#its sad jontim hours!!!

[behld]

@vestieg, tim.      i just wanna talk about it. sorry for freaking out.

there’s a deep exhaustion in both of them,      these days.      it was only a matter of time before all of the anger and frustration fizzled out and left only that      —      only that bone-deep weariness,      that too-late grief,      that endless need to do something without anything concrete to act upon      —      but still it surprises jon to hear tim say it.

it’s not that jon doesn’t want to talk,      only that it sounds like defeat to hear a sorry from tim’s lips,      sounds wrong in a way jon doesn’t care to analyze.      it’s been so long since they’ve really talked.      before prentiss,      before sasha,      before jon’s mislaid paranoia and tim’s righteous rage      :      he can’t even fault tim for that,      much as he wishes it isn’t the case,      because jon’s well aware of how many foolish mistakes he’s made,      how much they’ve all lost because of him.      if he’d never asked tim to come to the archives with him      —      if he’d paid more attention during prentiss’ attack or found sasha’s tapes earlier      ...      there’s any number of things jon could have done differently,      but here they stand.      and here,      anger is the only thing tim has given jon in months.      it’s not comfortable but it’s well-deserved.

he’s not sure he knows how to talk to tim anymore.      it’d been so easy once,      hadn’t it?      late nights in research and being dragged out for after-work drinks and      —      it’d been simple.

but he sets aside the statement he’d been following up on,      slips its folder shut and gestures at the chair across from him.      sit,      then.      let’s talk.      please.      the furrow in his brow is something tim would’ve teased him for a long time ago,      all of his focus narrowed onto tim and looking for all the world like he’s trying to puzzle out something impossible      —      and maybe he is,      maybe that’s what they are now.

‘      it’s alright,      ’            jon says,      slowly,      like he’s taming something wild.      it isn’t and they both know it,      but what else is he to say?      he’s not expecting forgiveness but wayward apologies spill out anyways:            ‘      i’m      —      i know i’ve said it before,      but      —      i’m sorry.      for,      uh,      everything,      i suppose.      all of it.      ’

a sigh,      and he barrels along before tim can get a word in,      looking down at the desk rather than meeting tim’s eyes.            ‘      i know that’s      —      a rubbish apology,      really,      but.      there’s just so much.      ’            it’s all gone rotten.

[theskywaslookingback]

I've seen you taking prompts and if it's not a bother, Jontim with angy Tim letting all his anger go after Elias or someone equally nasty hurts Jon real bad?

you have the patience of a saint. here you go.

litany (in which certain things are crossed out)

"Every morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?" - Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

When the tape clicks on, Tim can’t even find it in himself to be surprised. He’s been viciously marking over statements for at least an hour, highlighting anything that mentions a circus, skin, or a dance. There’s less of it than he thinks there should be, and every minute his eyes skim over written word after written word makes his blood boil higher and higher. He throws the marker to the floor, the bump and skid of the nub marking a trail of yellow from the desk to the floor where it rolls under Melanie’s desk.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly, his shoulders tucked up to his ears.

The recorder whirrs, cassette winding in its casing, a low hum of static emitting from it as the previously locked trap door to the tunnels swings open. Jon comes tumbling out, breathing hard. He looks...God, he looks like a wreck. Hair cropped haphazardly short, like chunks had been cut out with a bread knife, clothes hanging off him like rags. The door closes with an ominous creak, and is that--? Vaguely he makes out the shape of a hand, though that’s not right because no hand looks like that , waving right before the trap door shuts. But no, that’s…

“Well then, where have you been?”

Jon looks up, startled. There are deep bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. His eyes dart off of Tim to the desk where the tape recorder sits. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I was...gone.” He says awkwardly. He keeps rubbing at his wrist and hand like they ache, and the skin does look rubbed red and raw.

“I know that. It’s not like you’re ever really here .”

The last time Tim really saw Jon must have been at least six weeks ago, shortly after their boss outed himself as a murderer . Tim tries not to think about that overmuch. The way Jon’s hand had gone for the recorder almost absently as he tried to apologize, to explain. Tim had yelled, he remembers that, said if Jon wanted to talk they would have to do it without the recorders and then Jon had left . And, well, that was the end of it, really.

Now, Jon flinches. His eyes resolutely trained on the floor at Tim’s feet and Tim can’t remember the last time that Jon looked him in the eye. Like everything else at the moment it just makes him angry.

“I-- I have to talk to Elias.” Jon says. He pulls himself up to standing and shuffles past Tim like it hurts to move.

“Jon.”

Jon stops. “Get this thing off my desk.” Tim can’t bear to look at him.

“Oh.” Christ , why does he sound so sad? “Yes, of course.”

The hand that comes down is so small, dark skin pocked over with holes that mirror the ones in Tim’s own hand. He remembers when they were both smooth, unmarked. The weight of that hand in his own, the feel of that palm under his lips. That seems so long ago now, before the stale air of the Archives turned them both sour and rotten. Jon’s hand closes around the smooth dark tape recorder, fingers folded around it both careless and reverential. His wrist and forearm are covered in abrasions, the skin peeling back in spots leaving half scarred, raw red skin. Before he can stop himself Tim closes his hand over Jon’s.

Jon jerks, in either fear or surprise Tim can’t say. “Tim, I--”

“What did this?”

“Tim it’s-- it’s fine I just...I need to talk to Elias.” Jon tries to pull away again and Tim squeezes hard enough to feel those delicate bones under him shift. “Ah! Ah! Tim--”

“ Jon .”

“Ah, the Circus, it was-- one of them kidnapped me and ah, they had me tied to a chair.” Jon chokes a little on his own words. “They-they we’re going to uh, wear me. I-I-I think it had something to do with a ritual. A dance. They called it the Unknowing .”

Tim lets go and Jon takes a step back, cradling his hand and tape recorder next to his heart. Tim can barely hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears. He flexes his fists, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest.

“So what they just...let you go?”

“Not exactly,” Jon huffs, “it’s-- it’s complicated.” He glances over his shoulder to the Archives entrance, like calculating his chance at getting out the door before Tim can-- do what? Stop him? Is that what he wants to do? He looks so tired, his shoulders hunched and arms scabbed over with half healed rope burns.

“They hurt you.”

Jon huffs out a breath, preparing for...something. Some kind of denial most likely, or maybe even an apology. Whatever it is Tim can’t hear it right now. He stands, the scrape of his chair on the floor making Jon’s jaw snap shut.

He swallows. “Well, yes and no. I mean, my skin is in better condition than it’s been in years.” Jon smiles for the briefest moment before it falters into a grimace, “Is that weird? That’s...kind of all they talked about.”

“Of course that’s weird ,” Tim bites, “everything about you is weird .” He takes a full step toward the door before Jon grabs his arm. Tim shakes him off, more violently than he needs to or even intends.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to have a word with Elias.”

“Why?” Jon asks. It sounds startled out of him, like the abrupt firing of a gun. The tape crackles in Jon’s hand, growling like an aching, hungry stomach. “I mean, why do you care?” He doesn’t sound accusatory or angry, just curious.

‘I don’t,’ is what Tim wants to say. It’s what he means to say. But instead his stomach swoops and the words tumble from his mouth, unwanted and unbidden but true, “You’re all I have left.”

Jon’s mouth does something funny, trembling into an ‘o’. He fumbles for words, though nothing comes out but vague stammering noises. Tim snarls and grabs him by the shirt, twisting his hand in the fabric and pulling hard until Jon meets him chest to chest.

“Do not do that to me ever again.”

“I-I didn’t mean to--”

“Don’t.”

Jon goes quiet. His hand twitches like he wants to grab Tim’s but lets it hover indecisively to the side until Tim lets him go. Jon stumbles backward, bumping into Martin’s desk. “Okay,” he says hoarsely, “okay, I-- okay.” Then, even softer with his eyes on the floor he says, “I’m sorry.”

The inside of his chest explodes white hot, a mix of anger and guilt and shame, and Tim slams his hand on his desk. The cheap wood rattles, pens bouncing off onto the floor and rolling away. His poor desk plant tips to the side and crashes hard against the wood floor and spills ceramic and potting soil across the ground. Martin comes thundering down the stairs a moment later, his eyes wide and startled.

“Tim, what’s--” He starts before his eyes land on Jon and his mouth drops into a soft ‘o’. “Jon?”

“Martin,” Jon breathes, and it comes out sounding overwhelmingly relieved.

Martin crosses the room to fuss, his hands reaching out like he wants to touch but knows he’s not allowed. He reaches out and takes the tape recorder from Jon’s hand, overly gentle. Tim can’t...he turns and strides up the stairs with furious purpose. Martin can do whatever he’d like. If he wants to work himself up into knots trying to care for someone with no sense of self preservation or common sense he’s certainly welcome to do so. Tim’s already burned that bridge.

It’s just...when Tim had nothing else at least he had Jon. And there is a very small part of himself that misses Jon terribly. The easy laughter drawn out by late nights with bad takeout, bent over research reports and books on the occult they couldn’t possibly hope to understand. The curve of his mouth, small and shy, after a kiss. The feel of his hand on Tim’s back, or holding his own. His body, small and lithe, curled into Tim’s side while they walked to the tube after work.

He misses his friend more than any of that. He misses the trust.

Tim is at Elias’ office before he can even think about it, riding a wave of rage so strong it almost knocks the air out of him. He throws the door open, letting it slam against the wall as he storms through.

Elias sits back in his chair and doesn’t even pretend at surprise. “Hello Tim.” He says cordially, smiling for all the world like nothing could ever go wrong for him. “Jon’s back then, is he?”

“You knew,” Tim starts, voice simmering with fury, “this whole time you knew where he was, didn’t you.”

Elias blows out a slow breath. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“Tim--”

“Elias.”

“I knew Jon had been taken, yes,” Elias says, splaying his hands out in front of him as though in supplication, though the look on his face is amused, “but I did not know where. I was working on it, though it seems Jon did not need my help in the end.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Tim snarls, slamming his hands down on Elias’ desk and leaning in toward him. “Why didn’t you say anything ? Why did you let us think--” He cuts himself off, biting into the inside of his own cheek.

Elias tilts his head and narrows his eyes, there’s something vaguely predator-like about that gaze that almost makes Tim uneasy. “And what good would that have done, Tim? Hm? Would you have gone to him? Saved him?” Elias leans in and his eyes are so bright Tim has to lean back. “No. Don’t lie to yourself. You would have watched too, just to see him suffer because you thought he deserved it.”

Tim clenches his jaw, teeth clacking together hard enough it sends a jolt of pain up the muscle. “You--” He starts, but there are no words to convey the wrath making itself at home in his ribcage. A rage turned inward because Elias is right and Tim doesn’t know what to do with that.

Elias just stares at him, patiently, eyes bright and lips turned up in amusement. When nothing else comes he finally leans back into his chair. “Right,” He closes his eyes for half a heart beat and then looks up at the door, “That will do for now, I think. Jon is on his way up here right now so no need to close the door on your way out.”

Tim turns on his heel and leaves, his throat tight. He does slam the door shut behind himself as he leaves, an attempt to soothe the complicated torrent working its way around his chest, making it hard to breathe. He sees Jon down the hall, striding purposefully toward Elias’ office. He’s barehanded, no tape recorder in sight, and somehow that gives Tim enough pause to gasp in a breath.

Jon hesitates when he sees Tim, rocking back on his heel like he doesn’t know where to go, and then Tim takes two steps forward and pulls him into his arms. It’s not quite a hug, Tim’s arms are too tight and Jon has no way to move either forward or back, but Tim presses his face into Jon’s hair anyway just for a moment. When he lets go Jon stares up at him, bewildered.

“Tim?"

“No.” Tim says sharply, “Don’t start, just--”

“Right,” Jon says, confused, “right, okay--”

“Just--” Tim huffs out a breath, “Stay safe.” He says and leaves Jon standing there in the middle of the hall.

Tim has lost so much in his life. He’d lost Danny, and he’d lost Sasha. Now he’d almost lost Jon and didn’t even realize it. It wouldn’t happen again, Tim thought fiercely, not ever again.

[still-lightless]

Its sad about jontim hours