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They had been in Scotland for just over two weeks now.
It was, well. It was too calm.
Too easy.
Nothing attacked them, nothing crept up on them in the night, nothing broke the door in to kill them, to rend flesh, to finally, finally off them.
The other shoe had to drop eventually, it just had to.
Tim was paranoid. He had to be, someone had to be.
Jon and Martin were nervous, scared out of their minds.
There is no one still surviving who isn't afraid. Isn't terrified.
They're also convinced the other shoe will drop any day. Any hour. Any minute.
They have to be. Tim tells himself. Yes he's being paranoid but he has a good reason to be.
But so far? Nothing had happened.
Nothing.
Not a single peep of supernatural spooky bullshit.
And Tim knew Jon and Martin were starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, they might be safe.
They might be okay.
They might have shrugged off the curse on their lives, and maybe, just maybe, they could finally live.
But Tim?
Tim is genuinely terrified.
He knows better than to grasp as hope so he needs to be paranoid instead. Hope will get them nowhere but letting their guards down, and when that happens something will strike.
There is so, so, so much death in this world, so much danger and it would without hesitation kill them. Burn them to ash or string them as puppets, rot them with writhing worms or send them careening up, up, forever falling towards the atmosphere. Crush them under endless dirt or have whatever hides- no lurks in the dark finally, finally catch up with them.
There was so much fear, so much danger.
Someone had to keep watch.
Someone had to make sure nothing broke down the door in the night.
He scanned everything coming in. Every statement Basira sent in he glanced over, every food item they brought in he double and triple checked for anything out of the ordinary.
So far?
Nothing unusual.
Nothing odd.
But he was certain that was just to make him feel safe so something can slip through. Slip inside.
So Tim slept on the couch.
And kept watch.
But to be honest, slept is rather an overstatement.
Tim sat on the couch, listening, waiting for something, anything to start pounding on the door. Or shatter the windows. Checked every room when he got restless for something amiss, maybe something crawling up the drains, or seeping through the windows.
For something to attack them. For the other shoe to drop.
Tim is scared.
He’s been scared for years now. Been scared since he turned around to see a writhing woman, consumed by the love of the rot, and he kept being scared through finding out Sasha had died months ago, and the thing in her place was never her at all. He was scared through the Unknowing, through Jon’s coma and the Flesh’s attack, through all of it, Tim has been so, so scared.
He was angry for a very, very long time. Running on spite and burned-out fuses. Running on the need to avenge, the need to see them burn before him.
But he lived, he lived and like any fuel source, the anger fizzled and ran out, leaving nothing but the fear.
So he doesn't sleep.
He waits.
He waits on the couch.
Waits for something to happen, waits for the death to come.
He stays up all night keeping watch.
He doesn't sleep much at all, really.
He lives on coffee and 20-minute naps, on nerves and as he has always, so, so, so much spite.
Jon and Martin are both worried about him.
Tim has Daisy's weapons all around the house, within easy grabbing distance to defend himself anywhere.
He's scared, and they understand.
Of course, they do, they're all scared.
But he's not sleeping and they're worried.
Surprisingly, it's Jon that approaches him about it first.
It's somewhere past 3 AM, around when time stops having much of a meaning than another number counting ever forward towards what could have once been sleep.
Jon gets up to get a glass of water, and before he goes into the kitchen, he catches a glance of Tim on the couch.
He didn't exactly expect Tim to be asleep, per say.
But it looks like he’s crying.
Tim’s sitting on the couch, his head in his hands.
Jon, of course, walks over. "Tim?"
Tim jolts, going stiff as he looks up. Looking terrified and hand snapping towards the gun.
But when he sees it's Jon, the dear in headlights expression fades and his shoulders slump.
His eyes are bloodshot, teary.
As he exhales, his voice catches in a sob.
"Yeah?" He doesn't even try to hide that he has been crying as he rubs as his eyes.
Jon sits down next to him.
“What time is it?” Tim asks, eyes fixed somewhere across the room, some point between the half-empty bookshelf and the old TV that is more static than image when they try to turn it on.
“3:47 AM,” Jon says, Knowing it. After realizing, he winces a bit.
He’s been trying to Know less, as of late.
Tim nods slowly, processing just how late it is. “Why are you awake, then?”
“I was getting a glass of water. Are you-” Jon cuts himself off, biting his tongue to force back the question. "If you want to talk, I'm here."
Tim shrugs, rubbing at his eyes for a few seconds.
He looks exhausted, burnt out. A candle on its last inch of wax.
Jon wonders the last time he slept longer than 5 hours, and the Eye doesn't provide an answer.
"I'm fine," Tim says, and he's lying.
Jon raises an eyebrow, and Tim looks away.
"I'll be fine." He’s hunched over his arms, looking anywhere but Jon. "Just- I'm just- nervous, I think."
Jon nodded along, and they lapsed into silence.
It wasn't an oppressive silence, but comfortable, as, just for once, they relaxed for a few moments.
Took something that could almost be called comfort in each other's presence.
Tim yawned, and he’s so tired.
He’s sleeping less than Jon did after they found Gertrude’s corpse, and that's saying something.
"You should sleep." Jon’s voice was soft, as he turned to look at Tim, properly now.
Tim looks a mess, bloodshot eyes, hair in every direction, clothes he’s worn for 2 days.
Jon is so, so worried.
"I need to keep watch," Tim says quietly, but there isn't really much force behind his words. Just bitter exhaustion. Just spite.
"You need sleep, Tim."
"But what if.." Tim starts, but closes his mouth at the look Jon gives him
"You haven't been sleeping."
"I'm okay, really." They both know it's a lie, and Tim knows he’s lost already.
"Just for tonight, then. Come to bed."
Tim opens his mouth to speak but Jon continues before Tim could think of a proper excuse.
"You sleep better with other people, and the bed is big enough for the three of us. Just tonight. You need to sleep."
"Jon..." Tim's voice caught again. "What if- what if something shows up. Or- what if Elias- Magnus knows I'm not watching and has them attack us now-"
"Tim." Jon reaches over and takes Tim's hand. His grip is firm. Insistent. "If that happens, we will deal with it. But you need to sleep."
“But-” Jon doesn't look away, and Tim knows he can't excuse his way out of sleeping. Not tonight at least. "...okay."
Jon smiles at him, and whatever resolve Tim had left faded.
"Come on." Jon stands up, and Tim, not quite begrudgingly but certainly not happily, follows.
Jon picks up several blankets up from where they fell, or were kicked off the bed in the night.
Jon lays down, and Tim, very, very hesitantly lays down beside him.
Tim gets himself situated under his blankets, as Jon settles again.
It's far from quiet, in the bed, with Martin’s constant breathing, and Jon’s shuffling as he tries to get comfortable.
So different from the choking silence in the living room. Where every sound is a potential threat. Where every sound means that something could finally be coming for them.
Tim faces away from Jon and Martin, and he's so tired but so, so scared.
Because he hasn't let himself sleep at night for days now, and what if something happens? What if someone or something breaks in?
What if’s swirled in his head, and he must have started breathing quicker, or made a sound, or tensed up because Jon put a hand on his shoulder, and that interrupts his thoughts quicker than hearing the door kicked in would have.
"Tim," Jon whispers. "It's okay."
"Sorry," Tim mumbles and his voice comes out so much shakier than he intends, and oh, he was crying again.
Jon pulls back and that hurts in an indescribable way and-
And Jon pulls the one weighted blanket they have between them over him, and Tim exhales shakily as Jon scoots closer.
"I am going to hug you," Jon says, and while it's not a question, in a way it is.
He's asking permission in the roundabout way they've developed.
"Okay," Tim says quietly, and he’s just so tired.
He’s tired and anxious and so, so worried, and honestly just a wreck in general. And a hug sounds really nice, actually.
Jon wraps an arm around Tim.
He's smaller than Tim, but he's warm and alive, and while he might not be fully human, that's okay, right now.
That's okay.
Tim forces back tears, and Jon is still there. Still pressed against him.
Still safe.
It takes Tim a long while yet to relax, longer still to stop thinking swirling anxious thoughts enough to even contemplate sleep.
But Jon stays there, hugging him.
Eventually, Tim falls asleep. Not a deep sleep, nor a steady one.
An easily woken, nervous rest.
But sleep nonetheless.
And Tim desperately, desperately needed the rest.
It wasn't long after Tim drifted off, that Jon fell asleep himself.
They were all okay.
They were all safe, and for now, they stayed that way.