Well. Thank you.” Leaning heavily on the wall Jon started back, over his own faint snail trail of blood.

Of all things it was those three words, riding on a gasp, that snapped Tim back to action. It said something about their relationship that a ‘thank you’ from his boss was more out of place than a trail of blood, but exactly what Tim didn’t have time to speculate. “Fuck sake Jon – let me help.”

Chapter Text

Jon was having a panic attack. Had been since the door that hadn’t wasn’t again. Since “ruining ignorance prematurely” became a violent addition to his numerous concerns. Since he took an imperfect glance at what Michael’s – hands? – had done to his shirt and clapped a hand over his mouth and stomach. He had been too cowardly to do anything but grab a hand towel from the breakroom and hope the wash worn material would hold him together until he reached the clinic.

Panic attack was the reason he couldn’t catch his breath, why he was dizzy, why he was inching closer to the certainty of an untimely, anonymous but not altogether surprising demise on the rain splattered pavement. Nothing to do with the razor stripe burn carved across his side. Harsh reminder and consolation prize proof from the flourish of a thin, thin wrist, proportions all wrong, all of this was wrong – but Tim – Tim wasn’t wrong, no. Jon knew with certainty he was bleeding. Could feel unfamiliar heat and tacky red in the creases between his aching fingers, tight and trembling.

Where Tim had materialized from was another mystery entirely; one that didn’t merit investigation or resolution. No, convincing Tim to leave was Jon’s new critical goal. It wasn’t safe, he wasn’t safe. If the clinic was that way, all Jon had to do was keep moving.

Tim was speaking, but the words were carelessly mangled by the wheezing in Jon’s chest. If pressed, Jon was fairly certain the phrase ‘help’ featured prominently. Infuriating to be sure, this exact scenario had necessitated dodging Martin on his way out of the Archives. Jon tried to help Helen, look what that accomplished. But he couldn’t look, didn’t look. Saw the red, where it didn’t belong and stopped looking. To put his staff in the same red risk was unacceptable.

In his stumbling haste Jon had abandoned his cane. The hurt was different down the Institute steps, adrenaline over Martin’s ringtone hastened his retreat, fighting with the phone to enable silent mode. The cane was hardly a sacrifice; London was filled with buildings to lean on. The one he was using now, for instance. Rough and off colored by pollution, inert edges pulling at all his loose threads.

Unfortunately, the helpfulness of such a wall was also aiding Tim’s campaign to keep Jon in his line of sight. Unacceptable. He couldn’t bring Tim down with him, again - one set of shared scars was excessive. Jon found desperately clutching at that hot spark of shame more difficult by the second, intent smothered by the pathetic want for half a second’s weight off his protesting leg. When Tim’s hand reached across his peripheral, the resulting flinch nearly sent Jon to the ground.

“Don’t need...help.” Jon managed around a shallow inhale.

“Clearly.” Tim caught up in a grand total of two steps, hand coming to rest on Jon’s tilting shoulder. The touch was light, decidedly cautious and precisely beyond what Jon was capable of handling.

“Stop!” The insistence passed Jon’s lips in an inadvertent rush. Why didn’t Tim understand? How was he supposed to explain? Rapidly, the barely there press of Tim’s fingers joined the barrage of tactile sensations; another physical element inflicted and outside Jon’s control, unpredictable and he didn’t like it, didn’t want this, he couldn’t – he didn’t – he had to get away.

Between Tim and the wall, the solid block of dampening brick behind Jon seemed the least confining of his options. Following the trajectory of his flinch backwards bought him a couple of inches and cost him a moment of vision. Head dipping at the swirling pressure, Jon’s second step sent him directly into the wall. His shoulder collided and glanced off the building.

Jarring his arm invited a host of new unpleasantness to the forefront of the whole twisted experience. Jon had to lock his jaw to keep bile rising in his throat from making an appearance on Tim’s shoes. The red flecking off his fingers had already deposited a few discolored spots Jon knew his assistant would not be pleased with.

“Jon.”

Angry, stern, upset – Jon couldn’t pick one, couldn’t categorize to come up with a response, couldn’t do anything but desperately swallow the saliva flooding his mouth. He hurt, so many different kinds of hurt and he could barely keep all of it in. From the dull throbbing of his leg to the air catching in his chest to a hot and messy pain down his side. Choking down the rising nausea, the first ragged breath Jon could pull was depressingly akin to a cut off sob.

The entire affair might have gone unnoticed despite the lack of personal space, if traffic hadn’t cleared for the entirety of his audible whimper. Tim stilled. Jon pinched his eyes shut, guilt crawling over his skin like the intrepid rain drops that caught in his hair, slipped down the back of his neck.

“Look,” Tim stepped closer, penning Jon in but mindful not to touch. “You don’t want my help, fine.” This did not sound fine, but Jon wasn’t in a place to point that out. Not when he couldn’t lift his head properly, or catch his breath. “But if I leave you to... whatever it is you think you’re doing,” What was he doing? Jon wasn’t sure he could say anymore. His side really hurt. “Martin would kill me.”

Adrenaline in quantities Jon thought were thoroughly depleted burst back like an overfilled balloon, snapping his head up and widening eyes to the limit. No – he left Martin at the Institute. He didn’t want to, he was sorry, Jon thought, for something. If Tim knew the answer, he wasn’t sharing. He was talking about something else entirely.

“You have two choices.”

Jon sincerely believed choice had not been a part of this equation since the ground took to tipping at unfair angles, but Tim didn’t need to know that. Especially if he was threatening to call Martin, if the appearance of a phone in Tim's hand was indicative of anything. Jon could feel his heartbeat in his skull, a cramp building in his clenched fingers. Unfazed by the rain Tim fixed Jon with a stare, waiting for confirmation. Jon nodded jerkily. Best avoid opening his mouth if he could help it.

“You let me help you to the clinic or I call 999.”

“You wouldn’t.” It would seem disbelief overload any physical limitation Jon hoped to impose, words cut and scraped up by his tight throat.

Tim crooked an eyebrow, the hand surreptitiously hovering a few inches from Jon’s increased list unlocking the phones screen.

“Don’t–” Stumbling over his words and the pavement, Jon prevented the call and deposited himself soundly in Tim’s grasp in the same stuttering movement. Tim was sturdier and warmer than the reluctant wall, hands quick to catch him as Jon’s uncooperative everything refused to hold his weight. Jon’s side flared again, whiting out the rest of his protest as he bit down on another embarrassing whimper.

Clenching his jaw at Tim’s rapid adjustment, Jon knew if he had air to whine he ought to apologize. “S’rry.”

“What?” Tim asked, not sparing a glance as he stooped to fold Jon’s arm around his shoulder. A corner of Jon’s mind unhindered by logical processions began rationalizing how the height difference wasn’t as comical as it could have been; tempered in ridiculousness because Jon had Martin as a reference point. At six foot Tim was still four inches shorter than Martin. This was important, but Jon couldn’t say why. He was sorry? For something. Hunching like this couldn’t be comfortable for Tim.

“S’rry...m’ not very tall.”

Chapter Text

“Alright,” Tim said, adjusting his grip as Jon continued to mumble apologies. The majority of what Jon was saying since he slumped in his arms didn't make sense - then again, Tim wasn’t sure what he expected from Jon in his current state. One thing at a time. A tight gasp reached his ear, neatly matched Jon’s leg giving out. “Careful - I got you.”

“D’nt... dn’t wanna be got.”

If Jon hadn’t sounded truly upset at the prospect, Tim might have laughed. “Okay, that’s...” Jon tipped his head up, eyes huge behind his rain splattered glasses. With his mouth open around his unsteady breathing, Tim could see the indents where Jon had bitten through the chapped skin of his lips. “...fine. That’s fine.” Tim finished lamely, shuffling to avoid putting pressure on Jon’s side. Tim tried to guide him forward a step, but Jon’s shoulders had tensed under the steadily soddening material of his jacket.

Tim tried another angle. “I won’t let anybody get you?”

The curious mix of surprise and relief that played on Jon’s features at Tim's promise was hard to take in. Well. Relief, he'd hoped for - it was the edge of surprise that hurt. Then again. Tim glanced at the arm Jon had barred over his side as he gently pulled him into an unsteady gait. Hard to write off Jon’s waspish recalcitrance with the evidence decorating his side. An unattributed quote itched in the back of Tim’s skull, red and easy to read between the lines of Jon’s bloody fingers. Sometimes being paranoid is having all the facts.

The three grey blocks to the clinic saw Jon increasingly disoriented. Tim managed to keep at least one of Jon’s feet under him; keeping his attention was a different, rapidly worrying matter. Relevance of incoming commentary served a directly line to Jon’s worsening symptoms – color drained from his face was dripping into his disgruntled muttering. By the time they reached the clinic Tim somehow knew less about what might have happened and more about the government's inaccuracy at predicting weather patterns and the annual percentage of forgotten umbrellas. The increasingly deluge did serve as a difficult prompt to ignore. Both of them were soaking through by the time the walk in clinic was in sight.

“While that is fascinating,” Tim conceded, tone forcibly light. “You still haven’t told me what happened. Need you to work with me here boss.”

Jon’s shoulder sloped further as Tim kicked at the door with a squeaking shoe.

“But m’ not at w’rk.” Jon insisted. Any further complaint was cut short by the ragged breath that caught in his throat, teeth clicking when Tim hauled him over the threshold.

Well. Jon wasn’t strictly wrong in his assessment. The waiting room for A&E bore no resemblance to the rows on rows of dusty boxes Jon sequestered himself among. At least in the Archives the overhead lights cast warm shadows, fine motes and particles prone to catching and swirling lazily amid the beams when disturbed. Retained a hint of the library aesthetic Tim left behind in research. If he were feeling charitable, Tim could grant Martin the low fi appeal.

The A&E waiting room was as appealing as an overcrowded bus stop, a train station with a broken leaderboard. Disquieting impatience under stark fluorescent buzzing. The shared pressure of transience, anonymity and intent of shared destinations was pervasive – and the same daggers were glared when Tim attempted to surpass the line. He was quick to discover new patients, regardless of the injuries severity, would be subjected to the line like everyone else. Further insistence fizzled out at Jon’s terrified expression, the beginning of a bid to escape telegraphing across his frame when the collective eyes of the room turned their way.

Fuming, Tim took his place behind a girl with red hair clutching her arm to her chest, and a gentleman tearing into a pack of tissues as he hacked and coughed. Tim took care to steer well around them, uncaring of the dripping trail he and Jon were squelching across the tile. The attention Jon was shrinking from had worsened his breathing but Tim couldn’t think of a damn thing to say that wouldn’t break the hushed murmuring of the waiting room further.

Trying for an encouraging hum, Tim gave a light squeeze to Jon’s shoulder and propped him on his hip in a one armed side hug. Jon wasn’t heavy, per se, but skirting puddles and a particularly nefarious traffic cone on the way over hadn’t done the worm holes in Tim’s shoulder any favors. Fishing for his phone with his free hand, Tim had to scroll through a veritable onslaught of texts and six missed calls to respond to Martin.

At A&E. Don’t worry

The reply was instantaneous.

Which clinic

For a fleeting second Tim debated if sending the address was wise. Martin didn’t like hospitals.

His moment musing was thoroughly quashed when the banner ‘Martin's typing...’ delivered an unexpectedly powerful jolt of fear on top of the baseline concern curling his stomach. For no reason Martin’s perpetually sunny smile could portent, on a deeply primal level Tim did not want to know the consequence of leaving him on read.

Fumbling slightly ,Tim sent the gps pin of their location and lost view of his screen in the same 5 seconds when Jon lurched to the side.

“Wh’re you... whas that ‘bout?” Jon managed, leaning across Tim’s torso and nearly tangling their legs. Damp curls brushed the base of Tim’s neck as Jon’s worsening list pulled him sideways.

“Mar’ins coming?”

Given the tragic predictability of Jon’s reactions to Martin related anything – an unending cycle of ire, spite, confusion and dismissal – Tim couldn’t be blamed for his flattened incredulity at Jon’s concerned tone.

“Yes?”

The resulting whine could have been written off to shock if Jon didn't nearly clock Tim when his head shot up. “I didn’t tell ‘im.”

Tim blinked residual rainwater from his eyes, nonplussed by Jon's growing distress. “Didn’t tell him what?”

“Got stabbed. Di’nt want... him to worry.”

Tim’s processing stalled out at Jon’s emphatic emphasis concerning Martin inspired guilt, tone of this concern blatantly overshadowing the admittance of a literal stab wound. The grinding of mental gears nearly drowned out the receptionist behind the counter calling for next in line.

“Next. Over here, next.”

Right. Next. Dealing with whatever reality Tim was slipping into where Jon justified horrifyingly poor life choices on how they impacted Martin’s feelings would have to wait.

The attendant behind the counter wore the bland professionalism of a new hire already disenchanted with the system, quickly flipping to a new intake form. “Nature of your visit?”

“Blood.”

Tim nearly startled at Jon’s matter of fact declaration. He hadn’t expected any contribution from him, much less a mildly ominous and self evident one. As if in accordance to Tim’s presumption of disinterest, Jon completely abandoned the nurses weary sigh when the phone in Tim’s hand started buzzing.

“He’s – been cut. Bleeding pretty heavily.” Tim said, gesturing awkwardly at Jon’s side with his cell. The improvised juggling of Archivist and vibrating phone did not go according to plan: Jon’s newfound infatuation with Martin’s incoming text messages sent him leaning across Tim and away from the counter. Indoors and away from the suspicions of the rain seemed to have given Jon a second wind. His efforts were inexpertly effective as Tim’s shoes started to lose traction on the damp floor.

The receptionist turned to his screen with a disinterested click of the mouse, unimpressed or uninteresting in Tim’s plight. “How did it happen?”

Tim was as curious as the nurse wasn’t, but he knew better than to chase that instinct. The less questions the better, and ‘stab wound’ invited a host of inquires. The kind backed by paperwork and police statements. Damn. He should have come up with a passable fiction on the walk over. Rain and Jon ramblings had served as a powerful distraction, a flavor of panic Tim didn’t recognize started buzzing in time with his phone.

With that brewing away, Tim had no expectations whatsoever when Jon screwed up his face and announced to the nurse with unmasked frustration: “Knife hands.”

The nurse, to his credit, didn’t do more than pull open a drawer to collect a form. Even upside down Tim could see a faded over copied logo of police reports he collected. Tim found a smattering of reasonable words filling his mouth with absolutely no clue where he was headed: “Yup, you did have a knife in your hands!”

“BIG knife ha–” Jon started, slurring.

“BREAD knife.” Tim cut in, squeezing Jon’s shoulder and jostling him subtly. With his bad leg Jon’s balance was abysmal. The following hip check made him wobble and nod in inadvertent agreement.

“Freak accident, won’t be leaving him alone in the kitchen again!”

Why. Why is humor my defense mechanism. Tim covered with an apologetically sincere smile, tucking Jon closer and flashing his phone to distract him. Deep down a small, formerly intact segment of Tim's sanity permanently fractured. This was his life now. He was using toddler tactics on his boss, in the middle of A&E, looking like they both climbed out of a pool and the continued sanctity of a police free evening was in the hands of a studiously unenthusiastic front desk attendant.

Thankfully, the man behind the counter wasn’t being paid enough to care. He returned the form to the desk with an uninspired click, eyes drifting back to his screen. “Is he currently bleeding?”

“Pretty sure, but did you want me to check?” Tim said, flare of annoyance tackling all the good work of his smile. Jon was nearing success in his campaign for Tim’s phone and glacial pace of the receptionist's asinine questions had hit one more nerve.

“No – I’ll mark him for next available. Name?”

“Jonathan Sims.”

Jon squinted up at Tim at the sound of his name, pausing his pursuit to mutter darkly about yellow doors. Wonderful. Tim would take that over any further engagement with the A&E staff that wasn’t strictly necessary.

“This won’t be long, right?”

“No more than twenty minutes. I will need some details.”

“You need more than somebody bleeding out.” Tim said, not bothering to check his volume. Twenty minutes? If Jon took off from the Institute near the time of Martin’s call, an additional 20 minutes was sufficient cause for a terse response. The receptionist displayed his first glimmer of humanity, eyes flicking sharply to meet Tim’s vocal displeasure.

“Sir, patients are seen in order of –”

Any further conversation was put on hold when six foot four of one Martin K Blackwood made a real attempt to remove the clinic door from its hinges on his way in.

“JON. Tim – thank god I was so – oh you’re hurt, let me see...”

The nurse was lost behind Martin’s broad frame, large hands fluttering over Jon and never landing for more than half a second. Jon had tensed at the sound of Martin’s voice, peeking over his shoulder when Martin found the edge of the jacket and tugged lightly.

Relief Tim couldn’t articulate hit like a disorganized box of statements. For the first time since catching hold of Jon in the rain Tim let out a full breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It hadn’t consciously occurred until now, but the muscle memory of pulling Jon along twisting passageways had begun writhing, another layer of fear he didn't want to admit to. The walk over viciously paralleled the same isolating horror a lack of Martin resulted in. There was no telling what might have happened if they didn't get separated in the tunnels - and Tim didn’t have room in his heart to blame his friend - but proximity to Martin held no memory of failure. That alone provided an inordinate amount of comfort.

Jons reaction to the appearance of another Archival assistant was harder to read. A rapid fire series of emotions Tim knew Jon took pains to mask were fighting it out in the crease of his eyebrows, erratic tensing of his jaw.

With a pained inhale Jon struggled to speak. “Mar’in? I don’t– you sh’dnt–”

“Shhh no, it's okay,” Martin said, pulling his sleeve over his hand to soak up some of the rainwater dripping down Jon’s face. It was a good thing Tim had adjusted his hold at Martins arrival – Jon released his white knuckle grip without warning, hand catching Martin’s sweater. Wincing, Tim waited for the inevitable shove and squirm.

It didn’t happen. Tim tried and failed not to stare at the absolutely baffling display taking place approximately 4 inches from his nose. Martin breaking into Jon’s physical space without hesitation and Jon accepting - no, leaning into - the hand that was, for all intensive purposes, cupping his cheek.

“Sir.”

With Martin and Jon locked in an inexplicable staring contest, a degree of quiet momentarily reigned and the nurses calls for their attention could be heard. Without a single reasonable avenue to explain what the ever-loving fuck was happening, Tim opted for the the first thing that popped into his head. Because why the fuck not. At this point it was as good an answer as any.

“Sorry,” Tim said cheerfully, “boyfriend!”

Chapter Text

Jon had done something wrong. He knew it, as fervently as the heavy buzzing of his ears filled his head with rushing static. Set the world tilting even further than the deepening angle of Tim’s shoulder.

Wrong – then righted by the cool hand on his cheek, holding steady the gaps in time Jon was tripping over. Martin shouldn’t be here but he said it was okay, he said, then–

Jon did something wrong. Why else would Martin fluster, hand falling to round on Tim with an exasperated twist of his rain blurred face? If Jon could just focus on the garbled sounds from his surroundings. Excuses piled instead; how remaining standing pushed and pulled at untethered thoughts. Errant inputs screamed, pressure traveling in shuddering bursts from his burning side to his protesting legs demanding he take a seat. But Tim worked so hard to haul him to the clinic.

The clinic. His destination traveled around Martin’s backpedaling in an unbecoming stretch of halogen and hard plastic. Or fluorescent? Jon dropped his gaze from Martin’s quickly to squint elsewhere, find an answer in the hostile light reflecting aggressively off the water puddled around his shoes. Rain pushed Jon down, Tim pulled him up with the strong arm uncomfortably stretching his jacket. Tim was probably sick of hauling him around. Probably sick of a lot of the things Jon did, because Jon did something wrong.

Yet Tim was sharing his shoulder, taking turns at the truth while Martin’s mouth moved fast around an impassioned series of syllables split between Tim and the receptionist. The words were twisting, tight things Jon couldn’t grasp. When he and Tim arrived at the clinic Jon had tried to put them in order and answer questions, but he did that wrong too.

Jon bit his lip, peeling and sore, unable to distract from the wrong answers, wrong decisions, wrong expressions, wrong turns – and his side, now that was wrong too. Blood on the outside, somehow the wrong answer? Tim wanted Jon to answer questions and stop closing doors and not follow him to the café on 32nd if he wasn’t going to order any lunch and when Jon put the shape of the wrong thin sharp hands out loud–

Tim interrupted him. Twice.

Which was… fine? In all the ways Jon’s actions the last month hadn’t been. At least this was a lie they could share, if Jon could puzzle out exactly how a bread knife factored into the equation. The skin under his teeth broke. Jon told himself the sting of the fresh split was why his eyes began to water. Not fear of another evolving equation he didn’t have the means to solve, built to be sequestered and analyzed and hope hope hope the tattered details would keep fast blade fingers from pulling him past the new door. Open and shut case. There and then not. A disappearance like his wouldn’t make the news.

One of Martin’s hands wandered blindly towards him, coming to a rest gently on the back of Jon’s arm, steadying the hand Jon had wound in the cream colored material of Martin’s cable knit sweater. Jon desperately poured all he had into sorting that out. One: Martin’s grip was careful where Jon’s was reckless. Two: he was steady, Jon was trembling. Three: the touch bordered on inadvertent, where Jon clung like a child. One more wrong. 

Jon’s breath caught in a painful inhale. Was he wrong to be scared? Nobody else was counting doors, he didn’t think. Couldn’t tell. Was that what he did wrong? What cost him Martin’s initial anxious attention –soft, close, careful, kind, everything Jon wasn’t. Was it the fear dug into his ragged gasps, too loud for this people pressed space? If they knew he was frightened, each panting breath a harsh echo chamber for the terror filling his lungs, replacing the flat bright air – was that wrong?

Jon’s teeth clicked as his mouth snapped shut. Quiet. If he could keep quiet. The rapid conversation Tim and Martin were having under the rushing murmur in Jon's head was directed at the receptionist and as long as Jon didn’t interrupt – never could keep a comment to himself, annoying child, just stop talking for once – he wouldn’t cause any more trouble. A different worry, well-worn and easily found papering the walls of his mistakes stuck its fingers in his heart, digging around for a reason. Was he in trouble?

He was certainly having trouble keeping his feet planted on the slick tiles. The white and off white pattern Jon blinked in and out of focus was basic and dull and interrupted by hardly any color. The dots of red didn’t look very intentional at all. Not like the blurry words Tim was cutting from the air by his ear, thankfully louder than the half breaths Jon was stifling badly, chest hitching.

The small, so badly concealed movement caught Martins eye. He was half turned back when a comment from behind the counter, layered in an arrogant monotone and apathy, made Martin jerk back, voice raised to match Tim.

That stung different, deeper and slower than the hot fast pulsing aches of his body. Patient worry picking over Jon’s failures greedily read the lines of tension across Martins shoulders, searching for blame, the mistake, the trouble.

Oh.

The hand Jon had clutching Martins sweater was still tangled in the cloud colored fabric. Martin hadn’t pulled away completely, but the material was stretched slightly. Roiling guilt from holding so tight – don’t cling Jon – was surpassed in a rush by the garish horror of the handprint Jon realized he was leaving. A besmirched smear taken from his leaking side and smeared rudely on a blank canvas. Wrong.

Letting go as delicately as possible was a trial. Still, Jon was able with effort to draw his arm back to the tacky mess on his side. It hurt. From unbending his fingers to pushing down the lump in his throat to staying quiet when Tim straightened his spine abruptly in response to another comment beyond Jon’s line of sight. 

The steeper angle pulled at his side. Unintentional, Jon was sure, but it was harder to stay silent. The forcibly shallow half breaths started to catch at his sternum, pushed back up with no relief tied to the action. His stomach seized the opportunity to being turning unpleasantly. Fuck. He had to do something. Now, or risk a mess and cause more trouble.

As gradually as he could bear Jon pushed up to the tips of his toes, desperate for any measure of respite from the increased height difference. The inches helped, sort of. He had more space to breath, could focus on deeper, quieter gasps to combat the encroaching dizzy spots. Jon managed a miserable ten seconds before shaking took root in his knees: spread hungrily towards his ankle, up his hip.

He couldn’t keep this up, but he had to try. Tim and Martin were engaged in a potent back and forth with the nurse Jon couldn’t hear as his shallow gasps grew ineffectual. He needed – he needed Tim to let go.

Any air he had for asking was long trapped in his burning lungs. He didn’t want to interrupt, but the toe of his shoe was starting to slide. An ill forming plan centered around tapping Martin on the back was thrown out the top floor window when Tim, with a vitriolic arm gesture, hoisted Jon up another inch.

Jon yelped. The unexpected motion stretched his torn skin, a loose seam ripping to drag hot pain over his raw nerves. He didn’t have it in him to be embarrassed when Tim quickly lowered him back down. Didn’t have time to stop the soles of his feet from landing hard. Bad leg buckling, Jon barely had the wherewithal to slap a hand over his mouth as his stomach revolted.

Sticky and stale, the smell of blood hit Jon as he doubled over. What he collected in his palm from the walk over hadn’t all ended up on Martin’s sweater. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t risk moving his hand, choking back the rising nausea. He would not be sick. Not now, not later and not in front of a room full of people.

Thoroughly preoccupied, Jon hardly tracked Tim releasing his arm or the hands clasping his shoulders or what amounted to a short drag away from reception. From one painful blink to the next he went from doubled up in line to seated. Jon folded over jerkily, shutting his eyes tight. Wrong. Did something wrong and he couldn’t even figure out what and his stomach hurt his side hurt he didn’t want to be here and he didn’t want to be alone and he didn’t want them to worry because he did something wrong.

A hand, slow and insistent, tugged at the palm sealing his mouth. Jon barely had the strength to stop it, tiny shake of his head dislodging a few messy curls. He had no words, no way explain or disagree or stop the formless pitchy sounds crawling up his throat.

Gradually, Jon became aware of pressure on his shoulders, pulling him forward slightly. Reflexively glancing up from beneath his lashes, Jon saw Martin kneeling in front of him. Jon tried to shake his head again, against the torrent of wrong bad mistake trouble wrong but he couldn’t. Martin was close, impossibly close – one large hand finding its way to the back of Jon’s neck. Slowly he wrapped Jon in a hug, guiding him to rest his forehead on Martins shoulder.

Jon couldn’t help it. His stubbornly stiff spine and fused shoulders developed a network of cracks, rigid conviction at brutal odds with the weight off his leg, the gradual settling of his stomach. The steady grounding presence of being surrounded, not by doors or rain or strangers, but Martin was overwhelming.

“Shhhh, you’re okay. Couple minutes, that’s all.”

One of Jon’s gasps, unsteady through parted fingers, snagged and stayed firmly in his chest. He couldn’t– he didn’t deserve– not this.

Martin didn’t stop, didn’t chastise him for not continuing the very simple act of breathing. He continued in a low murmur, steady stream of assurances.

“You’re gonna be fine, s’okay. You’re safe.” 

Jon wasn’t safe. How could he be? He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight even when he wasn’t falling apart and wrong and bleeding and in trouble.

“Tim and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Martin’s calm, unconcerned statement of fact broke a measure of restraint Jon long ago assumed was a permanent fixture; cut a string he thought was painted into the background. With a shuddering exhale the tension locking him in place released and Jon crumpled. Shoulders dropping, he drove his face into Martin, burrowing close in one breath. If Martin pushed him away – that was fine. One moment, one breath enveloped and away from everything else would have to do.

Martin didn’t shove him away. Quite the opposite. With a soft tut Martin pulled him closer, the hand on Jon’s back moving in time with Jon’s shaky attempt to fix his breathing. Slowly Jon peeled the hand off his mouth, tentatively taking back the already ruined handful of sweater and holding on with everything he had left.

Time, traditionally a viscous and contrary thing in Jon’s book, continued its bad behavior when Martin shifted and Jon recognized a single word question asked repeatedly. That Martin’s hands had moved, his voice was louder, Jon could breathe again – it all happened gradually and came together in the same moment.

“Jon?”

He nearly dropped his hand, but no, Martin didn’t sound angry. Worried, perhaps. Jon should – needed to stop that. Last thing he wanted was for Martin to worry. Jon had to respond, but his voice was off somewhere with coherent thoughts and properly working limbs. A nod would have to suffice.

Raising his head was more of a production than Jon anticipated. Thankfully Martin noticed his struggle, brought a few careful fingers to help tip his chin up.

“Hey,” Martin said, searching Jon’s vacant expression hopefully.

Jon… didn’t know what to do with that. He expected annoyance, frustration. He did something wrong – there was a bloody handprint on the sweater between them for gods sake – but Martin wasn’t holding any of the disappointment Jon deserved on his face, in the gentle touch keeping Jon from listing too far. Concern, yes, but any frustration from the front desk debate had been scrubbed dry, his lips twisted apologetically.

As near as Jon could tell at least. The constellations of raindrops on his glasses took to interrupting what limited concentration he could muster.

“There you are.”

Jon had rather a few things to say about where he may or may not be considering the past half hour, all of which were effectively vaporized by the small, crooked smile Martin quirked when Jon’s eyes found their way into focus. Opening his mouth produced a dry croak Martin immediately shushed.

“Just wanted to see if you were conscious,” Martin said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

His patient concern put eye contact right out of question. Finding an interesting mark on his stained sleeve, Jon began studying it in earnest. Swallowing, he grimaced at the taste, taking stock as awareness crept out of a corner, bruised and weary.

The shaking from prolonged standing had abated, replaced by a tenacious shiver as his clothes continued to drip and cling. He was leaning into Martin’s hands where they framed his shoulders. That was… fine. He had precedent now that when Martin wanted to move him, he would.

Martin misinterpreted the shyness jumping Jon’s capacity for human interaction, brushing loose strands of damp hair back with a soft admonishment. “Hey, none of that.”

Jon didn’t know what ‘that’ Martin wanted none of, but he had gathered enough to dig deep and force a barely audible, well cracked word past his bloodied lips:

“Sorry.”

“What for?” Martin asked softly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Chapter Text

The phrase ‘I need to speak to the manager’ was not one Tim expected to utter at any point in his life. In an instance of painful irony, maybe, or derisive comedic justice. Not in seriousness and blind exasperation. Facing off with the bureaucratic drudgery of the NHS while his rapidly cooling clothes pulled for a measure of attention and his boss decorated the lobby in a fresh coat of red was really just adding to the experience.

“Sir, please lower your voice.”

Tim pressed a slick hand to the counter as the physical impulse to push past the nurse’s repetitive admonishing tipped dangerously from consideration to viable alternative. He didn’t have time for this. Martin took Jon and left Tim and it was his responsibility to sort this shit out by the fastest means possible.

For all the good it wouldn’t do Tim considered the merits of scaling the counter and removing the receptionist’s spine. Drop this dipshit at the end of the line and see how he liked it. This would give Tim the chance to ensure Martin had a hold on Jon and promptly succumb to his newest life goal of explosive self combustion to bury the clinic in rubble because he dropped Jon.

“Honestly, I really hate to inconvenience you like this,” Tim said, willing any flavor of inadvertent inspiration to strike, “if it would be faster I can step outside and call 999. I’m sure the response time from behind you would be fantastic.”

The nurse, studiously impervious to Tim’s accusations, held fast to the script Tim was well on his way to memorizing.

“Patients are seen in order of arrival, sir.”

“You don’t say,” Tim ground out. “Have you considered updating this policy to volume of blood on the floor?”

The tuneless, aggravated humor was dead on arrival, but what else did he have? The skeletal framework of personality Tim taped together with snappy one liners was proving incapable of holding the weight of Jon’s collapse.

Splintering structural integrity of his mental state must have shone through the acrid malice Tim was dealing in. With his hands resting limply on the keyboard, the receptionist paused and considered the semi feral Archival Assistant behind the partition.

“Look,” The receptionist started. Tim leaned forward at the barest hint of professional puppet strings slipping. “The system won’t let me submit a ticket without an address–”

“A real sticking point when someone is actively hemorrhaging,” Tim snapped, hand clutching his phone twitching involuntarily. The edge smacked the counter with a sharp clack.

“However,” the receptionist persisted, “I can substitute his partners address. For now.”

Tim blinked, stymied. “Part–? OH. Yes. Of course. Yes.”

Past him was a genius. The inherent wisdom of blurting out a fictional relationship built off his coworker’s inexplicable behavior was suddenly a strong contender for best unintended consequence of the year. This shit never worked.

Fighting to dry his damp phone with a soggy sleeve, Tim hastily dug around in his uber history for Martins address. Focus diverted to scrolling, Tim decided he could accept the rebuttal of his earlier attempt at providing the Institutes street number as a home address. No matter how rarely Jon left, Tim knew his boss lived somewhere on the northern line from the rare occasion they dragged him out for drinks.

Same line as Martin, come to think of it. Tim remembered Martin saying he was up so early for his first day as an Archival Assistant he spotted Jon commuting, though he hadn’t known him at the time. They would have likely arrived simultaneously if not for the dog.

Wonderful – a few errant thoughts that had no business gathering provided – convenient for when they actually start dating. 

Tim nearly choked on the apartment number. Amid the multitude of useless background offerings – should have paid attention, who drops their bleeding friend – wet socks were the absolute fucking worst – what time was it anyways – an impersonal contemplation of Jon and Martins future together set up camp utterly unattended.

The cumulative anticlimax of the simplified check in process whirred past at agonizing speed to a montage of all the reasons office romance didn’t work. The nurse eventually ran out of boxes to click and grudgingly informed him Jon would be seen in the next 5 minutes.

“Lovely!” Tim said, not quite ready to forgive. Opening the timer app and scrolling down from a 15 minute nap he never took, Tim started the countdown with an exaggerated tap. “I’ll keep an eye on the clock for you.”

Tim left the front desk, legs briefly struggling to accept walking required releasing some of the tension every question shoveled on him. It didn’t help Tim’s fondest wish (other than avoiding saying “breadknife incident” within earshot of Martin) involved not strolling over to report the best he could do was ask Jon to bleed less for the next 4 minutes and 52 seconds.

Locating Jon and Martin swallowed 15 seconds Tim wasn’t thrilled to lose. Objectively he knew they couldn’t have gone far. This was a formality his heart rate petulantly refused to acknowledge, kicking off a harsh tempo over the muted pulse of the waiting room.

Searching necessitated scanning a space far larger than Tim remembered. The concurrent rows of chairs were intermittently filled with the unwilling captive audience of his recent vocal disagreement. A fair portion pointedly avoided eye contact, others displayed outright hostility. The majority passed his scrutiny with the same drained lack of deference Tim wore.

A patchwork of reactions stitched over the pattern of seats, a conglomeration of body shapes and sizes and outfits and colors and where the hell were Jon and Martin.

Drifting awkwardly towards the closest row of chairs, Tim swallowed uncomfortably, hands clenching and unclenching. As the quarter of a minute stretched towards half an eternity that damn jacket caught his eye, drawing Tim to a slightly confusing tangle of limbs one row over.

Ah. Of course. Foolish of him to search for two people in two separate chairs.

Curled tight under Martin’s arm with his knees drawn to his chest, Jon was almost entirely hidden from view. Another few inches and he would be in Martins lap. A sight that, in less life threatening circumstances, Tim would have documented from multiple angles. Unfortunately for his imagined scrapbook, the red handprints – one entrenched in Martin’s sweater, the other spread across the lower half of Jon’s face – turned the blurry impulse to smoke. One more thing to actively try and forget, not remember.

If nothing else, the boyfriend agenda wouldn’t be hard to sell, the useless, slightly deranged section of his mind offered. Shaking his head, Tim tried to dislodge the persistent distractions. He could do better than a bloodstained silver lining.

Jon noticed him first amid the waiting room shuffle, eyes flicking to track Tim’s approach behind a few dark curls. Tim missed what small effort at movement Jon expended, but it set Martin right off.

“Nope, you’re staying right here until your names called. Already went over this.” He glanced up, following Jon’s twitchy line of sight. Martin, because he was Martin, scrounged up a weary half smile to combat the worry Tim knew he hid just as poorly. “Hey Tim.”

“Hey,” Tim parroted back, unsure where he fit in other than outside the frame as Jon huffed and gave up at Martin’s gentle scolding. Turning his phone over for something to do stretched the skin across his fingers, the device heavy and wet. He felt off script, robbed of purpose. 4:26 ticked to 4:25; entirely too long a time to stand and do nothing but listen for Jon’s faint and irregular breathing.

“...sit down?”

Amid the general hum of people and thoughts Tim realized too late Martin’s concern had changed trajectory and half the question was lost. Inexpertly aiming to buy processing time, Tim went to drag a hand over his face and nearly punched himself with his phone. Martin eyed him but politely said nothing. God he was a mess.

Despite a nagging desire to keep Martin’s concern fixed on one of them, Tim decided not to do a disservice to his friend’s perceptiveness.

“Sorry Martin, what was that?”

“Do you want to sit down?” Martin asked, carrying the cautious inflection of having asked more than once. “You’re kind of… shaking.”

“No, I’m–” Tim paused in the middle of waving off Martin’s concern.

Huh. He was.

A razor thin tremor was putting up a fine effort to pull hairline twitches from his hand, wrist, all the way up his arm. At Tim’s hesitation Jon joined Martin in watching him expectantly, eyebrows pinched in evident concern.

Okay, this was absurd. Tim pushed the jittery hand not holding his phone quickly through his hair, scattering rain. In the growing pause Tim realized the persistent tapping hovering in his peripheral was his damn teeth clicking together at particularly intense shivers. Made sense, he supposed. He was soaked and it certainly wasn’t warm in the waiting room.

“I’m a little cold,” Tim offered offhand, heels dug in at the ridiculousness of their concern. He glanced at the timer. 3:58. His stupid phone was either broken or malicious or both. Barely a minute had passed and his flaring impatience had no notable impact on the impassive rearrangement of pixels.

Behind Tim a new disaster was raising voices and tempers. Tim pivoted and joined forces with the rest of the crowd to glare when Jon shrunk closer to Martin. For all the effect the same similar treatment had on them, it was better than nothing.    

Commotion handed Tim a reasonable distraction to stomp feeling into his feet and avoid the details of Martin’s scrutiny. Tim wanted – hell, Tim needed Martin with them – but if he couldn’t explain the tremors curling his hands to himself, what was he supposed to tell Martin?

“Tim, I think you should have a seat.”

“I don’t think we can both fit in your lap Martin.” Tim deadpanned with middling success. The end of his snark pitched sideways when a shiver hitched a ride on the slight edge of hysteria in his chest. Penned in to selling his own joke Tim tried pulling an innocent face and pretended not to notice how he couldn’t quite catch his breath. How it was difficult to read the time display with his cramped fingers spasming. 3:15. Impossible.

“Tim. Sit. Down.”

Tough crowd. With respect to the buzzing in the back of his knees Tim conceded Martin’s point was about to make itself quite visibly known if he didn’t follow directions. Tim wordlessly deposited his stupidly shaky self on Jon’s side of his coworker’s seat cohabitation. The forced grin he flashed Jon to cover the stray panic crawling up his nervous system did little to fend off the restless concern racing to stick in all the damp folds of his clothing. 2:46. Not even halfway.

Exhaling sharply, Tim planted his elbows on his knees, pinned his eyes to the intake entrance, and started calculating how fast he needed to be to catch the locked door and find help on his own. He owed it to Jon for not listening, not paying attention until–

Fuck.

Tim didn’t know a person could fit hurt, fear and shock into one desperate cut off sound. Adrenaline to fight a threat spiked and ruptured in the time it took to nail the cry on his action. He hurt Jon, couldn’t tell how badly before Martin pulled Jon over to the chairs and left Tim alone with his horror.

Caving to the distressing curiosity of how badly he hurt Jon, Tim pantomimed cracking his neck to study where Jon was curled on his left. The wait for Jon’s next breath was excruciating, knees blocking a clear view of his skinny chest. In the space of such a breath Tim had fallen from Jon panting in his ear to jarring silence, the instance drawn furious and inadvertent and there was no excuse. Yet the weight of his guilt hadn't bothered to step up and match the bony pressure Jon’s sharp angles pushed into Tim when they were crossing rainy pavement, stood on tile in the reflective light Tim hadn’t used to check on him.

The concerning, comfortingly alive press of Jon was a hollow gap, growing beyond the discolored patch of his shirt that wasn’t drenched. A faint, Jon-shaped outline was left running the length of Tim’s button up, material stuck and shifting over remaining worm plasters. The few bites from the most tenacious parasites that resisted healing. Survive a worm lady and bleed out in a lobby. 2:20. Ridiculous.

“Tim?”

Tim was so wrapped in the roots of his problems Jon’s barely there whisper could have sent him through the roof. As it was, the obvious shaking covered his minor flinch. Small victories. Glancing sideways, Tim tossed a confused look over Jon’s head at Martin, which he returned in kind.

Jon was leaned forward slightly, peering around Martins arm. Opening and closing his mouth a few times, he gradually gathered the air to speak. “I th’nk... I th’k she’s...sh – watching?” Jon cut off quickly on a shallow inhale, head jerking back.

Matching the direction of Jon’s darting eyes, Tim easily caught the lady a row over blatantly staring at Martin and Jon’s closeness with critical contempt.

“Can I help you?” Tim said loudly, harsh annunciation advertising his own disdain at the curl of her sneer. Jon had been through enough today, thanks. Didn’t need some homophobic bullshit on top of actual, valid concerns Tim had been dismissing as paranoia.

“Tim.” Martin intervened, intent to derail Tim’s pointed conversation starter crystalline clear.

“Yes, Martin?” Tim replied, immediately regretting his faux politeness at Martin’s tight expression.

“Maybe not the best time?”

The strain embedded in Martin’s tone was the opposite of calming. Tim was fairly confident holding his phone any tighter would crack the case. A wet plastic crunch to take his mind off the woman who didn’t appear to be experiencing any distress beyond a terminal case of Discriminatory Asshole Disease.

1:26. All the inexcusable aspect of the afternoon Tim put on the backburner to best the receptionist began the eager process of boiling over. He was bouncing both legs now to hide the tremors, working his jaw around exactly how he would call her out for the smug condescension she wore, derision palpable at a distance.

Martin noticed. “Please?”

The small, logical part of Tim that fractured during the check in process was leaking something thick and ugly across his tongue; fuel source and ignition merging into one hazardous spill. This woman was scaring Jon, who couldn’t snap back because Tim fucking dropped him. Because Tim wasn’t paying attention; not to Jon’s injury, not to the weeks leading up. A rightful, infuriating culpability as wet and cloying at his drenched clothes with no possible physical outlet. Until now.

Tim opened his mouth, hardly registering the weariness across Martin’s frame, so caught up in consequences he almost missed the feather light touch on his wrist. Swallowing the impending tirade with difficultly, Tim looked down to where Jon was pinching at his sleeve. Well, trying to at least. Jon was having a hard time with their combined shaking, near synchronized shivering.

Side by side the circular scars on their hands stood out twofold, subtle clash of similarities and differences. Matched in frequency, rough edges, patternless progression marching up wrists; mismatched by skin tone and how Tim’s scars lay flush with the plane of his hand where Jon’s absent scratching left ridges and valleys.

“Don’t.” Jon said softly. Not soft like a request, like Martin might. Warning soft, words scattered fragments of a broken truth he was trying to hide. “Not... worth it.”

Tim was close to gagging on his anger, didn’t have a damn thing to say in response to a markedly more lucid Jon. Jon continued with a small shake of his head.

“M’not worth it.”

Tim’s phone alarm went off.

Jon pulled his hand back so fast Tim barely saw. Martin, who had followed everything Jon did with fiercely attentive caution and commentary since his arrival, remained uncharacteristically mute as Tim fumbled his phone. His inarticulate rage was struggling for a foothold, scrabbling amid the doused remnants of fury in the wake of Jon’s fear.

Silencing the alarm left a pocket of quiet far worse than the trilling electronic cry. A space for the outrageous concern Jon voiced – that he wasn’t worth the risk – to take hold in Jon’s posture, on his face. Concern at odds with his resigned slump into Martin’s side, supported by the desperate eye contact Tim was well aware Jon struggled with. Accepting of an unknown fate, stubborn to a fault.

Tim knew he didn’t have Martin levels of an intuitive caretaker instinct. At best Tim made the kids waiting on their parent’s statements laugh; he had no clue where Martin squirreled away the cookies and coloring books he produced at moments notice. In the wake of chaos, Tim was good for a joke, a one liner, a bad pun. Distinctly the opposite of Jon’s clear distress.

Out of his depth or not, in the face of Jon’s morbid determination Tim needed to break past the blood loss and self sacrificing idiocy. Forcing down frustration, Tim wrangled the last teaspoon of fake calm he had to match Jon’s persistent conviction.

“Suppose it’s a good thing you don’t get to decide what I think is worth protecting then, huh?”

Martin’s shoulders relaxed minutely, relief adjacent to Jon’s wide and baffled eyes. An skeptical knot in Tim's chest unspooled as his honesty found a place among the too tight weave of pervasive tension. Felt right after an entire afternoon of wrong.

“Obviously.” Martin followed up, cutting off Jon’s faint noises of dissent. Addressing the top of Jon’s head, Martin continued firmly but not unkindly. “What you’re worth isn’t up for debate.”

“Sorry boss,” Tim shrugged with cheery false despair, his first full faced smirk of the day appearing in force. “Guess you’re stuck with us.”

Across the lobby the intake door opened.

“Jonathan Sims?”

Chapter Text

Jon knew he couldn’t stay in the lobby. New dangers all their own were cropping up amid the mismatched faces, the seldom open doors. Foot traffic fleeing rain and unprepared hurts cycled intermittent, incalculable and interspersed with intent. All the different causes to effect. He couldn’t stay and his name served a direct advertisement, all call announcement to what could be, might be waiting in the curves of chair backs and flickering stares.

He couldn’t stay and they couldn’t either. Tim and Martin were sat close, too close to avoid the sprawl of collateral damage if someone or some... thing made a move. Worse even, by their posture and insistence of worth protecting rolling around Jon’s mind with loose marble velocity, like they found a way to read the room in a different language. Like they wouldn’t be endangered when he stood and claimed his name. He needed to stand. He could stand. Probably.

Jon shifted, leaden thrumming of his side a slow pulse. He hadn’t been off his feet since his skin split, the relief of his reprieve grew faint at the notion of this next step, series of steps. Under his damp sweater the sharp heat had been cooling, inverse to Martin’s arm heavy over his shoulders. Less pain was probably a good sign. He could probably stand. Jon swallowed. For some inexplicable reason this derisive conclusion hadn’t willed him to traverse the waiting room alone.

He wasn’t alone though. Impossible to feel alone with Martin and Tim bookending the knot of braced arms and folded legs Jon had twisted his limbs into. Pinching his eyes shut, Jon would deny he stole a final moment of comfort, guilt thrumming in the bones of a traitorous truth. He would miss this. Pressure, grounding when it should be confining, surrounding and secure when he didn’t deserve shielding for the nothing he had to give them in return. 'Worth protecting' Tim said – but he didn’t know what was after Jon and if he told them–

If he told them.

Jon misplaced another moment he could spend standing to shock at his selfishness, inadvertently leaning closer when Martin moved slightly. This harm wasn’t susceptible to the strength of numbers, Basira had assured him secrecy was paramount. He couldn’t tell them.

The insistence was sluggish, follow up tracking mud on the clean floor of her harsh logic. Jon told her, his assistants were not police, investigation would harm, hurt, no, today was proof involvement wasn’t worth the risk. Risk driving in old nails, inarticulate and cold as the air on his neck when Martin continued moving, as Tim’s hands guided Jon’s cramping legs to unfold – wait –

“That’s us boss. Up you get.”

Hand under one arm, hand bracing the front of his shoulder, Tim’s words played catch up to Jon’s head swiveling, taking in Martins’ soft eyes, close, burnished curls frizzy with rain, Martin’s arm wrapping around Jon’s waist – waist – their coordinated effort pulling him to standing was a heady rush and a half.

The waiting room came back in bursts and fits, Jon’s feet resting lightly on the tile, crusted material of the breakroom dish rag slipping as he fumbled to keep pressure. With the finer points of where his edges began and ended blending, Jon didn’t have room to sway, compacted firmly between Martin and Tim.

“This okay?” Martin asked.

It was, and it wasn’t. Tim’s position was perfectly manageable; adjustments awakening half settled hurts without fanfare. Muscle cramps and a shaky knees were colliding, barely constricted his lungs, predictable and awful but that was okay, it had to be.

Martin’s arm curving around Jon’s waist, however, was intractably removing whatever powers of speech Jon briefly possessed. Jon dropped his eyes and nodded mutely, trying and failing spectacularly to prevent a full body twitch when Martin tucked his thumb through an empty belt loop. Jon pressed forward with what little body autonomy he had left, prompting slow progress from the other two. If he didn’t speak they wouldn’t know he didn’t have anything to say, right? Their combined support left any weight on his bad leg a near afterthought, shoe skipping over the ground in an inelegant slide. The drilling pressure from his time in line was reduced to a tenacious needling not worth complaint.

Which left a rapidly eroding hole for Jon to begin crafting a manifesto of the accumulative reasons Tim and Martin’s presence was a terrible mistake of judgment, concerns spooling yards of compact typeset to yawn and compact with the twinge across his side.

For about three steps. Jon’s silent, disparaging contemplation sidestepped neatly into the wings when his assistant’s careful movements snagged new threads of heat from his side. Forcing down the tendrils of a pained whine with an unappealing gulp, Jon pushed his free arm tighter into the dishrag that was, presumably, holding him together. Fuck. Actually this did hurt, wasn’t okay. His eyes were watering again, stupid, Jon told Martin he was okay. Too late to say anything now.

Just needed to focus on what came next, where he was headed. The intake door. All the way across the unremarkable architecture of the lobby. Stood beside the sterile door was a nurse in scrubs, expectantly poised. Jon watched, halfheartedly searching for a long lost center of balance as the door shut behind her, soundless.

That’s all it would take.

Jon tensed, tightening pressure on his ragged side and blindly catching a fistful of Tim’s wet shirt. Tim misinterpreted the flinch, concern lacing his features as he hunched lower. “Better?”

“If this is uncomfortable,” Martin started, careful, like he was checking his words for thorns, “it wouldn’t be hard to – I mean, you don’t weigh much Jon.”

“Picking him up will absolutely kill him faster than the injury,” Tim interjected, saving Jon from articulating anything beyond a mortified expression.

“Tim.” Martin fit a mum-lecture worth of disappointment into a single disapproving syllable.

“Martin.” Tim returned, savoring whatever victory Martin’s distaste granted him. “In all seriousness Marto, I wouldn’t suggest it. I’ve tried.”

The exasperation, pointed fondness – Jon couldn’t find the shelf space for his recycled fears around their teasing tones. They were almost across the room, there was something he was supposed to say. Tim was addressing Martin, pointedly shooting Jon a sly side eye. “Jon is boney as hell. Those sharp elbows should come with a warning label.”

If there was a sensical aspect to the conversation Jon couldn’t located it before he was face to face with a pleasantly calm nurse. The blue scrubs matched her hair.

“Mr. Sims?”

Nodding served him well so far. His repeat performance was deemed passable, nurse taking Jon and his flanking entourage in stride with a kind nod in return.

“I’ll have you follow me,” her tone was the perishing opposite of the receptionist. “However,”

The addendum wrapped a filthy finger around the safety pin of Jon’s anxiety and pulled, drilling malformed concern down the hollow of his throat at her neatly turned phrase.

“Space in the wards is limited,”

Jon had an uneasy countdown inclination as to where this was headed. His lungs took the initiative, greedy dial spinning from managed pull to anticipatorily interruptive. Reverse aftershocks testing the foundation of his forcibly steady breathing and finding the construction lacking.

“…only one person may accompany Mr. Sims.”

One of them: Martin or Tim. One of them would be there and the other would –

The clinic entrance slammed open on wind battered hinges. Jon jumped well as he could sandwiched between two people, train of thought tilting dangerously on the thrown curve. The nurse was unaffected, tight braids immune to the lingering gust brushing Jon’s ankles, pulling rain damp tangles. The cross contamination of senses – wind sound loud cold – tied Jon’s tongue when Tim began tearing out the initiative with his bare hands. “You’re probably best, Martin.”

Pressed against his side, the shiver that ran the length of Tim’s body reverberated into Jon’s hollowing ribcage. “I can wait out here.” Tim spoke in the tight short way he adopted last month whenever the tunnels were mentioned. Or bugs. “Don’t want to get in the way.” His hold lessened, at odds with the immediate, gentle squeeze he gave when Jon tensed. “Text me if you get a chance, yeah?”

Jon couldn’t find his voice, air catching at his throat, heart hammering fit to burst. Familiar territory; drowsy muscles and a word numbed mouth were navigable. Usually. Jon knew how the next half hour played out. He knew how to hide a panic attack. Except none of his curated escape plans and curt That’s Just How Jon Is dismissals were adaptable to the dire consequences of this A&E lobby. This wasn’t right. Tim leaving wasn’t right.

Worry had tucked in neatly to the corner of Tim’s mouth, his concern an easier disclaimer than the subtle hyperventilation Jon was free falling towards, jittering buzzing rendering his fingers useless as Tim ducked out of Jon’s hold, pressing him to Martin. Tim scoffed lightly, tension souring the chuff, “I think I’ve done enough damage for one day.”

“Tim,” Martin called back attention Jon couldn’t when his clumsy grab missed, chest hitching, lips parting as air rebounded uselessly, thrumming, catching. Neither of his assistants seemed to notice. “I’ll text you. Promise.”

“This way,” the nurse said, her gesturing sympathetic, words glossed in static and underscored by the heavy frantic pushing strangling unrelenting heartbeat, rate accelerating, inflexible trajectory to eclipse Jon’s throat. He couldn’t– when this happened he isolated – avoided attention – he never – he didn’t ask when – now that he needed to – he had to –

“Right,” Tim said, grin hitting the floor. He stepped back and straightened to his full height, empty hand clenching as he nodded to the door. “I’ll, uh, leave you to it.”

“Right, well,” Helen Richardson stood, nodding shortly, “I’ll just leave you to it then.”

The nurse opened the intake door. There was no elongated creak of the door that wasn’t, that couldn’t and hadn’t. Merely a swift click punctuation, Tim’s parting comment indistinguishable from Helen Richardson’s last words.

“Don’t–” Anything else Jon hadn’t planned on saying was lost to the first wheeze of professionally repressed, prepackaged anxiety attack as everything he didn’t have time to say caught on the snarl in his chest. Jon couldn’t force them to listen, to make sense or understand how he knew what would happen next. But he could rebel against a decade and a half of well-trodden instinct (keep quiet breathe in hold count five – seven – ten and gods sake hold eye contact they can’t know they won’t know they never know it doesn't matter you’re fine you're fine) and hook an almost intelligible string of word from the air because Helen hadn’t come back and she wasn’t coming back and Tim had to.

“Don’t – not safe – can’t leave – Tim.”

Every other word was catching in the cracks of his gasping. If Martin hadn’t been holding him up Jon would have been on the floor. The near deadened hum crawling from fingers to wrists toyed intermittently with the pain in his side, combination rattling in perilous conjunction with the oxygen dragging a stutter pulsing from his lungs when he tried to pivot off his sole means of support. He had to do something.

“Whoa, hey,” Tim moved quickly to stop Jon from using Martin as a springboard, hand falling back into place on his shoulder. “I’ll be okay, boss. Just – slow down.”

“S’not – not safe – don’t –”

Tim’s assurance was dizzying frustration as the myriad of poorly assembled one-word arguments fell flat. Jon’s runaway heart rate was an accustomed accosting, Jon didn’t need placating when the real danger was in walking away and he had all this time why hadn’t he told them if they would to be split up – stupid – selfish –

Martin was talking hurriedly with the nurse and Jon didn’t have time for this, if they moved him and Tim didn’t understand the danger. Which he clearly didn’t, his expression worried instead of comprehending real risk when Jon’s next gasp didn’t pull sufficient air to form words, open mouth producing a wet click that made his eyes sting – which was fine, it happened, sometimes he couldn’t breathe, he was usually just a lot quieter about it – Tim didn’t need to be wearing such a face.

“I agree,” the nurse caught Tim off guard, “for the best.”

And Tim was back.

“See? I’m right here. Nothing to worry about.”

That was about as far from the truthful as Jon could imagine, but the sentiment was nice. Jon would have loved to agree, but he was preoccupied with working his mouth around the air his body refused to acknowledge as viable and necessary. With Tim back, focusing on the snap ache bowstring beat inside his ribcage was twofold difficult – his side really hurt – he was trying.

“Seriously Jon, you have to stop–”

“Tim,” Martin spoke over Jon’s head and Tim’s ineffectual directions. Jon was trying, really. Keeping Tim in sight, listening for new words that weren’t last word and Tim wasn’t gone and they were out of the lobby and moving and Jon would really like for breathing normally to be an option again. “I know you’re trying to help but lay off a minute, okay?”

“I don’t want him to pass out–”

“Me either,” Martin said, “but you can’t stop having a panic attack because somebody says so. Trust me.”

How Martin knew that Jon wasn’t about to deal with. Bare minimum his wheezing granted him some special privileges, the nurse backed off when Tim and Martin lowered him into a chair. Neither took their hands off his shoulder. Two points of contact, proof he wasn’t out of his head or alone or floating– stupid, couldn’t even breathe– making it more difficult for everyone, again–

“Breathe with me okay?” Martin said, crouching in front of him. “You’ve done this before, you can do it again.”

Before? The disconnect was overwritten by Martin picking up Jon’s buzzing hand and holding it to his chest, deep inhale taking the shaking fingers up and down in time with Tim’s hand on Jon’s back.

It was a lot. The kind of touch Jon shied away from, the kind of help he was taught not to ask for. Pressure and pattern that helped put him back in his numb-cold body, woke up the different disorderly conduct of what landed him in A&E in the first place.

Pain planted separate sensation amid Jon’s messy breaths. A focal point, a fixture to drag all the airy inconsistencies back to the hurt in his side, the throbbing that was real, fresh, sharp – not the overwhelming weaponized wheezing from the lobby. Jon slid into the up and down Martin was demonstrating more rapidly than usual.

Accelerated panic attack, Jon considered weakly. Significantly more convenient than those drawn out affairs jumping him periodically during the work week, or over a hurried breakfast, or the commute home, or – Jon shook his head, fingers digging into Martins sweater. His search for texture was oddly successful. The stain from earlier left a gory little home for his gradually warming hand.

The concept of 'too tired to hyperventilate' landed somewhere amid the wreckage of Jon's focus as Martin pivoted to address the nurse. Maybe he was faking all of it to begin with. If he was that much of an asshole Jon might as well live up to it, tell the nurse to sod off when she asked him if he had any allergies. Breathing normally didn’t mean he wanted to waste his valuable sliver of awareness on her.

He didn’t, but it was a near thing. If Martin hadn’t repeated the question Jon might've, but he wasn’t very well going to tell Martin to fuck off. Jon was tired and bored and could breathe now and they made it out of the waiting room and he wanted to be left alone with Tim and Martin now, please, they said they were safe here, no matter how loud people in the hall were. Or how tight the cuff inflated around his arm when Tim took his jacket, showing off the visible crusting of blood and heat and cold between the folds of his sweater that wasn’t leaking hardly at all anymore.

“Mr. Sims?”

Jon peeled his eyes open again when Martin gently nudged him. “Mmh?”

“Are you currently taking any prescription medication?”

Jon blinked sluggishly. Currently he was sitting in a small room doing his best to remain conscious, the fear that kept him wired from the Archives to this moment was teetering perilously out of reach. Besides, it wasn’t like he had his meds in his pockets currently.

Well. His jacket was custodian to the ritalin, folded up in an envelope because he didn’t like how the pill container would ruin the lines. All his xanax was way back at the Institute, rattling around in the top desk drawer. The others lined the bottom of the mirror, neat little orange containers of heights and shapes he knew the names of, if he had to tell her he could, but it was a real chore.

“Jon.” Martin prompted. Any clever response was darted by Martin’s thumb skimming the dip of his collarbone when Jon leaned forward to show he was listening. “Medication?”

Sighing dramatically was an uncomfortable affair that reminded his settling skin it wasn’t in the right place – it was still the best way to convey how put upon he was without opening his mouth.

Tim and Martin were trading looks Jon hadn’t the energy to pick apart. Apparently Tim lost, tapping his hand lightly on Jon’s shoulder. “You taking any drugs, boss man?”

Did he have to say? All the names and numbers? Maybe not. He could ask.

“All of them?”

Chapter Text

Tim snorted. “Sorry, sorry.” The moniker Jonathan All-the-Drugs Sims briefly hijacked what remained of Tim’s limited higher brain functions. His valiant fight to recapture a neutral expression went poorly for Team Polite Society. It took a practical idea to tug control back – Jon was meticulous with lists and dates and details. Stood to reason he might have a record of these practicalities on his phone. “Hold on.”

Turning what may have amounted to a slightly deranged expression to the ground, Tim went to work unearthing Jon’s phone from the soggy jacket. By the time he was coaxing Jon to unlock the phone with a sticky red finger, Tim had his near giggles on a short leash. Locking eyes with the orange tabby wallpaper (Jon hadn’t changed his background since they met) was the final step off a train Tim didn’t have time to indulge. Not yet anyway. Wasn’t the time. The last of his middling mania pooled low in his stomach as Tim’s jittery fingers skimmed 8 screens full of color coordinated apps, hovering briefly over an Instagram Jon insisted he didn’t have. Not now.

Mercifully, Jon did have a list in his notes app, dutifully filed with names and brands and doses. Tim handed over the details the to nurse with a forced smile, one painfully tight and pulling at all the wrong muscles. His face didn’t know what to do, how to categorize his amateur triaging of each next worse problem as a win in a game they shouldn’t be playing in the first place. Jon versus blood loss. Jon versus an unexplained stabbing. Versus the horrible waiting room and having a bad friend and a panic attack and –

Fuck Tim wanted this part to be over. To get Jon away from the harsh white walls confining and reflecting the predatory unintended consequences Tim had been hand feeding for weeks on end. To put a name to what fell apart between them and try harder. Jon was too small and bloody; there wasn’t enough of him to fill up the chair. The nurses direction to move to the exam table wasn’t about to help. In a bold move Tim hadn’t begun to formulate, Martin took advantage of Jon’s disoriented struggle to stand and just... picked him up. In one fluid movement Martin swiftly placed their diminutive boss on the table like a little kid. Like Tim used to with–

Shit.

Tim bit his tongue. A knot deep in his chest shifted; went heavy, then sharp. Not now.

He clenched his hands tight, stretch of skin painful but present. Same hands, bigger now, that tucked under skinny armpits and hoisted, squirming shared laughter, hold tight, same same different as worm scars shifted over aching joints. This wasn’t the time. Tim wrested his attention to the clinic, what he could see. The exam room, not the kitchen. What he could hear. Martin comforting, not ‘how does it feel to be tall’. Teasing tones, well worn prodding until he wasn’t the tall one anymore. Not now. Focus on Jon. You aren’t the one hurting. Looking hardly helped.

Jon was short, his feet some way off the ground tilting under Tim. This wasn’t the time. His reckless acknowledgment wasn’t turning any useful locks, hinges rattling to the tune of children’s laughter. Jon kicking his heels listlessly against the side of the table drove a memory through the splintering one-way mirror that separated before and after. Revealed a fading snapshot Tim couldn’t live with, refused to bury.

Danny perched on the kitchen counter, deposited by Tim, mismatched socks bouncing off the cabinet doors to tattoo an uneven tempo on the peeling paint, legs dangling. Hair a wild tousle, missing a tooth. Grinning and grousing and toeing at Tim’s ribs. Safe. Picture book clarity, slammed unceremoniously shut, nearly wrinkling the page. Not now. Wasn’t about him, wasn’t the time. Jon’s shoes were a solid foot from the rain puddles the two of them had dripped on floor. Tim shivered.

The warped conflict of kitchen skylight warmth to clinical chill was, thankfully, the final key turn Tim needed to secure then from now. Awareness paired worryingly with Jon’s unsteady breathing as the altitude change left him clinging to Tim and Martin. Stop wallowing. Do something. Jon’s fingers had wound weakly in damp the material of Tim’s shirt. Putting his hand over Jon’s, Tim offered a solid point of contact to prevent him tipping further. There. He was helping. If Jon registered the touch his reaction was in line behind an unpleasant gulp, eyelids fluttering. Perpendicular to him, Tim could feel Martin’s concern nearing corporeal manifestation. Based off the nurse’s gentle approach Tim doubted he was faring better. To her credit, Tim mused inadvertently, their entrance put a bright sticker price on the value of de-escalation tactics.

Divesting Jon of the unsalvageable sweater took some convincing. For starters, Jon didn’t want to lay on his back, no matter how much pressure was put on his side by sitting. Compromising with a partially raised table put Jon at a stubborn, reluctant angle. Tim was wordlessly thankful and impressed by the nurse’s swift negotiations. Of course ornery would be the last ounce of personality Jon clung to in an emergency. With Tim and Martin flanking best they could Jon kept a very weary eye on the scissors the nurse used, pulling at ruined material to uncover bare skin beneath.

A secondary assault on maintaining a neutral expression stormed the gate Tim had shoddily constructed, recollections of ECDC quarantine clawing for purchase. Wasn’t the time. Tim blithely hoped locking his knees and the audible creaking of his jaw wouldn’t distract. Things were bad then, bad now, and yet. A passing handful of seconds proved Tim hadn’t properly engaged his imagination to anticipate the bloody finger paint production Jon was crafting since they collided. When the last bundle of paper towels and an abused dishrag Jon deputized to hold himself together were removed Tim’s sharp inhale collided with Martin’s sympathy.

A jagged gash was sunk directly below Jon’s sternum to the divot above his hip, skin peeling greedily from the edges and stretching with each shallow breath. Jon’s appearance without a shirt dropping him from narrow to underfed didn’t help. A fleeting mental note to refill the breakroom snack shelf more than once a week side stepped the severity of the situation. Shouldn’t be that easy to count ribs on a person, Tim concluded. Any distraction from the cumulative hurt on unwilling display.

Ragged constellations of scars clustered across Jon’s skinny chest, back, shoulders, a few red and raw at the edges. A hostile reflection of the discordant contortions of flesh Tim caught staring in the bathroom mirror; obstinate remnants of unhealed scabs. Compounded injuries, the doctors informed clinically. Swaths of skin where the most temerarious of the worms burrowed deeper. Multiple parasites expanding and collapsing tissue in confluence, stretching and straining beneath to leave discolored patches of harmful intent in their rippling wake. Tim swallowed, mouth dry. A plaster on his shoulder, one of three remaining, started to itch. Part sympathetic twinge, equally eager reminder of a thousand hungry mouths. Really, really wasn’t the time.

Then the nurse professionally pushed in with critical precision, clearing away the blood, peering at the injury. Followed by a gauze pad and pressure applied and Jon squirming away and subsequently deflating when Martin volunteered to assist and Tim realized he was completely tuning out the nurse.

“...a routine treatment for lacerations. I will have you stay a couple hours to get fluids in you and for observation, but not overnight.” Martin’s shoulders dropped half a percentage point. “I usually suggest a mild sedative in high stress cases, before the local anesthesia. This cut is long but shallow,” she said. Then where, pray tell, had all the goddamn blood come from? Tim didn’t ask. “From my examination you only need 4 or 5 stitches.”

Over the course of her calm explanation Tim saw Jon’s expression flicker. He started shaking his head well before she finished. “No. Uh. No thank you.” A preemptive dismissal Tim couldn’t fathom the reason for as Jon’s words barely scraped the surface of audible. “That won’t be, uh, necessary.” Despite the clear absence of an alternative Jon continued with halting refusals until his unsteady bid at polite composure tripped his tongue.

“Why don’t you talk it over with these two while I gather what I need?” The nurse interjected. She gave a sympathetic smile, far more genuine then Tim’s pathetic attempt earlier. “I’ll be back soon, hold tight.”

Jon’s version of holding tight was a barely there spasm of his fingers on Tim’s arm. Martin, bless the man, took point. He captured Jon’s wavering dissent in the same manner Tim had witnessed him catching displaced moths lost in the archival stacks. A careful snatch, gentle cage around frantically beating wings. Tim watched the verbal equivalent play out, quick delivery of assurances catching Jon’s fluttering concern.

“She wants to help, okay? Then we can leave.”

The frightened whine from Jon didn’t sound advertent. It cut through the same, pitchy and adjacent to a whimper as he started rocking minutely.

“Hey, shhh,” Martin maintained a line of comforting words in the aftermath of the nurse’s diagnosis. “We’ll be right here. You won’t be alone, I promise.”

“I, I –” Jon was painfully alert now, stuttering around a visible display of distress he hadn’t let slip the entire afternoon. Not during the limp to the clinic, in the waiting room line, hell, even when Tim dropped him. “I just want a bandage.” Jon insisted weakly, eyes damp and dangerously close to tearful. He jolted under Tim’s grip when the nurse reentered the room to place a tray on the counter.

“Jon,” Martin reached out to gently tilt Jon’s face away from glinting objects. Tim tried to rectifying this action with the Martin who had ducked behind the breakroom couch to avoid Jon after Tim’s April Fool’s masterpiece. When the edges didn’t line up Tim dumped the whole thing in the bin. Maybe later.

“We don’t have to talk about that yet, okay?” He wasn’t sure how long Martin was hoping to keep that fiction running but the nurse hadn’t approached them yet. Without anything to contribute to the situation beyond the dulled edge of trampled confusion and holding Jon semi-upright, Tim remained silent.

“But– she–,” Jon went whisper rushed again, whiplash pivot from the prior moments strained bargaining, eyes flitting from nurse to door. “What if she’s–”

Martin took a measured glance over his shoulder, considering the returned nurse standing at a considerate distance. “How about... how about I talk to her.”

Jon’s forehead wrinkled in confluence with Tim’s. “Talk –?”

“See if she’s trustworthy.” Martin said, voice of reason in an unreasoned occurrence. He waited, patiently holding the door to a peaceful solution. “Can I do that?”

Tim’s processing capabilities blanked voraciously at Martin’s unexpectedly impeccable read on Jon. A competent distillation of the circumstance and context conspiring to create skittish layers of overlapping fears, tidal force press drawn back. Martin, still relatively new to the department, definitely new to Jon, fresh off all their unspoken horrors and he wasn’t – he wasn’t placating. Not a hint of the acrid frustration Tim trafficked for weeks, dead end dismissals he couldn’t take back.

Jon worked the offer over through a clenched jaw and furrowed expression. “You,” he swallowed again, biting his cracked bottom lip. “You’ll...be careful?” At Martins confirmation, Jon conceded with a hesitant nod. On an unpleasant whim, Tim wondered if Jon would have taken him up on the same offer. Didn’t like the answer he came up with.

It was offer this morning Tim would have insisted was playing into delusion. Half the day later and his conviction of that illusory nature had grown restless, chased off by the dull buzz of exam room lights. The shadows Jon jumped at had substance, backlit by hurried footsteps in the hall, the nurse speaking plainly with Martin, gestures to the instruments she brought. Unfamiliar terminology gracing the twisted metal and plastic shapes Tim didn’t have names for, save the syringe she was indicating sat crisply at the end of the line up. A cut off noise of distress redirected his considering.

Following Martin’s departure Jon went still, let go of Tim to lean sideways and track the unfolding interaction. At his disquiet Tim stepped closer, filling in the gap Martin left to break Jon’s eye contact with the inert medical equipment. It had an effect, but not what Tim predicted.

Jon stopped, consideration of his own written in bleak strokes across his expression. Without comment and ignoring Tim’s hovering readiness to help, Jon gingerly started to pull himself towards the end of the table. He didn’t seem to be angling for a better view. Bare spine curving, one hand pressed to the fresh gauze pad on his side, hair falling in his face, Jon curled over himself very, very quietly.

Tim held a question under his tongue. He had spent a disparate amount of time telling Jon how he ought to be acting following their run in with Prentiss. Interrupting a brief moment of bodily autonomy Jon hadn’t been afforded for the past half hour felt... rude? Unfair? The whole situation fell squarely on its back in both categories. Tim hoped standing a silent guard landed as supportive. Tim waited, indecision circling his bones. After the move, nothing. Jon remained suspiciously mute.

Gradually, agonizingly, Tim put finishing touches on the three piece puzzle surrounding him. Jon’s initial disagreement over the stitches, adjustment when the nurse pointed at the syringe, and the dawning realization all Jon accomplished was removing himself from her line of sight. Tim had inadvertently become an ineffectual one-man barricade separating Jon from the others. Jon was trying to hide. Tim knew he was right, instances supplementing why boiling up and over.

When Michelle from artifact storage was loudly gushing over a rusty battlefield syringe on Wednesday Free Lunch Tim clocked Jon wordlessly excuse himself (not an uncommon occurrence), deposit an almost untouched meal in the trash (extremely uncommon, if they could hassle Jon to join them he was ravenous) and leave, hands low and fluttering at the wrist. When Tim checked in later the blood draining from Jon’s face took precedent. Tim traded two energy bars he grabbed from his desk for a new case file and went on with his day. Didn’t put two and two together.

Another, older encounter barged in to stomp on the heels of Jon’s sheepish snack acceptance: the aftermath of a dentist appointment Jon crammed in before work years back. Stood out as a rare instance Tim successfully bullied Jon into accepting a ride home. An early departure at that, he swiped paperwork off Jon’s desk to split with Sasha – the best way to convince Jon he was ahead and herd him out the door. It was easier when they worked in research to tag team Jon out of the avalanche of extra work he would ignite with another unexpected connection. Back when Jon lived a few blocks from Tim. All the ammunition Tim needed to talk him into a free ride, he was headed that way already.

Short drive, long enough Jon lost the whipcord corrosive reactions he dealt out over the course of the day. Anybody interrupting him, passing by his desk, or committing the atrocity of laughing within earshot (Tim) meeting accelerated ire. He hunched in an entirely un-Jon like manner after the first corner. By the next block he was nearing a slump, hands unnervingly still. Tim risked death, delicately nudging Jon to confess he went through an hour of dentist fillings without localized numbing. A mumbled explanation from a very sore face: I don’t like needles.

Tim dealt in fear, they all did - dissected and examined the anxieties pulling people past the Institutes doors. There was concern, there was fear, and there were phobias. Concern found passable accommodation in hesitant conversation, carefully neutral word choice. Fear could be parsed on paper, hard press of the cheap plastic pens digging into a painful past. Phobias went unspoken. A harsh intake of breath, full body flinch, lost and trailing sentence from a statement giver who never had the words to begin with.

Jon wasn’t scared of needles. This wasn’t a garden variety discomfort Tim could carry his pocket, like a healthy mind might avoid an unlit alleyway. No, Jon was hiding behind Tim in the least effective one-sided game of hide and seek to play out in an exam room because he didn’t have a choice. If Martin wasn’t between them and the exit, and Jon could stand, Tim had a feeling flight would have been a hell of a lot less manageable. As for fight, Jon had trouble catching hold of Tim’s soggy shirt, let alone start swinging.

Unfortunately, the grace of comprehension did not gift any further instruction or clever method of assistance. Well shit. It was entirely on him to vocalize. Martin didn’t know, hell Tim barely put it together and Jon, well. There was a place outside of fear that put up walls and shut down communication, a location Tim had spent the past weeks tearing off the map of their tattering friendship. Wasn’t fair. None of it was, but this wasn’t the time for introspection. If he could salvage a fraction the care Jon deserved Tim needed to step up.

Pivoting to fully face Jon, Tim struggled for an approach that wasn’t blatantly false comfort. Might as well call it as it was, help manage the fallout. Scrambling for an iota of Martin’s capacity to explain the reality of a shit situation Tim caught Jon’s worried gaze. “Looks like they need to stitch you up, boss man.” Wide eyes went wider behind crooked glasses, Jon’s lower lip trembling. Ah yes. Pinnacle of support Tim was. Height of comfort, not at all horrifyingly out of his depth.

“I just, just want a bandage.” The fragile, cracked little voice that came out of Jon hardly sounded like him.

“I’m sorry Jon.” Tim meant it, meant it all the more when tears started rolling down Jon’s cheeks. Jon didn’t raise a hand to swipe at them, or duck his head. What limited energy he had left resided in a small, scared, back and forth motion moving in time with a desperate pleading expression Tim had never seen. Tears ran down and over the scars on his face as Jon fought weakly to continue shaking his head no.

Heartless would have hurt a lot less, Tim decided, taking a short step forward and letting Jon press face first into his chest. Tim didn’t know when Jon learned to cry quiet, but he had a few guesses. If he didn’t have the man actively crushed into him he wouldn’t have been able to pick out Jon’s hiccupping between the muffled gasps he was choking down. Placing one hand gently on the back of Jon’s head, Tim carefully held him in place to stop Jon’s uneven sobs from overbalancing him.

With no plan whatsoever Tim started a rapid game of Get Martin’s Attention While Remaining Absolutely Still. His worry was well wasted; Martin’s preternatural Jon sense had activated from across the room. He hastily approached to lip reading distance for Tim to mouth “phobia” and “needles” with a few pointed looks thrown in. The warning was delivered without disturbing Jon, who wasn’t halfway to crying himself out. Tim winced. They didn’t have that kind of time. Red on the gauze pad was already making an unwelcome reappearance.

Logic didn’t apply here; Tim knew that much. But he had to do something. Shifting slightly Tim put his free hand on Jon’s back to steady him. The other remained firmly pressed to Jon’s frizzy curls.

“Jon, you’re gonna hold still for the next ten seconds, okay?” The nurse, thankfully, clued in without hesitation. Her sneakers were near silent on the linoleum as she crossed the room, uncapping the syringe on the way. Jon’s breaths doubled, gasps catching on the inhale in rapidly worrying succession, puffs of air on Tim’s shirt as sharp as the tension running down the bumps of Jon’s spine.

“Right, like that,” Tim encouraged. As if Jon had done anything intentional. Tim grabbed for inspiration as the nurse neared with an incredible economy of motion. “You’re going to hold still and then you can see Martin.” Tim said, apropos of nothing. “He’s right here you know that? Right here and he wants to see you.”

Admittedly, it was a half baked gamble to throw Martin’s name in the mix, but Tim didn’t have a lot of source material to work with. Jon took the bargain to heart, tensing without any additional escape endeavors.

Tim could give credit where it was due, she was quick. This concession didn’t do a damn thing to tamp down a flare of white hot hate when she depressed the syringe and Jon flinched, shaking hard, ineffectually burrowing further into Tim with an unmistakable whimper.

“That’s all, that parts over.” Tim said, encouragement half directed at Jon and half for himself, keeping Jon close when the smaller man didn’t pull away. Held on for the minute or so whatever was freshly introduced to Jon’s system needed to start circulating. Tim felt the fight draining from Jon’s skinny frame until he was nearly limp, collapsing inward.

Tim lessened his hold at a slightly squashed murmuring.

“Yeah Jon?”

Jon twisted his head to the side, ear pressed to Tim’s sternum in a position that couldn’t be comfortable on his neck. He was quiet in his mumbling, Tim ducked his head to listen.

“Can,” Jon paused, drifting a bit. His eyes were puffy from crying and that was fine, Tim wasn’t using his heart anyways. “Can I... see Mar’n now?”

The semi-slurred request didn’t have to travel far. Martin had essentially been stood on Tim shoes since the nurse backed off. Not that Tim minded. He was certain he would have developed a sway of his own without Martin’s solid bulk directly at his elbow. Passing Jon off in an awkward shuffle was notably easier than everything leading up to this point, but seeing Jon dazed and pliant introduced Tim to entirely new flavors of worry.

Martin did a truly phenomenal job of Jon distraction, helping him recline and engaging in a gentle nonsense back and forth as the nurse started stitching Jon back together. Tim support was delegated to holding Jon’s free hand and hey, he could do that. Stop Jon from taking inadvertent swipes at the nurse’s work. Tim could fill in the barest quota of useful with the occasional hand squeeze and that should of have been it. There should have been a clear ending to the chapter. The nurse had put aside her instruments with a click of metal on metal. When she started stretching gauze, talking fluids and IVs and observation, that should have been all there was.

And Tim should have known giving the Magnus Institutes address in the lobby wouldn’t play out in anyone’s favor.

Chapter Text

Martin wasn’t having the best day. Admittedly, the untold events prior to joining his coworkers at A&E hurled Tim and Jon into the vicinity of ‘equally horrified’ and ‘significantly worse’. Martin knew better, objectively. Maligning their disparate mornings into the Trauma Olympics wouldn’t help. To rank the raw panic of his midday blood trail discovery below Jon’s irregular breathing or on par with Tim’s contorted nonchalance wouldn’t change the outcome. None of them wanted to be crammed in the sterile sharp corners of the clinic.

Tim visibly didn’t. Stood rigid and weary, one hand folded protectively over Jon’s wrist, Tim faced the door with unguarded distrust. The shaking had let up some since Martin subtly promoted him to holder of Jon’s free hand; tethered to Jon’s increasingly vocal commentary lessened the intensity of Tim’s periodic scowling. Hardly an impenetrable disguise, but there were limits to what he could accomplish as Jon’s damp misplaced chaperone dripped impatience on the tiles.

Jon, on the other hand. Historically the man was allergic to accepting assistance. Major blood loss, it would seem, demolished barriers to declining support. Sedation had determinedly rerouted trauma from physically threatening life to a future death by embarrassment and Martin wasn’t honestly sure which Jon would prefer. Any hint of Jon’s former pushback was steadily eclipsed by the erratic skipping of topics Martin gently redirected during the nurse’s efficient work – tripping from discontentment with his smudged glasses to condemning of the ceiling tiles to a languidly verbose consideration of the precise shade of Martin’s blue eyes. This talking point included, and despite Martin’s delicate effort, was not limited to how his blue/gray eyes matched well with certain hair colors, glasses frames, and sweaters. And how certain nail polish complimented those sweaters. And that if Martin was doing it on purpose it was rather unfair.

Unfair how was added to the row of emotional dominos aligned permanently in the rapidly settling cement of today’s delinquency. No more pressing than Jon leaning into a hug for the second time in a likely to be forgotten memory, Jon having a public panic attack, Jon requesting to see Martin after the injection. Hearing Jon catalogue his wardrobe extensively was another immovable event to pass by and mitigate harm where he could. Even the shockingly polite and reluctant criticism of Martin wearing green – because that was Jon’s color and if Martin could wear it as an accent, like a scarf, instead of that pullover quarter zip jacket that didn’t fit him right, that would be nice – but if not that was okay too. Rambling insistent topic jumping Martin would gladly take to the grave for Jon’s sake, provided they lived that long.

All in all, the number of possibility to worsen Martin’s day – well, given their place of employment and recent events, several terrible options existed. But the rushed entrance of a new nurse was hardly an encouraging development.

“Apologies for the interruption,” she said, hand on the open door clacking against her ring as she cleared the threshold. “Marie, you’re needed in room 11.” Jon cut off mid sentence, eyes huge. Marin ran a thumb along the side of his cheek reflexively. The simple distraction worked. Jon pushed his face back into Martin’s hand, grumbles trailing off with a tired sigh as his eyelashes fluttered. Innumerable intimacy connotations blurred out of reach. Distractions worked.

Near shoulder to shoulder with Marie, Marin barely clocked her short measured breath at the other nurse’s direction, hands stilling over the generous swath of bandage she was folding over Jon’s side.

“Thank you, Lydia. I’ll be there as soon as I’m able.” She returned to securing the final pass of gauze without the expectant backward glance Martin tossed the newcomer.

Martin had faced off with more than his unfair share of health professionals since his dad left. He was incredibly thankful for Marie’s steady calm in the busy ward, and told her as much during their brief conversation. Shadowed by the rapid finger twitching ‘Lydia’ handled her clipboard with, Martin was twice as grateful. Lydia was an inverted echo of Marie’s stable presence, quick twitch reactive discontent bouncing her heel, sneakers stuttering on the slick floor.

“I’m afraid you’re needed immediately.”

Marie’s muttered ‘of course I am’ probably wasn’t meant for his ears. The chronic contained inevitability of the overworked, underpaid. An obnoxious guest appearance of unavoidable empathy debuted. Jarring introduction to the already crowded stage performance of every terrible consequence waiting to befall Jon should he look away for too long. Congruence of possibilities, neatly penned script vying for collapse at this new addition.

Except.

He was in hospital. The frantic frequency of feeling his fears dialed down to near nothing back in the lobby. Screaming diminished to white noise, creative outcomes and flash pan emotions persisted in nothing but a cardboard cutout way. Years of practice Martin wouldn’t wish upon Tim stood at the end of the unpaved roundabout Tim started pacing at her ultimatum, shifting his weight restlessly. Would have to keep an eye on that.

“I’m not quite finished–”

“You are,” Lydia was midair in her anticipation of jumping down Marie’s throat, closing the door behind her. “I’ll be taking over”

Marie turned sharply, uncharacteristic rapid squaring of shoulders. “Jacob authorized you to take triage patients?”

An abbreviated movement in his peripheral divided Martin’s attention triptych. Tim and Jon had startled near simultaneously. Based off the flicker of emotion Tim had yet to bury, his grip on Jon must have tightened and Jon took offense. Hardly a leap for logic, Jon’s liberated hand was curled under his chin, Tim’s fist clenched by his side. His coworkers coin flip from guilty to irate was immediate as Martin tracking the trajectory of Tim’s response.

Tim wasn’t necessarily a tricky read, once Martin deciphered his sprawling handwriting. Finding the same page had taken no more than a dedicated month after moving departments. The man layered distractions on in flashy smiles the same way Martin conveniently dropped a mug of tea during a heated breakroom disagreement. Seemingly honest mistakes or overblown comic bravado, he recognized Tim trading on other people’s exasperation. It was part of why they got on so well.

Also made for rapid documentation of Tim’s error and Jon’s fidgety dissent. Thinking quickly, he balanced the scales by snagging Jon’s free hand, then passed Tim a heartfelt sympathetic smile – one his coworker fumbled spectacularly. Good. Martin smothered any internal self-reproach for manipulating Tim’s habitual inability to manage genuine care with a fire blanket. Tim could be rightfully vengeful later. In this exam room Martin needed a level playing field. Baring that he would settle for creating compassionately unstable terrain to prevent Tim’s good intentions from boiling over.

During his 8 seconds of evaluation and reconciliation, Marie had bottled her terse reaction. She spoke over Lydia’s burgeoning rebuttal. “You’re right, that was unprofessional. Let’s speak outside.” Turning her back on Lydia, Marie looked evenly between Tim and Jon, lingering on Martin as she rose. “Please excuse me for a moment, I need to have a quick word with my colleague.”

Martin nodded, pocketing the effectiveness of equitably divided attention and wondered what he should be reading into Marie glancing sideways to the IV stand she prepped. Jon registered her words with the persistent disinterest he afforded any external input, engrossed in failed attempts to blow his bangs out of his eyes. Martin was too gay for this.

“Jacob told me you were on transfers,” Marie said, angling for the exit.

“I am.” Lydia moved, but not to follow Marie. Martin felt his eyebrows raise as Lydia deliberately blocked Marie’s path to the door. Across Jon, Tim had inherited each disparate ounce of tension their boss misplaced, finding a way to clench his pale hands tighter. Between them Jon started tugging at Martin’s wrist. “There isn’t anything to talk about. Just listen.” Lydia pointedly avoided looking anywhere but Marie. “Jonathan Sims has a transfer notice for the fifth floor.”

At his name Jon put renewed effort into pulling at Martin’s wrist. Half a glance was all he needed to dismiss the majority of concern, too long to avoid his heart stuttering to skip a beat. Jon wasn’t in pain. He was struggling inexpertly to line their hands up, pressing his palm to Martins. The current angle wasn’t working very well. Martin allocated an indulgent half second of an unnamed chest crushing emotion as Jon poorly matched his shorter fingers to Martin’s broad hand with a pleased little hum. The half second passed. Martin let it go, off to join the rest of his well divorced yearnings on the remote island of misfit gay pining. Maneuvering gently, he interlaced their fingers to relieve pressure on his wrist. This seemed to mollify Jon, small furrow between his eyebrows unrelated to the nurses escalating conversation. Didn’t mean anything in the scheme of... things. Couldn’t. This was who Jon needed him to be today. Martin could do that.

“The fifth floor?” Marie said, taken aback. “For a routine laceration? That’s not–”

“Anything you need to concern yourself with!” Lydia said, tight press of her lips constricting pale strings around her overbearing intent. “I’ll be showing them the way.”

This time, Marie side-stepped to prevent Lydia from approaching the exam table. Her defensive posture had Martin stood right behind her as Marie spoke firmly. “I have no reason to approve a transfer to the fifth floor. He is my patient, Lydia.”

“No, he isn’t.” Lydia said, in a matter of fact tone that suggested the facts no longer mattered. “This case is above your skill level.”

“And what level is that?” Marie demanded, polite composure wrung out of her.

“What the HELL are you two talking about?”

Martin didn’t jump when Tim shouted over the nurse’s cryptic debate, but Jon did. Wasting a moment wishing he could offer more than a quick hand squeeze, Martin knew he didn’t have the attention to spare. The number of variables had edged past ‘worrying’ towards ‘eminent action needed’ with Tim rounding the exam table. That was less than ideal. He should have tried harder to anchor Tim to Jon; an untethered Tim was challenging to redirect.

Brushing past Martin, Tim towered over Lydia, who took a step back. Martin eyed her proximity to the security call button. Tim’s newfound heroic disinterest in personal space could backfire spectacularly. He was a full head taller than her dirty blond ponytail, wet clothes clinging and distorting the edges of him. Where Jon turned twiggy and a bit drown cat, Tim had the disconcerting posture of something hungry crawled out of a swamp.

“One of you needs to tell me exactly what you’re on about.” Fortunately, Tim lowered his volume to indoor adjacent. Unfortunately, Martin doubted that would offset the steady clench and release of his fists. At a glance it was threatening.

Martin knew better. Had a month of watching Tim drop pens, break off typing to shake his hands out, frown at his curling fingers. Martin read heat was supposed to help with cramps. He could manage whatever exasperated misinterpretation Tim might have – once he caught Tim cupping a delivered mug of tea with shaking hands, Martin swapped their cups out as soon as his cooled. He didn’t need Tim to know why he tripled his average tea runs, if it helped.

But Lydia kept no knowledge of the impending breakroom tea shortage, assessing Tim critically. To Martin’s instant and eternal chagrin, she planted her feet and plastered on a poor pantomime of a placating smile. “We’re discussing level of care, Mr. ...?”

“Mr. Pissed Off, thanks.” Martin felt his body age an additional 10 years as the fleeting, foolish hope Tim would sort out the situation peacefully back flipped into a bottomless pit of spikes. The entire interaction needed to end before beginning, but Tim was merely at the threshold of picking a fight. “We aren’t going anywhere until you explain yourself. What’s wrong with the fifth floor?”

“Absolutely nothing whatsoever,” Lydia said, veneer of false conviction so thick she was chewing on her words.

“Regardless,” Marie said, “the transfer is unnecessary.” She pivoted slightly to keep Martin in sight as well. Clever. “We have room in this ward.”

“The ward is full.” Lydia said harshly. Whatever reservoir of customer service she managed was draining rapidly, revealing muddy dregs of flint frustration. “Especially for a case like Mr. Sims.”

“Hi, um, sorry.” Stumbling his speech gracelessly to diffuse the rising tension Martin raised his hand in a small wave, barely in time to cover up Tim growling. “Question – what is it about Jon’s case that is, uh – different? I mean...” Martin trailed off, clipping out time for the others to take a full breath. “We don’t mean to be a bother!”

He had a hunch he already spent too much time around Marie for her to buy the painfully awkward smile he tacked on, but didn’t have a way to return her side eyes as Lydia composed herself. Taking him in properly for the first time, Lydia pointedly turned away from Tim. “You’ve not been a bother at all sir.” Tim twitched, remained quiet. “We have protocol in place for certain, ah, cases. There was a mix up at the front desk and this transfer was delayed. Paperwork can be such a hassle, you know.”

He didn’t have a chance to return her faux smile, or play up the ready made ‘oh don’t I know’ sympathy rhetoric he long ago scripted down to the laugh track. No, Martin’s opportunity to win Lydia over was enthusiastically masticated in a conversational wood chipper as Tim’s ill timed irritation surged.

“No, we don’t know.” Tim crossed his arms, shoulders pulling back. “What paperwork?”

“Intake.” Lydia responded between her teeth. “If anything, I believe you should be the one familiar with this situation.”

“What does that mean?” Tim said, taking another step forward.

Tim was still within reach. Martin wouldn’t dare risk a grab until the last possible moment - ugly as the math was to run, Martin knew he could stop Tim if this escalated. Pre-Prentiss, he would have had to put them both on the ground. Since the worms, Tim favored his left shoulder. Restraining Tim was the least appealing option, but preventing an assault charge guaranteed to split them up would have to be worth the breach of trust. Apologies cost less than bail.

“I don’t know what your problem is lady,” Tim said.

“The problem I have,” Lydia said, “is my front desk staff’s incompetence. If he flagged the first address you provided,” she waved her clipboard at Tim with real force, as if she could swat the disturbance he posed out of the air. “If he did his job and entered the original address – hadn’t mentioned the first address in passing, like some funny story – we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You wouldn’t have stepped foot on this floor, there wouldn’t be any trouble.”

While he didn’t disagree with her assessment of the front desk clerks lacking intellect, her overshare was missing a key component. Martin couldn’t stay quiet, couldn’t help with half the facts: “What address?”

“The Magnus Institute address! Obviously.” Lydia snapped. “The first address your friend,” she cracked the word between her teeth, “gave at reception. He may have changed his mind halfway through check in, but any mention of that location is a liability. We have policy in place for these incidents. And you,” she rounded on Marie, “should know better. Do you want to be the next Kevin? You remember what happened to Kevin? That was closed casket. You remember what happened at Whittington Hospital, the worms? Did you honestly think those two had some interesting freckles?”

Tim looked like he had been slapped.

Marie blinked, mouth opening to shut quickly.

Jon wordlessly chose this moment to try and roll off the exam table.

The slightest cords of tension gathering across Martin’s shoulders was the first indicator splitting his attention three ways had begun to strain. This was fine. All the information was available and there was one outcome. They needed to leave, immediately.

Jon first. Given the direction of events, having Jon on his feet would be critical. At least he could move on autopilot. Martin knew how to assist someone from prone to standing by rote.

Engaging practiced motions bought time to take in Marie and Tim. Directly to his right Marie’s stiff posture and deepening frown were directed at Lydia. Good. His rapport with her from earlier might pay off. He needed her, if not on sides, at least doubtful with Tim turning an unhealthy hue. By the time Martin had Jon seated it was abundantly clear Tim wasn’t thinking in complete sentences. He was blinking too fast, hands trembling and falling still randomly.

“Now!” Lydia assaulted the hush her announcement inflicted with a breathless flourish. “Since we understand each other, we can do this properly. No more fuss. Marie, you’re needed in room 11. Mr. Sim’s is no longer your patient, he is being transferred to the fifth floor. I will handle the paperwork and you gentlemen will follow me. No more questions, no stalling. You’ll do what I say or, or I’m calling security.”

Martin hadn’t waited for Lydia to finish.

By ‘no more fuss’ Martin had Jon off the table, shoes connecting safely with the puddled floor. At ‘transferred to the fifth floor’ the bulk of Jon’s weight was tucked securely to his side. Consideration or rumination over how light Jon was, how small, how wrong it was for Martin to use this to his advantage arrived and dispersed among the background static. He was on a countdown as ‘no more questions’ started to sink in. The moment Lydia closed her lips around ‘do what I say’ Martin had Tim’s sharp intake of breath to spare as he carefully shoveled Jon directly into Tim.

“Could you hold this?”

With everything happening, Martin hardly felt he could be held accountable for asking a dumbfounded Tim to take Jon so bluntly. This was what he could manage, turning to speak with the nurses and securely separating Lydia from his friends. It would have to do.

Addressing Lydia, Martin cashed in his remaining cards towards old routines, finding well worn buttons to push. He had to play innocent, without missing a single step. He had done it before. Played a part. He could do it again.

“Security seems a little harsh, don’t you think?” Starting on neutral ground, Martin reached up to adjust his glasses. It was habit he found redirected attention from his height back to his face, best paired with practiced earnestness the nurse tracked predictably. Lydia hesitated. Good. She hadn’t brought up reinforcements until pressed, she probably didn’t want any more people involved then need be. “I don’t see why the five of us can’t work this out.” Martin continued. Emphasis on the five, without the spark of Tim’s volatility. Gently force Lydia to rerun her odds at a flat 4:1 as Martin smiled sheepishly. With the added insinuation a peaceful workaround existed. “You’ve been really understanding and I appreciate it. You have a difficult job.”

“Right.” Lydia said finally, narrowing her eyes. The last beat was hard to land without a contained ‘fuck you’ surfacing but his sympathetic head tilt shored up the foundation.

Behind Martin a semi-hushed disagreement started playing out a few notes below comprehensible. Fervently hoping the gamble Jon and Tim would cancel each other out held, Martin pretended the phrase “eating paperclips” hadn’t momentarily surfaced behind him.

“What if...” Martin started cautiously, as if this new thought unexpectedly fell into place and wasn’t his end goal. “What if we left?” He faced Marie first. “You were nearly done, right?” Marie raised an eyebrow but didn’t refute him, nodding once. “And the address, you said it was mentioned in passing?” Directing the second blank query at Lydia, Martin opened his hands, picture of honest helpful curiosity. He could do this. People preferred patterns, affirmations happening in sequence. “If the other address didn’t cause issue, couldn’t we keep that one?”

“He isn’t wrong,” Marie said. Martin could have cried. “If Nate – is sounds like Nate?” Lydia haughtily sniffed an assent. “Of course it was. If he mentioned it in passing, well,” Marie shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe he heard wrong. Maybe they leave and there is no investigation, or statements for the sectioned officers – just some guy who cut himself with a breadknife. Hardly a fifth floor incident.”

Grateful as he was, Martin was wholeheartedly prepared to shove Lydia into Marie and tip them both to the ground if need be. Should buy Tim time to get Jon out.

Martin didn’t have time to come up with any more of a terrible plan then that. With a deeply pained sigh, Lydia let her clipboard hang loose in one hand, the other massaging her temple. “Fine. Fine. There was no address – no stab wound,” she seemed to be talking to herself. “Great. I’ll tell Owen that Nate was mistaken and... that’s that.”

“Thank you.”

“No.” Lydia refuted Martins quiet relief vehemently. “You aren’t thankful because we never met, okay? Now all of you – out.” She yanked the door handle, aggressively introducing the hallway glare and clamor to the sticky silence of the exam room.

Martin contained a sigh. The crisis was averted; she didn’t have to be rude about it. Putting that assessment to the side, Martin wriggled out of his jumper. He wasn’t about to drag Jon back into the waiting room without a shirt on. Without fanfare he interrupted the involved conversation Jon and Tim were having, swamping Jon in material. The bloodstain wasn’t terribly neutral, but he didn’t have heaps of options with Tim as drenched as Jon. Studiously ignoring Lydia’s clipboard tapping, Martin took his place on Jon’s other side as Tim gingerly helped direct armholes.

“I’ll see them out,” Marie said, following as Lydia supervised tersely.

“See that you do,” Lydia said. She turned on her heel and left.

Good riddance. Martin stuck his tongue out at her retreating back. Jon saw and promptly got the giggles. A shy, rusty little laugh, one of the hundred million reasons Martin was so hopelessly in–

“Are you from the Magnus Institute?”

Marie’s question ripped up the tracks on that particularly gay train of thought. Martin mused for a moment. Progress with Jon was slow, they had a few more turns until the exit. “Does it matter?”

Marie tsk’d and opened her mouth to respond, then paused, taking in the three of them. Evidently they passed scrutiny. Deflating slightly, she exhaled and slowed her pace to better match Jon’s limping. “I wish it didn’t.”

“Me too.”

She was silent for a few steps, then broke into a detailed run down of everything Martin needed to know for aftercare. Martin cut her off, fumbling with his phone for the voice memo app. No way he could keep that many directions in his head. Her instruction saw them to the lobby.

“If I say thank you, will you bite my head off?”

Marie snorted. “No, you’re safe. Not that you have much to thank me for - I would have liked to get some fluids in him. Afraid this will have to do.”

“You did a lot.” Martin said. On the way she managed to snag a handful of prescription quality painkillers to help Jon for the next few nights. The man in question was currently poking at the freckles on Martin’s arm. He could hear Tim’s heel bouncing. “I – we – appreciate it.”

Her smile was tired, but looked honest. “Take care.” She held the door open.

The lobby was as unpleasant as they left it. Martin managed to nudge an egregiously clingy Jon and worryingly vacant Tim to the back wall. And promptly had to relocated the three of them when Tim made eye contact with the desk clerk, forcing Martin to resort to a blind grab for the back of his collar.

Somehow, eventually, he corralled Jon and Tim outside, to a bench a few meters from the clinic entrance. The sky was dark, rain a shadowy promise.

“Wha’er we doin?” Jon asked, faintly perplexed. He was draped over Tim, collar of Martin's jumper dipping wildly past a sharp collarbone.

Martin managed to hastily quash the desire to replace all of Jon’s clothing with XL sweaters and respond with barely notable hesitation. “We’re going home.”

Jon scrunched up his nose. It was adorable. “You don’ know where I live.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re coming over to mine. Both of you.”

Tim’s head snapped up. “Martin–”

“Nope. No. Jon needs help and I can’t–” Now wasn’t when Martin expected his throat to close up, but his body had other plans. Apparently admitting there was something he couldn’t do by himself wasn’t permissible. “I just can’t.” Tim was clever, he could figure it out. “And there’s a tape you need to hear. I don’t want any of us spending the night on our own.”

Tim nodded slowly, hands loose in his lap and looking as serious as a man with Jonathan Sims koala hugging him could. “If you say so Marto.” Tim reached around Jon to stop him tipping over, effectively surrendering to his new role of Archivist jungle gym.

Unlocking his phone to book a hopefully nonjudgmental uber, Martin heard Tim address Jon.

“What do you say boss man?” Tim asked, “up for a sleepover?”

Chapter Text

Fine. Wait – no –

Muddled. If he had to put a word to it, and Jon wasn’t sure he had the wherewithal – what an odd word that was, what could one wear with an all – to commitment. He was a blurry march to match one thing to the next, placement to purpose and he was supposed to care, he was pretty sure, not that a sure could be pretty, and yet–

Fuzzy. The word he wanted had edges parting like fur. Unpredictable and beyond following any attempts or nudges to control, contorting and yet–

Floaty. Was that a word? Sounded made up, pretend, the same similar way his feet were touching the floor and not. A carpeted affair, reaching for the walls under sparse furniture, lonely collection huddling for comradery. Fabric faded fraying not without the care of bright throw blankets and unmatched pillows. Insistent instability a bit out and to the left of landing on the couch he considering anticipating after it happened. And yet–

Why was he trying to find a word? There were so many and too few which was nearby neighbors of a dichotomy of a paradox of a literary term he memorized in grade eight on a notecard written in purple ink from the pen he found under the table in the library–

“Jon?” Tim leaned over, hand cupping Jon’s elbow to steady his lean towards an unfamiliar coffee table in search of the long lost purple pen. “Hey bud. How are you feeling?”

There it was. Question. Traditionally requiring an answer. Under normal social conventions, Jon knew he was scripted to say fine but he was... muddled – fuzzy – floaty – No. He was fine. He had to be fine with Tim acting careful which wasn’t normal nowadays. And yet–

“Admittedly, that might be a tricky one.” Tim amended, “Don’t worry about it.” He gave Jon’s knee a pat. Felt nice. Jon hummed, pleased he was pat worthy amid the distractions of deep blue curtains and secondhand shelving. The majority burdened by a frankly alarming enthrallment of snow globes. He wanted to ask after the purpose and potential of the parading collection and for that he needed... not Tim. Who was left? After the car driving too fast making him queasy and the forever staircase and the couch, that left him and Tim and–

“Where’s Martin?”

“Same place as when you asked before boss, putting new sheets on the bed so you can get some rest. Give him a couple minutes.”

“It’s not even dark out,” Jon huffed. Tim’s half curve of a smile found this amusing for an unadvertised reason. Jon scowled. He wasn’t wrong. No more than the confusion of notebooks and half burned candles on the coffee table could be incorrect. He couldn’t be, with no evidence to speak contrary of his assessment. Which meant there wasn’t any need to be - “Rude. You’re rude.”

“I’m rude?” Tim said, lodged between baffled and put upon.

“You are being rude. Again.” Jon leaned forward, legs curling to stand. He didn’t have to put up with this, no matter how nice a pat on the leg felt. He was foiled by Tim’s gentle restraining, one hand coming up to press down on his shoulder.

“Ah, no. The friendly nurse lady wanted you off your feet, remember?”

Jon didn’t. “I remember you saying I can’t talk to Martin.” He couldn’t quite, but the outcome of time passing him by had resulted in a clear absence of his Martin. Wait.

“For like two minutes!”

The truth remained amid the rest: “Rude.”

~~~~~~

Tim wasn’t sure if laughing or crying would have mirrored the diluted exasperation crawling around and seeking recompense in his response as the two of them sat dripping on Martin’s couch. He was starting to wish he volunteered to strip the bed instead of taking responsibility for... Jon. There was precedent for putting on pillowcases. Being denounced as rude, repeatedly, by Jonathan Capable of Reducing a Librarian to Tears for Putting Aside the Wrong Book Simms had none.

“Coming from you that’s rich,” Tim said. “You’re the one tearing into Martin’s reports and making interns cry. I hardly think–” Tim broke off, sandstone handhold of a caustic comment crumbling. He hadn’t meant to say that. While the nature of recent revelations might serve an excuse for off the cuff erosion to be less of a dick, Jon’s stricken expression took the explanation and ground it to guilt.

Jon’s bickering posture tipped out, half glass of indignation dumped down the drain. He shrank away, folding like a thrown pop up book landed wrong. “I, I don’t, I mean,” Jon’s hands twisted in his lap, eye contact fumbled and falling. A slapdash coin flip from unfocused belligerency to distressing near clarity over Tim’s mistimed mockery. Shit. “I’m not, I mean, I know, I know I’m not good at, at.”

“Jon I didn’t mean,” Tim wasn’t sure what he could have meant, but Jon began picking up speed and sincerity at a dizzying pace, retreating from the stabilizing hand Tim had on his shoulder. Tim didn’t have time to be properly panicked at how thoroughly a sentence destabilized Jon’s gentle distracted airs since arriving at Martin’s flat as he continued.

“I’m bad at – at. Being nice? I don’t mean to be. I don’t want to be.” Runaway railcar rambling and Tim had been left at the station with one hand hovering uncertainly. Grabbing his hair, Jon’s fingers twisted in frizzy curls half free from his hair tie. “I know it's not okay! I shouldn’t and I have but I’m–”

“Whoa, whoa okay,” Tim reached quickly despite Jon’s flinch. His fault, but the hand Jon buried in his damp hair had begun to yank, hard. His fingers folded over Jon’s, careful not to add any pressure. His other hand caught Jon’s elbow again as he tipped towards the edge of the couch – Jon grabbed right back, painfully.

“M’sorry.” Jon said, stumbling towards a whisper. Nose to nose with Tim, his blown out pupils threatened to eclipse the rings of pale hazel. “I don’t want to be like– like me. I know you’re – you’re mad. I’m trying?”

With the laugh or cry debate a smoking demolition crater, the fractured, shattering bit of sanity from earlier offered a third tempting option of complete dissociation at the look of abject misery on Jon’s face. Tim may not have been solely responsible, but he played a part. Critically acclaimed and shoo in nomination for Best Supporting Asshole. And this right now, this was his fault.

Tim opened his mouth, but Jon spoke first.

“Right?”

“Right what, Jon?”

“I wouldn’t, wouldn’t–” Jon snagged on the sentence, fingers curling tighter into Tim’s sleeve, gnawed nails incapable of digging indents. “I wouldn’t feel awful all the time if I wasn’t trying – right?”

“What are you trying to do?” Tim prompted softly. He owed Jon this much. To listen.

“To not be this way? I’m, I’m tired. Tired of being scared.” Jon said. He didn’t appear confident in his own appraisal, tap twisted, flood draining. Tension was gradually displaced, breaths unsteadily weary. “I’m trying... not to be scared? I don’t like how I – how we changed. I miss talking and, and...” he was searching the air now, the frantic insistences removed by a haunted shadow Tim watched Jon wear around the office. Jon huffed.

“I miss talking too.” The honesty felt foreign on his tongue. Unbroken truth he hadn’t realized was nailed shut, trapped below opaque glass. Might not be the worst turn to take if the wide eyed expression Jon was failing to hide held the same sliver of hope Tim was scrambling for.

It was distraction enough, real enough, Tim could coax Jon’s hand out of his hair. Jon did take the pink hair bobble – probably belonged to Sasha – with him. The rest of his curls fell loose and messy. As usual, it took about a decade off his sharp edges. His response was percolating as Tim nudged Jon back to a more comfortable position. Tim waited quietly in case Jon had more to say, but the thread seemed to have unraveled with his ponytail. The wandering of Jon’s expression betrayed sedation still circulating as he started fussing with the hair tie absently. Slow blink, glancing around, the checked-out preclusion to every query:

“Where’s Martin?”

“Here!”

Tim was abruptly rendered obsolete by the return of his coworker, Martin's cheerful affect barely showing signs of worsening wear at the rainwater Tim and Jon had soaked onto his furniture.

The subsequent Jon herding from couch to a quick towel dry to pajamas to Martin’s bed adopted a stop motion quality of Tim attempting assistance and encountering reverse herding of himself towards the shower. A disarming inevitability Tim found he couldn’t combat. He would make it up to Martin later.

Martin and Jon, he amended, staring at his disheveled reflection over the fluffy folded towel Martin shoved into his arms before wheeling him down the hall to the bathroom. He would make it up to both of them. He was tired, drenched and needed to reconsider the past several months of his behavior. But if something was going to give, he reasoned, tugging off his soaked socks with a grimace, it sure as hell wouldn’t be him.

Chapter Text

Despite weeks of hyping for inevitable horrors, waking up in the dark was infinitely worse than Jon expected. He slept with the lights on since she infiltrated the Institute, sensory hell that a lit bedroom was. To prepare, to know opening his eyes to darkness meant he wasn’t safe. He couldn’t be too careful, except clearly he hadn’t been because the room was dark, dark, dark.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. To adapt his vision to lacking light, of course. Not a pitiful hopeless moment wasted wishing his way to safety; if he could have conjured up such a location to begin with. Perhaps that was why shadows remained when he cracked an eyelid. Not for lack of wanting. No, he lacked a life where safety deigned to exist in a conceivable shape or form following the Institute raid. A foundation riddled with needling holes, chewing and gnawing and spitting out his bids to uncover answers. His flat was no better. She trapped Martin effortlessly, and Jon doubted his absence from work would instigate more than relief.

His fault, another botched precaution to push away, interrogate, anaylize. Antagonizing those who bore witness to a statements indisputable veracity. At least he was alone in this failure, hadn’t dragged them down in the dark–

Was he?

Amid the spiral, blackened responsibility cut apart the instinctive paralysis holding him. An unforgivable ember of unhinged optimism, that he might share the dark with Martin or Tim sparking a reflexive urge to investigate. He couldn’t feel any restraints. Whatever had him either didn’t find him a threat (fair enough) or wasn’t concerned about escaping attempts. Tensing, Jon pushed himself up. Tried to, at least.

Mistake. Swift punishment for painting a parallel terror upon his colleagues dealt a violent tearing pain across his side. The shallow reserves of air twisting in his lungs collided with what was left of a gasp, body recoiling into soft sheets he didn’t own. Fuck. Eyes watering, peeling thoughts contorted around a hurt flaring sharp and deep. Not the mangled muscle ache a multiplicity of worms made commonplace, no. A new invention of unpatented agony stealing raggedy coherence with a careless swipe.

Bad. Worse than. He hurt, that fucking hurt and now it wasn’t just dark, he wasn’t just lost and taken and confused and scared he hurt and breathing was a difficult and heavy and heaving variable, every shoveled breath overturning his chest.

Out in the dark, footsteps approached. When silence would have served the faintest security, Jon choked on air. He couldn’t help it. The splitting pressure curling down from his sternum worsened with every noisy wheeze, as if someone unseen had hooked into his side with a can opener and was wrenching the handle with gusto.

He was being too loud he wasn’t – couldn’t catch his breath on his back, couldn’t right himself. Each inadvertent spasm grew the claws raking into his side. He squeezed his eyes shut again, memories jangling like keys falling from nerveless hands. Not claws it had been – knife – blades or hands or – he could be quiet, had to be, but he couldn’t – couldn’t be any more scared couldn’t –

Hands catching his shoulders disproved that. He could actively escalate panic to pure terror, use the undistilled certainty of death to shove back and away and make everything worse, punctuated by an unwilling whine.

“Jon.”

A bedside lamp clicked on. The impossibly dark figure holding his shoulders wasn’t a shadow construct. No, beyond the shuddering slice cutting into his torso Jon found two twitching handfuls of worn hoodie; the stretching of fabric connected to a blurry, concerned Martin.

“Hey, look at me okay? It’s just me.”

“M– Mh– Mhar–” Syllables staged a revolt, tumbling out of a tall dying tree and hitting every brittle branch on the way down. He still hurt and it shouldn’t matter anymore because Martin was here and he couldn’t be, it wasn’t safe, he mattered more –

“Shhh, its okay, you’re okay. Focus on breathing, alright?”

Jon shook his head, desperate. Breathing probably should have been up there on the priority list, but a possible source of answers was as displacing as the fervent fear constricting his throat, the burning slash making his stomach lurch. “Wh-where, what–”

Martins exasperation met up on a familiar street corner with weary, anticipated acceptance. “You’re at my flat. You were hurt at the Institute, I met you and Tim at A&E.” Martins explanation rose calmly over the jumble of malformed memories wakefulness was attempting to order between Jon’s slower, shallower breaths that didn’t hurt the same. “You were seen, got a few stitches and we all came back to mine. You’re safe here, Tim and I are keeping an eye out.”

A respectable two thirds of Martin’s explanation washed up between Jon’s staggered breathing. Adrenaline, fickle flirt, was dispersing too rapidly to provide ground support amid the avalanche of implications recollection threatened to bury him in.

“You – but–” The sentence didn’t have an ending, deliberately rushing down a dead end alley. Fortunately, formal sentence structure was overridden by a wince when he tried to adjust.

“Careful please,” Martin chided. “I know how much you like to sit still, but you don’t get to argue today.” Propping him up between pillows, Martin brandished a glass of water and pressed a few chalky pills into his palm. Jon hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he drained the water, how shaky he was until Martin caught the glass when he dropped it neatly. Gave him time to come up with a few scrambled reasons to vacate the premise Martin promptly steamrolled. “I don’t want to hear about it not being safe for us, or how you can deal on your own. Tim and I are looking after you and that’s that. You’re safe here for the night.”

Martin’s dismantling of Jon’s flimsy forming points of contention landed direct body blows to Jon’s ego, took a desperate weight off the frenzied beating of his heart. An uncomfortably congealing mixture of guilt and heady relief tipped the scales to conspiratorially blur Jon’s vision. His next breath wasn’t distorted by the frantic, escape driven pressure from waking. A sad, mortifying little hiccup at Martin’s direct statement of fact found purchase and cashed in fully.

Safe. Looked after. That had never been for him. Jon didn’t want to hold eye contact but Martin’s determination had him pinned with the promise of a night without the light on. Frantically trying to swallow the hot rush of emotion, Jon felt heat rising in his cheeks in opposition to his weak efforts. He sent a useless little prayer Martin would see the error of his decision without Jon finding a way to explain why this was a horrible plan.

Predictably, no one was listening. Martin read something new, something penned hastily on Jon’s face amid the exhaustion that dulled his flinch when Martin brought his hand up to Jon’s cheek. Cool palm on burning skin, holding up an impossibly heavy head.

“It’s okay to need help.” Martin said softly.

Jon hated crying. Childhood tears were met with ridicule. Boys don’t cry. Another annoyance his grandmother shouldn’t have to deal with. He was hardly the only kid pushed to skin his knees on the playground. Walk it off. Get over it. Be better. If he really wanted the others to stop hating him, he would stop being a crybaby. Everybody hurt. Grow up. Cry in the shower like an adult. He did. He tried. He really, really tried.

Decades of diligence didn’t count for much at Martins gentle insistence. Jon would have ducked his head, hid behind his hair if Martin didn’t have his face in one broad hand when the lonesome hiccup was drop kicked into a messy sob. Couldn’t even provide Martin the courtesy of pulling back, hands clutching at the yellow hoodie. Didn’t have the spine to apologize for inflicting his inabilities on someone who had no reason to care.

“Oh Jon.”

Jon didn’t have a sliver of resistance to Martin gently nudging him to crumple into an approximation of a hug. Unacceptable. Fuck up. Failure. Bit late. Under his stifled sniffling there was something familiar and impossible to untangle from recent events about the feeling of arms around his shoulders. Jon couldn’t keep track of everything he had to make up for, unceremoniously giving up to focus on stuffy inhalations. How his side wasn’t quite as demanding; dropping below worm attack, above PT he had taken to skipping. Scales and rankings thrown to wayside when Martin ran a hand through his hair.

The default programming triggering evasive maneuvers in event of anyone touching his hair pulled an error message – whatever pills he swallowed dulled another preset parameter. Hands in his hair was supposed to hurt. Boys behind him in class, yanking hard. Pay attention Sims. His grandmothers wooden handled brush digging into his skull. Sit still or find a new face in the mirror, shorn too short. His own fingers a sharp tug back to reality. Forced focus.

This – it felt nice. Whenever Jon tied his hair back, the snarls and snags he told himself he didn’t have time to deal with put up a fight. The motion of Martin’s hand was not up to date with the longstanding conflict, delicately disentangling resistance forces. Gradually, Jon relaxed his grip on Martin’s hoodie, freeform fears brushed aside with each pass of Martins hand.

For once, falling asleep didn’t feel like a failure.

Chapter Text

Hovering at the door to his own bedroom, Martin found he was in real trouble of losing the staring contest he started with the burnished bronze doorknob. He hadn’t warned Tim. Back around the corner, hissing from the tape recorder resumed, barely reaching beyond the living room. The static lapped at his ankles, impatient for his return; a curiosity killed cat hungry for confirmation. Down the hall, he was spared the audio clarity inflicted by the adjacent kitchen where he had fidgeted over the kettle.

A warning would color Tim’s appraisal of the second tape. The hunch Martin chased after finding Jon’s blood, before the clinic. Progress required an unbiased interpretation. Why ruin the surprise an unpleasant voice provided.

Martin shook his head. Tim hastily pausing the first recording, Helen Richardson’s statement, to advise against knocking shouldn’t fuel retaliatory plotting. Despite how sheepish Tim’s instruction. Despite how damning admitting Jon was upset by knocking was. Despite the last month of Tim’s daily pounding on Jon’s office door.

Entertaining the notion of strangling Tim hadn’t finished playing out when Martin reached his bedroom. His permanently pleasant autopilot prevented the pale satisfaction of leaving without acknowledgement. He said, ‘Oh! Good to know. Thanks!’ and turned heel. Of course he did. Nothing like thanking the abuser for providing a secondhand crumb of comfort to their victim.

Too far. Another voice, stern, practical. Tim making an effort wouldn’t look pretty.

And Jon – Jon would forgive him. Without hesitation. Terrorizing someone was a great way to make them like you. Why hadn’t he thought of that.

Drawing a deep breath, Martin held it. Wasn’t his fault there were plenty of places to hide Tim’s body. But strangling was too personal, any investigator worth their badge would focus on close relationships to keep a shorter suspect list. Stabbing it was. Cathartic, but messy. And unfortunately, freshly cleaned carpet was conspicuous. Blunt force trauma it was. Knock him out, toss him from a fire escape or in the river. Not today, blame a weekend but – ah, fuck. He was calling out tomorrow to take care of Jon; suspicion and motive abound. Pity. No murder then.

He let out the breath in a purposeful, forced rush, mug of tea held perfectly steady. Intrusive thoughts, another voice singsonged, petty and teasing and smug. Who would stop you? Nobody needs to know, nobody would. Another breath. And out. And hold. And pack up the resentment, heart hurt, injustice for what was and would be and didn’t have to. Put a bow on it, pretty ribbon of insisting change would be cultivated. Variables evolved, improved. He had options, the majority of them significantly less murderous even if removing Tim would provide a short respite. Beside, Jon would never forgive him. If he found out. Which he wouldn’t.

Martin shook his head, ripping out the roots of another beautifully blooming crop of homicidal ideation. Enough. Placing his free hand resolutely on the cool brass knob, he nudged the door open, introducing a faint slice of light to the curtained bedroom.

Martin had to take a second, not just to let his eyes adjust. This was unfair, really. Unfair and illegal. A criminal crime for him, a humble gay, to be expected to act normally with Jonathan Sims snoring delicately a few feet away, in his bed. Jon was out, pillows and blankets crumpled around his tiny twiggy body. Dead to the world, sprawled car crash victim style to take up a ridiculous portion of Martin’s king size bed. Frankly a king was ridiculous in its own right, but Martin couldn’t be faulted for being 6’ 4’’.

Entering the room fully, Martin set the mug on the bedside table and permitted five long seconds of shameless pining. Was it weird to watch his boss sleep? Who cared. Tim was distracted by the tapes, this moment was a secret to hold between him and the armful of stuffed animals he had crammed under the bed with a hasty apology while changing the sheets. Not that Jon didn’t deserve to be guarded by the army of plushies, wouldn’t look adorable clutching Henry the stuffed whale shark instead of the pillow one arm had a ferocious grip on, fingers twitching, material bunched from his clutching. As if aware of Martin’s overwhelming gayness, Jon snuffled lightly, nose crinkling.

If he were the kind of person who could afford a chair for their bedroom, Martin would have had to sit down. The tension contorting Jon around the Institute held no sway here; undone by soft light and softer sheets. His hair, detangled, stuck out in messy angles from the graceless flopping Jon unconsciously inflicted. The darkened circles under his eyes hadn’t retreated, but his unclenched jaw and unfurrowed eyebrows exacerbated how obtusely Jon lied about his age. A gentleness, unintended calm Martin glimpsed when he woke Jon up from desk naps. Flicker of vulnerability snapped shut with bear trap brutality when reality rushed back.

Not now. As loath as Martin was to wake him, Marie’s recorded instructions were quite clear on maintaining a consistent dose of painkillers as the sedatives wore off. Turning on the bedside lamp first this time, Martin rested a hand on Jon’s shoulder. The man, enveloped in an extremely oversized sleep shirt, curled towards the physical contact.

How. How dare he. How could a couple pills impeccably remove the terror at touch Jon was warped by hours past. There wasn’t time to turn it over, Jon was blinking himself awake at the near inadvertent nonsense Martin was muttering.

“Hey there, you.” I care about you. “Did you sleep well?” I want you to feel safe. “You certainly needed it.” I need you to be okay. “Sorry to wake you,” I’m sorry I wasn’t there. “Time for some more medicine.”

Jon took in Martins words lazily, then nearly caused a death in the flat as he fully stopped Martin’s heart with a genuine, sleepy little smile. “Hey.”

Martin was saved visibly expiring as Jon’s eyes closed around an enormous yawn. I love you I love you I love you, you make this so impossible, I love you.

“Whas goin’ on?” Jon asked, languidly rolling his shoulders. He paused, scrunching his nose as Martin bit his tongue so hard his eyes watered. It worked, absent heartbeat resuming shakily, capacity for speech downloading in a messy pile as Jon continued to squirm. “I feel weird.”

“Time for meds, that’s all.” Martin said, impulsively brushing Jon’s bangs out of his eyes. Fuck it. He was queer as hell, Jon needed comfort. These were not mutually exclusive. Jon leaned in, cat nudge, no indication Martin’s explanation registered. “Can I help you sit up?”

“Mmm,” Jon hummed, thinking deeply. “Do I need help?”

“I think so. You’re recovering and I don’t want you to strain your side.”

“So you’ll help?” The first lines of worry arrived, never far from wakefulness with Jon.

“If that’s alright?” Martin said, not pushing.

“Is that... mmm. Allowed?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I won’t get... in trouble?” Jon asked, earnestly. “For needing help?”

Years on years of masking held strong as the rising tide of who did this to you I’ll kill them I’ll end them reared. Martin kept his voice light as every proffered cup of tea. “Nope. Not in the slightest.”

Appeased, Jon conceded to being maneuvered, all awkward limbs and sharp elbows. Any trepidation was tempered, dispersing with a few sips of tea, disappearing entirely at disapproval over the medications coating’s bad taste.

A gentle conversation looped, explanation and distraction carried up and down and gradually improving in coherence. Innocuous, if half of Martin’s computing power wasn’t in a state of pure chaos. Midsentence Jon had casually grabbed his hand and was rocking their interlaced fingers back and forth absently. This was how he died.

“Tim’s here?”

“Yup.” A second affirmation, first time Jon hesitated over the query. Last time, fussing with the gauze distracted.

“Is he...,” Jon turned his attention resolutely towards the lamp, rocking of their hands increasing. “Is he mad? At me?”

“No, he’s not mad.” And he won’t be, ever again. It’s not allowed. I won’t let him.

“Oh.” The puzzled head tilt returned. “Well. That’s good.” Jon nodded, biting at the corner of his lip. Another anxiety tell.

“You two go back a ways, huh?” The observation slipped out, narrow floorboard gap of compulsive information gathering intruding. Why was he like this. But.. one question couldn’t hurt.

Martin wished he were better at lying to himself.

–Jon-

Jon felt the words before he heard them, mind scrambling in a mire of memories as Martin continued, “With the Blake statement? And–”

“The Blake statement?” Jon hadn’t meant to interrupt. Interrupting was rude. But he couldn’t keep up. Tim wasn’t mad. But Tim and the Blake statement meant something, to Martin at least. He had to keep up.

“Antonio Blake I think? You thought Sasha or I did it. As a joke.” Martin’s voice tipped slightly, subtly, away from the easy assurances Jon blundered between since waking. Not in a way Jon could have pinpointed if he hadn’t spent hours obsessing, listening to his assistants conversations through the door. A paper thin edge of concern, gossamer and trailing across the muddling haze of medication.

Martin rarely asked direct questions. Open ended statements peppered casual conversations, spurring clarifications and explanations and Jon – he knew this – but it worked because, because...

“No. I –” Jon couldn’t organize all the cluttered overhead space. Words and fragmented recollections, so poorly held in place by disintegrating veins of logic shoved aside the dusted cobwebs, “I don't remember telling you?”

“Oh –” Martin's hand stilled. Broken threads constricted frantically at his thoughts and if Jon wasn’t made of twisted sticks and wet sand he would catch his careless question and shove it out of sight. The knowing, the surety of one stupid statement was buffeted by a crushing aching pressure. He shouldn’t have said that, he wasn’t supposed to. He did it again. He did something wrong, adrenaline surging at the sight of Martin turning red in the half light of the lamp and open door.

“I might have, well, I did,” Martin said, correcting himself. Jon clung to the words, fighting the swarming scraps of fatigue crowding his hard won clarity. "I, uh. Listened to that statement. When I was living in the archives. There were a good uh, few weeks of pretty awful wifi? And a lot of tapes laying around.” Martin pulled back, freeing his hands and pressing them to the top of his thighs. Jon waited, dizzy in his desperation to concentrate, because what else was he supposed to do? Unless that was wrong?

Martin's silence started carving a hole in Jon's chest, far more aching and hollow than his gauze wrapped side. Gradually the contents, context of Martin listening to the tapes crystalized into a heat warped mirror of mounting recollection. No amount of medication could prevent that awareness; every shitty thing Jon delivered to the whirring recording device spinning down and up his throat.

Martin was pointedly looking anywhere but Jon and god, he did that, he spewed abuse and disgust and Martin heard it and if he didn’t want to talk to Jon anymore, or see him again, or acknowledge him that was – fine – it had to be, it was his fault – but he was still in the room – why hadn’t he left – Jon had to –

“Sorry.”

Martin looked up, startled

Jon was pulling at all the loose tethers and jumbling worries and inadequacies behind the scenes of every horrible thing he recorded. “I know I said - I said, I didn't think, I don't, I mean,” What started as an ardent insistence was rapidly gaining ground on true incomprehensibility. Useless, stupid idiot. "I wasn't nice.” Not enough, he was horrible, he was awful, he was– “I’m. I’m,” God what was he. Not worth Martin’s time. Needed to get to the damn point so Martin could leave forever. Breathing was secondary. “S-sorry."

The last admittance pressed Jon's eyes closed because Martin had to leave, to get up and walk out and close the door shut tight if it opened again it would lead to who knew where and he deserved it but he didn’t want to see it, he was weak – awful –

“Jon.”

“Jon, hey.”

“Jon, careful!” The voice turned direct, actionable. “You're gonna hurt yourself." Big, warm hands enveloped the short swipes Jon was clawing where the overlarge sleeves of Martin's shirt - god he was wearing Martin's clothes he did not deserve –

"Can you look at me?"

Jon didn’t want to, or maybe he did. There wasn’t room to decide around the heartbeat crawling around and testing the bars of his ribcage, knowing this was how he lost Martin.

"Please?"

The chipped echoing in his chest took pause at Martin's soft inflection. Amid the wreckage, clear instruction clicked. Don’t be rude. Looking up from beneath his eyelashes Jon found Martin quite close. Arms reach, with both of Jon's hands tucked into his, cautiously trying to catch Jon's wide eyes.

"I didn't mean it." Jon was caught in a whisper by what he didn't mean. Didn't mean to be an arrogant jerk. To get caught. To hide behind discrediting and dismissive jabs. Didn't mean the tangled together swarm of guilty excuses plying for purchase. In the dim glow of Martin's bedroom, ungratefully swamped in comfortable clothing and blankets, meaning was lost.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Martin said, concern evident. The gentle empathy radiating off him was the polar opposition of any precedent Jon could process. Being told off? Shouting? A good shove to remind him of his place? Jon knew what to do with that. Quiet sympathy for an inability to own up to his spectacular fuckery - there wasn't anything to do but gape at Martin. He would have liked to hide his trembling but Martin had a careful hold of Jon’s tremoring hands.

"Besides," Martin said, slight twist to his expression. "I didn't have to listen to those tapes. You didn't know I would."

"Doesn't - doesn't make it better," Jon said, shaking his head too quickly. He listed closer than he was meant to, terrifying inches from Martin's face. In that space, a space too small for uncontrolled shaking and unsteady breathing and unbroken eye contact, Jon well and truly misplaced his unhealthy misgivings. A question passed his lips, flipping the bird to self preservation on the way past. "Why did you?"

Martin’s eyebrows jumped "Why did I? oh - I. Well." His words neared the erratic pattern of Jon's heartbeat, but he hadn't pulled away. The blush on his cheeks was doing its level best to hide the smattering of freckles Jon had never counted while Martin toyed with incomplete thoughts. "I guess, I just,"

Martin breathed deeply, as if dredging for an acceptable response to pull from a pause. His eyes found their way back to Jon’s, voice pitching up an inadvertent string of octaves. "I... well. I like... listening to your voice."

The door, already open, slammed against the frame with enough force to rattle the lamp on the side table as Tim fell into the room.

-Tim-

Tim didn’t mean to interrupt a moment, but he wasn’t breathing right. Or at all. The recorders hissing from the second tape chased him off Martin’s couch, overrode decorum or pretense or a polite way of entering because there was a voice on the recording that didn’t belong.

Why Martin had the tape of Jon’s birthday wasn’t a question worth asking. How he took Michael’s passing insistence they were lying and drew a line to the lost recordings didn’t matter. None of that shit mattered because Sasha wasn’t –

“Tim?”

He couldn’t get words out, was guided to sit at the edge of the bed and promptly slid off, back to the bedspring. The lamp was blinding bright, room pitch black, Sasha hadn’t – she didn’t – “It’s not her.” Crouching next to him, Martin’s face turned grim. “You – you knew.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Martin said, quiet. For a wild moment, Tim wanted to call Martin a liar. There was no way to mix up the voices. “I thought, well. I hoped I was wrong. That I wasn’t hearing it right.”

No. Not lying. Hopeful. Martin hoping wasn’t outside the norm. If anything, a hopeful Martin was the closest to his day to day as Tim could get, no matter how it rankled his nerves the past weeks. Maybe this was why. Martin wanted things to be okay.

They weren’t.

“Tim?” With Martin distracted Jon managed to scramble closer and was leaning precariously over the edge of the bed. “You... okay?”

No. He wasn’t. He opened his mouth to snap, to tell Jon not to be stupid, to shut the hell up. A sharp squeeze on his shoulder intercepted the vitriol and sent a spike of pain down his arm. Fuck. Martin had grabbed him across the last worm plaster. Martin couldn’t have known it was his bad shoulder – it hurt all the same, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes. Forced break in the gut punch reaction. Hurt on hurt. Tim reconsidered with all the grace of a thrown landmine, teeth grinding. Shoving down a grunt of pain brought back the last 6 hours of hell Jon was dragged through, spotlight reminder of what being an asshole led to.

“Ah – no. Not really.” Tim ground out. That, at least, was true.

The concerned sound from Jon’s direction was intrinsically out of place. Secondary surprise to push the problems he had – they all had – in to frame the shock of the contradictory tapes. Wasn’t Jon’s fault. Martin certainly hadn’t caused this; being clever and connecting the dots didn’t create culpability.

With the two outlets for anger clearly labeled as noncombatants, hate circled the drain uncomfortably, rage pulled out one stitch at a time, laces drawn around the fact of the matter.

Something was wrong with Sasha and he hadn’t noticed.

“You can sit on the bed.” Jon’s statement was mildly baffling, but no more than anything else this afternoon. “Unless you want to be on the floor. The floor can be good sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed, surprised how rough his voice was. “Might stay down here for a bit.”

“That’s fair,” Jon declared sagely. “You want company?”

“Uh –” Fuck if he knew. Martin caught his confoundment and shrugged a little helplessly. “I’m okay.”

“Hmpf.” Jon clambered out of his line of sight. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Less than half a minute and Jon’s breathing evened out. Tim took a while longer, lapsing into silence lest he disturb Jon. He did slouch into Martin when his coworker settled beside him.

“Do you think she’s –” Tim cut off.

“I don’t know,” Martin sounded weary, a bit of the weight he carried sinking into his voice. “I’m so sorry Tim.”

Fuck. He was going to fucking cry, sat on the floor of Martin’s bedroom and he didn’t even know why. They didn’t know what it was. The odds of it being anything other than awful were poor to none.

Swallowing thickly, Tim let his head fall back on the mattress. “Yeah. I just. I don’t know what to do.”

“I think,” Martin started, “that might be a tomorrow problem.” Tim snorted. “I’m tired,” Martin continued, “and I know you are too. This bed is fucking massive.” Tim snorted again. Martin so rarely swore. “Lets just... sleep. Figure out a plan in the morning, yeah?”

It was miles better than what Tim could formulate. “I think,” Tim said, copying Martins delicate phrasing, “you might be right.” Clambering on to the massive bed, bracketing a senseless archivist, Tim shut his eyes tight and let himself drop, exhausted, into darkness.

Chapter Text

Jon throwing up wasn’t unexpected. Disappointed but not surprised still left Martin’s heart hurting as Jon’s narrow frame weakly convulsed under his hands. Thankfully he hoisted Jon to the bathroom at the first sign of trouble. Truthfully, ‘throwing up’ might be too charitable a descriptor – at this point Martin couldn’t imagine Jon had anything but coffee and stomach acid to contribute. Jon rapidly tapered off to dry heaving, folded tremulously over the toilet for the past three minutes. Maintaining his steady repertoire of hushing, Marin checked the arm he barred over Jon’s chest wasn’t putting pressure on his stitches, waving Tim off from hair holding duty as he rested Jon back on his knees.

Jon’s panting, interrupted with a slight hitch or sniff echoed off the bathroom tile as he settled, Tim arriving with a damp washcloth as Martin started to ask. The effect was largely smudging evidence of tear tracks, causing the red around Jons eyes to stand out over his grey complexion, but each breath slowed incrementally. If Martin wasn’t occupied preventing Jon curling over he would have thanked Tim, but the entirety of the day and the evolving workplace threat crept with spider web stickiness into the tension connecting muscle and bone.

Martin blinked. The fuck. Loath as he was to admit any mortal failings he might actually need to sleep if his brain was cooking up morbid bullshit like that. Hardly qualified as poetic, more displacement of sanity. Another completely normal thought.

“Do you think he threw up his meds?” Tim burned the cobwebs away in a smoking arc.

Martin mused as Jon’s breathing evened out gradually under his hands, narrow back sinking into his hold. The lack of instant gay pining was another resounding tally mark in the column marked Sleep Now Or Experience Extreme Regret. “It’s possible? It has been a few hours. Marie mentioned it could make him nauseous.”

“Should he have another dose?” Tim shifted foot to foot, a well-built pendulum of Martin’s own desire to start rocking.

“Probably not. The last one was for the rest of the night and, well...” Martin looked down, belatedly processing a lack of input from his drowsy archivist. Jon traded thick gasps for measured breaths. His eyelids were heavy and flickering, not unlike the videos of kittens falling asleep Martin caught Jon watching in the reflection of the office windows during a department meeting. What.

Okay, he had officially lost the plot. Really, really needed to go to bed. “If he wakes up before the next dose is due we can sort it then.” More medication was scheduled in his phones alarm for 6am, a glorious, delirious 8 hours from the current time. Recommended amount of sleep or whatever. Who gave a shit.

Tim’s reflection in the mirror nodded. “Works for me.” Rinsing the washcloth again in the sink, he hovered awkwardly.

Tensing, Martin realized belatedly his left leg was asleep. Perfect. “Can you take him to bed?”

Tim acquiesced quickly, scooping up Jon with the solid form of a man familiar with the gym despite a month of PT. Gently removing a barely conscious Jon from Martins hold with a quiet ‘hup’, Tim exited the bathroom.

Alone on the bathroom floor was disconcertingly familiar to too many nights seeking respite behind the last lockable door in the house. Numb leg forgotten Martin stumbled to his feet, nearly taking out his row of nail polish on the counter as pins and needles protested.

Unfortunately, standing meant confronting the damn mirror, pair of overwide eyes behind crooked glasses blankly staring back. Great. Fabulous. In work clothes a shred of decorum could be touted with a collared shirt. In a baggy t shirt and flannel pajama bottoms he neared Jon’s level of bedraggled. Tim, of fucking course, managed to look healthy in Martins oversized sweats and hoodie, hair not remotely worse for wear after a shower and towel dry. Why did he care. Martin slapped his glasses down and shoved the heels of his hands into his face, hard edges of his skull digging in below his eye sockets. If he pressed hard enough he could press out the fatigue and wet weight of emotions begging for release. Anything to take the edge off. Anything with an edge–

“Fuck.” Speaking out loud forced the social potential of Tim hearing and coming to investigate as an instigator to hurry up and wash his face. “Fuck fuck shitty fuck fuckery fuck.” The muttered mantra carried Martin through a rapid evening routine of bare minimum teeth brushing. So intent on playing at a normal functioning adult – ha – the reality of sleeping next to Jonathan Sims didn’t land till he arrived at the bed.

There was no protocol for this. As he delicately crawled under the sheets and Jon flopped an arm over Martins side, his singular wish was he could stay awake longer to enjoy it.

~

There was blood everywhere. The sheets were sticky with it, catching and sliding between his fingers as Martin fumbled awake. In the half light of the bedside lamp the dark spreading stain fairly glistened, puddling in the creases of the bedding and Jon was – Jon wasn’t –

Martin couldn’t find him, the bed wasn’t that big if the idiot had gotten up bleeding Martin would kill him, he had to find him, but Martin couldn’t take his eyes off the cooling patch of deep red, oozing up and around and bleeding into the material of his pajama pants, soaking and pulling and – he couldn’t breathe. Jon wasn’t there, where the hell was Tim, what was this –

Waking up choking on air wasn’t a new phenomenon for Martin. Waking up calamitously with two other people in bed was novel, and not in a way he was willing to process in the dark early morning hours. Brushing off Tim’s bleary query with a hoarse “nightmare” Martin stumbled towards the bathroom.

He needed light. Proof of blank skin, clean clothing. Not the distortion sleeping fed him, the curling and stretching, riot of red. Bloody hunger wanting, waiting, unwrapping skin.

The bathroom greeted him with the over statured nature of stadium lights on cheerful hand towels and fuzzy rugs as Martin’s eyes struggled to adjust. Breathing was staked firmly in camp optional, Martin searched blindly for a grounding texture, sitting heavily on the toilet seat and reaching into the shower to fiddle with his orange loofa. It smelled of the cheap lavender soap he bought on discount at the Super Tesco down the block. Memories, patterns cemented in what used to be a patently boring world. Adjacent to this new reality where coworkers were replaced and his crush left blood trails in the breakroom. And then wound up in Martin’s flat. In his bed.

A murmured conversation trickled under the door. Crush and increasingly shitty coworker in his bed, he amended, ignoring the growing dizziness. You're fine. You have to be fine. He would be. For Jon. Which would be a considerably easier task if Tim stepped up, or stepped out. A tender tendril of disgust and frustration began a delightful little coil of distraction from the desperate pounding of his heart.

Martin pushed out a sharp sigh and started counting breaths in and out and he needed a minute. And if he let that little bite of gut deep rage feed into his grounding, well. It worked, didn’t it? He needed to be present and not hyperventilating and today that culminated in being a little pissed off at Tim. It was fine. He had to be fine.

He just needed a minute.

-Tim-

Martin had rolled out of bed at speed, closing the distance to the bathroom and the door as his one word response of ‘nightmare’ percolated towards a resemblance of meaning in Tim’s sluggish brain.

“Is Martin upset?”

Jon formulating a full sentence in 0.2 seconds flat was frankly unfair. “Uhh, yeah Jon. He had a nightmare.” Propping up on an elbow, Tim checked the time. 4am.

“Oh. Those are scary.” Jon’s voice was sleep rough but insistent.

“Yeah.” Tim agreed, rolling around the concept of wakefulness in his skull. Should he do something? Martin had closed the door to the bathroom. Not a lot of room for misinterpretation.

“Do you have bad dreams?”

Jon inexplicably gained coherence in the half second Tim rested his eyes. Because of course. The bear trap snap desire to brush off Jon’s interest in his sleeping habits wrestled with intentions of less assholery behavior. Being nice. Listening. Responding. He could do this. Shuffling, Tim sat up fully as cognizance put down a few more layers of brickwork. “Yeah. I have them too.”

Jon was fidgeting, propped up amid the pillow fortress they ensconced him in. It was a baffling amount of energy for a person Jon-sized to have with a significant dose of prescriptions strength sedatives in his system. He was eyeing Tim trepidatiously. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.” Tim wasn’t exactly sure what he was agreeing to but he was committed. Despite how adrenaline from waking had drained completely, and how the sigh crawling up from below where his lungs were supposed to start took proper effort to wrest into submission.

“I do too.” Jon said, gaze flitting around the dark room. “But I’m, I’m always alone.”

That was... not what Tim expected. Time rudely refused to afford him any additional seconds of consideration, merely adjusting his vision; Jon was a skinny shadow in the light leaking out from under the bathroom door.

“But Martin’s not alone. Cause we’re here.”

“Uh.” Tim reached to pull anything from the dark around him, searching the corners of the ceiling and finding nothing beyond what flat reality orbited his reach. Him, Jon and Martin were all in the flat. Not alone. Jon wasn’t incorrect. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Jon held the quiet for longer than Tim would have credited him for, arms gathered under his chin and worrying at the edge of the sheets. More determined then absent, as though the material would provide answers if he pinched it just so. “Can I ask you a question?”

Tim couldn’t muster a reason to say no. Maybe he didn’t want to anymore. “Sure.”

“Do you think Martin needs a hug?”

Of the innumerable events of the last, oh, 16 hours, Tim wasn’t sure if he needed to place Jon’s earnest concern and affectionate solution above or below knife hands on a scale of unprecedented to concerning. “Er,” Tim floundered. “You can ask him when he gets back?”

Jon nodded solemnly, muted glow from the digital clock catching his glassy eyes. “I can ask him when he gets back.”

Under the final carpet bombing of disturbed sleep contorting his thoughts, Tim was snagged in a second honesty trap. Should he stop this? Jon wanted to do something. It wasn’t from the traditional edition of Jon’s catalogue but, well. “I don’t see why not.” Tim responded finally.

His answer warranted additional deep thought from Jon, studying the middle distance intently. “Tim?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask another question?”

The potential he was still asleep and dreaming began gaining traction. Jon hadn’t been this chatty in their research days. Rubbing at his eyes Tim found no more inclination to turn Jon down than before. “Sure. You can ask another question.”

“Do...” Jon paused, chewing at the raw patch on his lip. An old habit, an anxious one. “...do you need a hug?” The distinct coating of hesitation in Jon’s soft inquiry was undermined by a direct thread of honest concern.

Tim didn’t –

He hadn’t –

Hell Jon never –

Even prior to his promotion, Jon was as approachable as the feral cats Tim caught his boss leaving treats for in the back alley, with a reaction speed to match. Tim never took it personal, learned to give Jon the space he had started bullying into the last month to get a reaction. Another unkindness stapled to the patchwork of needling Jon when they were all actively being hunted.

And Tim, well. Hadn’t had anybody ask, offer or so much as suggest without knotted strings attached in... in a while. No, he moved first, picked the time and meaning of a Sasha shoulder pat, bad attempt to ruffle Martins hair (the man was damn tall), tactile flirting on a night out.

“I’m sorry.”

Tim hadn’t realized he froze up until Jon spoke again, hushed apology folding up along with his shoulders, head dipping, curls hurrying to following the trajectory of assumed rejection.

“Jon–”

“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I won’t. I’m, I’m sorry.” The same fumbling for an explanation, paving over unintended mistakes Tim let him trip over on the couch earlier. Jon genuinely hadn’t done anything wrong, rooted in fear or not. He asked if Tim wanted a hug for fucks sake. Jon’s hands were twisting the bed sheets, waiting, waiting, worrying as silence stretched too far. “Tim?”

“I would like a hug.” Ungluing his tongue from the roof of his mouth was a trial, should have bought him time to frame a polite rejection and save Jon embarrassment in the morning.

Jon’s eyes darted up from behind the slightly less tangled curls Martin had brushed out after his shower. “You do?”

Tim nodded, not sure he did at all. Jon beamed. The worry of the last 30 seconds was abolished, abandoned, practically falling over Tim’s affirmation. Tim couldn’t help the tug of very, very weary smile when Jon sat up primly to move a pillow, carefully scooting closer to where Tim was slumped. Jon stopped within reach, watching expectantly.

Tim went to raise an arm when hesitation sent a shiver up his side. He stilled, considering. “Jon?”

“Mmh?” Jon tilted his head to the side, eyes wide and dilated.

“Do you want a hug?” Tim wasn’t sure what he was saying until the last letter fell into place.

The multitude of startled flinches, trip skips backward of the last month montaged to a chain reaction reminder of why Tim shouldn’t be taking advantage of Jon while he was clearly out of it. Jon deserved better than what Tim put him through. The hug may have been offered, but a drugged up decision lay heavy at odds with Tim’s sober choices to be downright unpleasant for weeks on end.

“Oh.”

Of the options Tim had filtering in his 4am logic center - Jon pulling back, Jon continuing to be a drugged up loon - Jon taking a full moments pause to consider Tim’s words hadn’t made the cut. Tim waited.

“Yes?” Jon said, question fraying on the edge of a deeper concern. “I don’t. I don’t think I like being alone. I keep... I keep saying it’s fine cause, cause it’s scary? To trust? But.” He swallowed, narrow throat working around the coarse scrape of his honesty, “I really would, uh,” Jon wasn’t trailing off so much as hiding his words in Martins sweater as he ducked his head again. Tim leaned in to catch the end of his sentence, a soft and guilty thing Jon was trying to bury: “I would like a hug.”

“Okay,” Tim said, “okay.” Turning carefully, he wove an arm over Jon’s narrow shoulder and was immediately rewarded with a deep and relaxed sigh as Jon melted into his touch. Okay, fine. Tim would grant Martin this, the curled up archivist side hug they modeled back in A&E was unexpectedly comforting. Jon’s uncoordinated attempt to hug back was kind of fucking adorable. Damnit.

Martin chose this moment to return. A goblin part of Tim’s brain wanted another minute of absolute cuddle bug Jon. One extracted with surprising force when he remembered how they ended up there in the first place.

“Hey Jon.”

“Mmh.” The response was decidedly uninterested.

“Martins back.” Jon’s eyes snapped open. Martin stood at the threshold, besotted perplexity at war with the paralysis of being announced to his own room.

Jon squinted up at Tim. “Don’t you have something you wanted to ask?” Tim said, disentangling from Jon’s noodle limbs.

Jon nodded seriously and with minor assistance from Tim was propped to face where Martin had taken root.

“Tim said you had a bad dream.” Jon spoke without preamble, barreling on with the grace of a bus with cut breaks. “Do you want a hug?”

Martin froze. Tim took to comprehending exactly how excruciating the stretch of silence he inflicted on Jon was half a minute prior. Jon, however, had developed an instantaneous immunity to non-answers, gaining steam to deliver his findings with muddled book report rambling.

“I asked Tim and, and he didn’t answer but then he said yes cause, because I said I wanted a hug too so if you were worried about that you don’t have to be.” Jon paused to inhale the breath Martin seemed to be forgetting. “Bad dreams are scary and I’m always alone and I don’t like that.” Jon frowned. “But right now I’m not alone, and you’re not so...so...”

Tim sat up a bit, sock feet resting on the carpet. Might need to step in. Martin’s continued doorway statue role was perhaps of the overwhelmed variety and springing loopy cuddly Jon on him at 4am might not –

“Yes.” Martins confirmation came out far more strangled than Tim’s. Jon perked up in a heartbeat, happy little hum rusty in his chest as he wriggled to the edge of the bed and, before Tim could snag at the back of his shirt, stood. Tim heard the slight hitch of Jon’s breath, not deterring the stumble step he took as Martin cleared the distance between them.

If a collision could be soft, Tim was safe in his assumption Martin would be the one to pull it off. Pressing his lips tight to prevent a horrendous wolf whistle, Tim fished around in the dark for his phone. Dully swiping 4:25am away, Tim fruitlessly opened and closed a few apps to offer a shade of privacy when Jon started humming again.

A card in a catalogue of absent, harmless habits Tim didn’t realize Jon clamped a lid on since the... worms. He pinned it on Jon shutting himself away in the office. But Tim knew the humming, the tapping, all the telltale Jon indicators – dropping off a report or passing in the hall – Jon was a small one-man band of absently playing passing surfaces for a keyless piano. He apologized in research for the habits when they shared desk space, compensating with a tightly curled fists or gnawing on chapped lips. Truth told, Tim clocked the precision appearance of a pill case when Jon’s phone alarm went off about a week in, the same rattling containers he walked Danny to pick up across their childhood. Tim made it clear he didn’t mind the stimming. The relief Jon took pains to hide was unmistakable.

Except Tim didn’t noticed when Jon stopped, when the worms must have made the flicker fast tapping difficult. Tim clenched, unclenched his hand. Felt the stretch of skin. One more thing he made about himself.

The bed dipped slightly, Tim glanced to see Martin maneuvering a freshly passed out Jon onto his back. Tim pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a sleep deprived snort, dropping back to whisper range as Martin returned his look. “Are you serious. He fell asleep?”

“He had a busy day,” Martin said, adjusting the covers.

Tim snorted. “That would be one way of putting it. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

“You.” Martin said firmly, still fussing with the covers. “Have other things to be sorry for. Not to me, and none of which I’m discussing now.”

Tim closed his mouth around whatever he hadn’t thought through properly. Let the quiet ride in the crumples of Jon’s almost snoring. For the worlds most tightly wound individual, sleeping Jon defied the concept of having a skeletal structure to begin with.

“Yeah.” Tim said finally. “I think you’re right.”

“Know it.” Martin said, unexpectedly severe. “I’m tired of everyone thinking what may or may not be their fault. Both of you have been proper idiots.”

Tim blinked. “Martin–”

“No. It’s 4am, both of you are in my flat, Jon’s been stabbed by who knows what and–” Martin cut off with a shake of his head. “I’m not saying we can solve this tonight Tim.” He looked over from the now creaseless smoothing of blankets bundled around Jon. “But I need to know you’re done purposefully scaring him. Or you can leave”

Tim blinked again. 4am Jon was one thing. 4am Martin was entirely something else. He nodded, nonplussed.

“I’d rather not do this without you.” Martin said, wrought iron peeling back from his inflection, pulling of reluctant nails to a night time tone. “I really, really don’t. But Jon was scared, and you’ve been cruel. I’m not excusing his behavior,” Martin continued with a raised hand. “The both of you need to - need to have a conversation, okay? Like properly talk instead of... whatever the hell this has been.”

Tim waited a moment. Talking over Martin felt a sure fire way to get ejected from the premises. When he had a handle on the silence and found his voice, Tim agreed.

“Good,” Martin said, whatever fighting spirit possessed him chased off by a yawn. “Good. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Tim said. “Not like we’re going into work tomorrow.”

“Hell no.” Martin muttered decisively. As the ridiculousness of the situation started to settle, Tim found himself on the losing end of a laughing fit.

“What - heh - what do you think Rosie is gonna tell Elias when we all call out?”

“The amount fucks I do not give–” Martin started, but was caught by his own late-night early-morning laughter. “Oh my god I – ahaha – I didn’t clean up the blood in the breakroom.”

“The scandal,” Tim said, pitched low, fighting to keep his shoulder shaking from disturbing Jon. “What will the librarians think? The researchers? You leaving a mess in the break room? How inconsiderate.”

“Tim I swear to god.”

“Whas funny?” Jon cracked an eye, the rest of his confusion swallowed by a jaw popping yawn.

“Aha, nothing. I mean,” Tim bit the tip of his tongue, grounded his giggles. Not being a dismissive asshole. Right. “Just talking about, uh,”

“How we should be sleeping,” Martin finished, coming to his rescue.

“S’not that funny.” Jon grumbled, petulant.

“You’re right,” Tim rallied, willing the live wire hysterics crawling down his neck, shoulders, and back towards the weight of the blankets, of the night. He turned his head to check on the sliver of Jon he could make out amid his pillow fortifications. “Rest is important. You should go back to sleep.”

“I was asleep?”

“Yeah Jon.”

Jon shifted a little, blinks slowing. Tim was well and truly committed to following suit and wresting whatever use he could out of the next few hours sleep when–

“Hey Tim?”

This was why he couldn’t have nice things. “Yeah Jon?”

“Can I ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

“Are... will you and Martin be here tomorrow?”

Tim didn’t hesitate. “We will be.”

“And I can stay?”

Tim answered as best he could around the kick to the chest Jon’s question delivered. “Wouldn’t have it any other way boss.”

“Oh.” Jon was nearing full on muzzy, eyelid barely holding back the weight of the past few hours, past week, past long, isolating month. “But, is it, is it...”

“Hmm?” Tim prompted quietly, not wanting to wake Jon if he had drifted off.

“Is it safe? F’r you?”

“Let us worry about that for a bit, okay?”

“You’shur?”

“Martin and I got this.” Did they? Fuck if Tim knew, but this time he didn’t feel the stubborn sting of hopeless confusion, with nothing and no one to help him find his bearings. Something was very, very wrong, but he wouldn’t be going it alone. “Get some sleep.”

“Mmkay.” Jon conceded, flopping an arm suspiciously in Martins direction and nuzzling out of sight. “You too.”

“Sure thing.” Tim said, smile ghosting as he let his eyes drift shut. “You’re the boss.”