Work Text:
“Should we invite Jon?” Sasha asked, pausing her typing midsentence.
Tim shrugged, leaned back in his chair. “I think so, but it’s up to you. I mean, it could just be an assistants’ night out.”
She hummed her agreement and returned to writing her followup summary. “Could be. I don’t want to stress Martin out. You know how jumpy he can get around Jon.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But don’t you think...?” He trailed off.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “What?”
“Well, Jon deserves a break too, doesn’t he?”
“‘Course he does. But if we're doing this, I’m not asking him—you are. I like the guy, but he is in a state today.”
Tim grunted acknowledgement, turned back to his monitor. “Mm. Fair enough.”
Martin was back in the breakroom washing mugs, his usual end-of-the-day task. He could hear the running water, the clink of ceramic. Tim and Sasha had sometimes made attempts to help out with the dishes—they weren’t always the best coworkers, but they weren't that terrible—but it had quickly become evident that Martin was weirdly protective over his self-assigned job, especially after he’d had to move into Document Storage. Which, well. No amount of convincing would ever make that man believe he didn’t have to earn his place with them. He already had earned it, obviously. A hundred thousand times over.
Sasha seemed to have noticed the same noise. “So, should I tell Martin you’re asking Jon to come along, or…?”
“Nah, no reason to spook him if Jon might not even end up going.”
“You’ll convince him.” She smiled, finishing whatever she was typing and spinning in her desk chair to face him. “You always seem to find a way.”
“I have no idea what you’re implying,” Tim grinned back. Back in Research, coaxing Jon out to have some fun for once was practically the weekly routine. Strange to think that wasn't much less than a year ago. Different times, but not that different.
“Oh, just go ask him,” Sasha laughed, turning off her monitor. “I’ll wait with Martin.”
“Alright, alright, I’m going,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender and switching off his computer before jogging over to the Head Archivist office. “Knock, knock,” he called inside, tapping lightly against the closed door. Sasha snorted from somewhere behind him.
“What?” came Jon's voice from inside, as brusque as he'd expected. Tim could see him through the glass partition by the table where people usually sat to write out their statements, and he looked exhausted. Somehow, he was already going grey at the temples despite not having even hit thirty yet; it was unclear whether that could be put down to stress, bad genetics, or a combination thereof. Not that Tim was complaining. It wasn’t as if it were a bad look on him.
“Just me,” he said through the door. “Am I allowed to come in?”
“What do you—yes, Tim, you can come in,” Jon called back, exasperated. Tim opened the door to see Jon squinting at him from across the desk strewn with papers and office supplies. His hand was resting on the weird old tape recorder Elias had given them when they started having problems with recording some statements to any of the computers or laptops. His fingertips ran idly over the grooves in the plastic, back and forth.
“Hiya, boss,” Tim said, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
Jon sighed, fingers going still on top of the recorder. “Hi, Tim.” His voice was flat.
“How're you doing?” He wandered over toward the desk, leaned against it casually. Jon looked up at him, half-glaring, but mostly he just seemed weary. There were worry lines forming prematurely on his forehead, joining the crease that had been between his brows for as long as Tim had known him.
“Fine,” Jon said. Tim raised an eyebrow but he didn’t elaborate, just pointedly asked, “What did you get done today?”
Tim didn’t push him on it. “Followup on the David Laylow statement, tracking down Tom Haan. Disgusting case, by the way, thanks for that assignment.”
He snorted, predictably unsympathetic. “Any luck?”
“Nope,” he said, popping the p. “Not sure I wanted any, really. Something tells me that wouldn’t be a particularly fun interview even if Martin and I had managed to track him down.”
“It’s not about fun, Tim,” Jon scoffed.
He shrugged. “It is if you’re doing it right.” Jon rolled his eyes, but Tim thought he could see the smile pulling minutely at the edge of his lips, and he couldn’t help the tiny swell of satisfaction that rose up in him at that.
“What did you come in here to ask me about?” he asked after a moment. His hand drifted back toward the tape recorder as if unconsciously, fingertips brushing over the buttons.
Tim pushed the recorder out of his reach with the end of a pen lying on the desk. “We’re off the clock now,” he reminds him.
To his surprise, Jon didn’t protest, just let his hand slide off of it. “R-right.”
“D’you want to go out for drinks?” Jon opened his mouth to respond, but Tim cut him off. “It would just be you, me, Martin, and Sasha.”
“What if I had plans?”
“Jon, your plans are to work late just like you’ve been doing the last three nights.”
His mouth drew into a thin line. “And how would you have any way of knowing that?”
“Martin snitched,” Tim admitted with a smirk, and Jon sighed. He didn’t seem bitter, that was the thing—just resigned and, as ever, tired. “Seriously, though, you can’t keep going home that late. 'S not safe. Not healthy either.” He didn't expect him to respond to that, but he had to say it anyway.
Jon grimaced and got to his feet, probably just to have a few extra inches on Tim for once as he sat on the desk, and circled around to face him. “Where?”
“Just to Ernie’s. We figured it would be better to keep it lowkey tonight.”
He worried at his bottom lip. “I… guess it wouldn’t hurt to get out of the Institute for a bit.”
“See? There you go,” he grinned, clapping him on the shoulder (Jon only stumbled two steps. Tim was proud of him). “It’ll be fun.”
Jon hazarded a brief wince of a smile and came to lean against the desk next to him, nudging a few files out of the way so they wouldn't get crumpled. “We’ll see,” he muttered dryly.
“Oh, have a little faith,” Tim exclaimed, mock-offended, but he could feel himself still smiling nonetheless. “I can still show you a good time.”
“Yes, well,” Jon muttered, his own smile fading. “I—alright.”
He went quiet then, and Tim tilted his head. “D’you want me to tell Sash to go on ahead with Martin? We can just meet them there later if you want to wait a couple more minutes here.”
Jon grimaced. “I don’t want to hold you up.”
“You’re not,” Tim said firmly, pulling out his phone and tapping out a message to Sasha: go on ahead w/ martin i’m hangin out w/ bossman for a few but we’ll meet u there. She replied in seconds: okay ;). He sent back shut up and shoved his phone back into his jacket pocket.
Jon shook his head and half-smiled, looking away. “If you say so.”
The main lights in the bullpen flicked off then, and they could hear Sasha’s and Martin’s footsteps going up the stairs and fading away to nothing. It left the archives dark, lit only by the dull orange glow of Jon’s desk lamp.
“Ominous,” Tim commented, but Jon didn’t seem to be listening. Even in the darkness, he could see how his eyes were unfocused, staring off into the middle distance. “Jon?”
His head jerked up. “I’m fine, Tim.” Sasha had been right earlier—he wasn’t doing well that day, and it was painfully clear in every inch of his body. Tense shoulders, deep bags under the eyes, hands clenched and white-knuckled against the edge of the desk. All jagged lines and sharp edges pulled inward and up into a person. It was a miracle nobody had cut themself on him yet, this accidental knife of a man.
“Jon,” he tried again, gentler. Sometimes if he could say his name in just the right tone, he could get him to soften. A stolen glimpse of vulnerability.
He exhaled harshly. “Tim—”
“It’s alright,” he said. Impulsively moved a hand to rest on top of his, careful fingertips over knuckles. “It’s alright.”
The choke of something resembling a laugh. “Yeah.”
“It is,” Tim insisted quietly, sliding his hand forward to cover Jon’s entirely.
Jon turned to him, eyes dark and wild. “Tim, you have to know I didn’t want—”
“I know,” he said, though he didn’t. “It’s okay.”
He chuckled shakily. “Is it?”
“Yep,” Tim said. “That easy.”
“Alright,” Jon whispered, maybe incredulously. “Then it is.”
Without looking away from him, Jon reached to the side and turned out the desk lamp, plunging them both into absolute blackness. Tim blinked into the sudden dark and heard Jon let out a breath, and then Jon’s hand was splayed over his cheek and he was kissing him, clumsy and dry and a bit off-target in the dark but he still found his way back to him within seconds. Tim brought his other hand up to the small of Jon’s back and pulled him closer, felt him go willingly, too-thin and trembling slightly against his chest.
They were still holding hands, sort of, even as Jon’s mouth opened under his and he moved blindly closer, scrabbling for every inch of contact, and Tim did the same, seized by a sudden desperation he didn't entirely understand. Normally Tim would laugh at them for that, would tug his hand free to cup Jon’s jaw and feel the scratch of stubble or hold onto his hip or skim up his side, but it’s been months since they’ve done this, since before Martin got held hostage by worms and before Jon withdrew into his office more and more, before the statements started; before he got the promotion, even. So instead of laughing he squeezed Jon’s hand, and Jon flipped his palm up and he tangled their fingers together and let that be a comfort, too.
When Jon finally pulled away, breathing heavier than before and lips probably kiss-bruised, he kept his hand where it was. “Alright,” Jon repeated, more to himself than anything else.
Tim laughed, too loud for the small space. “Yeah, no kidding.” Just because he could, he ran his free hand through Jon’s hair; still short and professional but growing long enough to begin curling around his ears.
“Tim, my hair,” he complained, but he could see the flash of a smile even through the dark.
He waved him off. “They won’t notice.” Which probably wasn’t true; Sasha was upsettingly observational and she’d be sure to give him hell about it later, and Martin would probably also figure it out but would be far too awkward to even mention it. Whatever.
“Hmmm,” Jon said dubiously, and Tim grinned at him, squeezed his hand once again.
“Ready to go?”
Jon sighed, slumping into him again. “Oh, I’m sure they can wait another few minutes.” It was nice to hear him like this, wry but not caustic, just warm and relaxed and murmuring next to his ear.
Tim turned his face to press against his neck and smiled against his skin there, felt the shiver run through the other man. “I’m sure they can.” Jon chuckled lowly into Tim’s hair before ducking down to kiss him again.
By the time they actually did manage to extricate themselves from each other and flick the lamp back on, Jon looked worlds better. Still exhausted, yes, but comfortably frayed at the edges, softened and calmed, even if only for now. His hair was a mess, no matter how much he tried to comb it back into place with his fingers, and his clothes were just rumpled enough to be noticeable, but he was smiling again and it didn’t look like it hurt. Tim couldn’t help the surge of pride he felt then, knowing that he had helped and that Jon had let him, had allowed him to bear witness to that moment of weakness. He knew that once they left his office, it would be back to professionalism, back to not holding his hand, back to Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, and Timothy Stoker, Archival Assistant. But for the time being, Tim lifted their joined hands and pressed his lips to the inside of Jon’s wrist. Listened to the shuddering breath out. Let go.
“Um. Thank you,” Jon said, hand falling back down to his side. "For, uh—for this." The words were unnatural coming out of his mouth, and he said them with the usual awkward reluctance, but Tim understood.
“Any day,” he replied, and he meant it. He smiled at Jon in the halflight and Jon smiled back, shy and hopeful and, for a second, not so afraid.
It isn't so easy now. These days, wormscarred and already-gone, the only thing Tim can do is watch as Jon tears himself apart.