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“Hold the elevator,” Tim calls, rushing ahead as much as he can push his sore, tired legs. They really just haven’t been the same since the attack--though between the hundreds of holes in his skin and probably the muscle below and the trauma of the whole ordeal, he’s not sure whether the pain is psychogenic or nerve-related (he’s treating both to be safe)--and after a long day on his feet, he’d prefer to skip the stairs.
Had he seen who was getting into the elevator rather than just calling out blindly when he heard the door-open chime, Tim might have decided the stairs were less painful. Jon’s unmistakable hand, pocked with worm scars, catches the lift’s doors just before they can shut. As Jon stands there holding the door open, Tim weighs his options. He’s beginning to come up with a lie about having forgotten his keys in the library and needing to turn back when Jon speaks.
“You may want to catch the next one,” he says, his voice small and tired as he massages his forehead with his free hand. “I think I’m coming down with something. Don’t want you to catch--oh, alright,” Jon stammers as Tim steps into the elevator. He’d been on the fence about it at first, but nothing makes him want to do something like Jon telling him not to.
It’s a lame excuse, anyway. Jon doesn’t GET ill, and even on the off chance that he might, he would certainly never admit it.
Tim shoves away the thought that Jon does, admittedly, look pale. Not to mention the fact that, over his clothes, he’s wearing a sweater that hangs so loosely on him that if he didn’t know better, he might think that Jon asked to borrow it from Martin.
He pointedly doesn’t say anything, and Jon doesn’t seem to notice. Perhaps this is just what he expects, now--silence that would normally be filled by idle chatter, icy remarks that used to be teasing, the feeling of loneliness in a crowded room.
It’s not until the lift stutters to a stop that he really regrets not having just taken the stairs. Jon stumbles so hard that he has to catch himself against the wall, but Tim hardly moves. The doors open to reveal the interior of the wall, a small opening at the very top of the lift certainly too small for either of them to fit through--hardly large enough to stick their hands through, even.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he mutters. “Are we stuck?”
Jon has apparently had the same thought, as he pushes the emergency call button and waits for an answer. Tim cringes when Elias’ voice, tinny and condescending, comes through not even 30 seconds later.
“With whom am I speaking?” he asks, and Tim rolls his eyes.
“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know,” Jon bites back. Tim has to give him a little credit there--it’s something he’d have thought but not had the courage to say out loud. That grumpiness, though shitty when he was in the line of fire, can certainly make for an entertaining spectacle.
“Well, that’s Jon,” Elias pretends to ponder, “and I believe I saw Tim go down into the archives a few hours ago?”
Jon rolls his eyes. “Excellent guess; how DO you do it?”
There’s a bite to Jon’s tone that Tim isn’t used to, like the annoyance is real rather than for show, and he’s not a fan.
“Someone’s cranky this evening,” Elias says, his tone light and unbothered. “Anyway, I’ve sent a text to Rachel from maintenance, but it may be a few hours before you’re freed, unfortunately. Is there anything you need in the meantime?”
Jon’s response to this is measured, more like what Tim is used to. He glances to Tim, who shakes his head, before running a hand through his hair exasperatedly.
“We’re fine, Elias. Thank you.”
“Cheers. Anyway, I’ve got to run, but as Martin is still staying here, I’m going to give him this phone. If you need anything, just press the call button, and he’ll pick up. Terribly sorry about the inconvenience again, both of you. I’ll do everything in my power to ensure you’re out of there as soon as possible.”
Upon hearing the click of Elias hanging up the phone, Jon leans against the wall of the elevator and sinks down slowly, wincing noticeably. Tim notices the presence of Jon’s cane only when he props it against the wall, which he finds slightly disconcerting, as Jon rarely even brings it to work these days, now that he hardly ever leaves his office, and even if he does bring it, the reasoning is usually obvious: when there’s a drastic change in the weather, or when it’s cold, near the end of the week when he’s been on his feet a lot already. However, on this lovely Tuesday, Tim wouldn’t have guessed he’d brought it with him. While he’s looking at him, he can’t help but also notice that he’s shaking.
“You’re not, uh, claustrophobic or anything, are you?” he asks. It’s pointless, really, but even as angry as he is with Jon, he can’t ignore the trembling.
Jon opens his eyes, but to Tim’s surprise, he doesn’t look angry--he looks confused. “No?” he says, as if it’s a question. “Are you?”
“No, no,” Tim denies. “It’s just… you’re shaking.” Jon huffs what might have been a laugh through his nose.
“Yes, that would be because it’s freezing in the archives.”
Tim frowns. Sure, Jon is one of those people who feel cold if there’s so much as a slight breeze, but it’s rapidly getting warmer in the elevator, and Jon’s in a sweater.
Is it worth bringing up? Absolutely not.
Instead, Tim shrugs out of his bomber jacket, something he would have done, anyway, and tosses it at Jon before sliding to a seated position kitty corner to Jon.
“You don’t—”
“We’re trapped together in a small metal box; it’ll be roasting in here within fifteen minutes, anyway. Just take it.”
Jon mutters, “thanks,” under his breath and rests the jacket, comically large in his hands, over his body like a blanket rather than going through the effort of wearing it.
Tim occupies the first half hour playing games on his phone. Jon doesn’t do anything. With every passing minute, it’s becoming more concerning that Jon isn’t doing anything, because who the hell can just sit in the corner of an elevator, which is now predictably quite hot, and not do anything? He eventually settles upon the hypothesis that Jon has likely left his phone in his office, and perhaps that’s why he’s just sitting here, bored.
“I’d offer to let you use my mobile,” Tim cuts through the silence, “but I don’t have service in here.”
Without opening his eyes, Jon shrugs. “Not as if I’ve got anyone to call, anyway,” he says like it means nothing. “Though, I’m sure Martin would make a call for you if you’ve—”
“No, I don’t--well. Everyone I know works here.” Jon cracks his eyes open and chuckles without changing his facial expression.
“Rather depressing, that.”
And he’s right. “It wasn’t always,” Tim argues. “Before the… everything. I never once minded having just you all.” Jon sighs, shivers. It’s obvious that he knows Tim’s got things on his mind, a conversation they’ve been avoiding having because they’ve been avoiding each other in general. He’s quite pale, now, and Tim’s beginning to suspect that he may have been telling the truth about not feeling well. “I’m going to phone Martin and ask for some water. Do you want me to ask him for anything?”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
Right.
Tim gets to his feet and presses the call button, where the speaker plays the sound of the phone ringing half a time before Martin picks up.
“Hello,” he greets, sympathy clear in his voice. “I heard you’re stuck in the lift. How are you doing?”
Tim can’t help but smile, but it drops when he looks back to Jon, whose expression is now pinched, almost pained as well as exhausted.
“We’re alive,” Tim says. “Could be worse. At least there are no worms.”
Martin chuckles. “I suppose there’s always that. Did you need something?”
“Yes, actually. The way the lift has stopped, I think there’s enough room to pass in a bottle of water. Would you mind bringing one for Jon?”
He can practically hear Martin’s eyebrows knit together. “Is he—I mean, of course I’ll bring the water--but is he okay?”
Tim sighs, quickly debating between lying to Martin and expressing open worry for Jon’s well-being right in front of him.
“We’ll see after the water,” he replies as a sort of halfway point, feeling a bit of dread beginning to take root in his stomach when Jon doesn’t react.
“I don’t know what that means,” Martin frets, “but it doesn’t sound good. What else do you need?”
Tim nudges Jon with his foot. “Martin’s asking if he can bring you anything. Other than the water.”
Jon shakes his head, then hesitates. “Perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble… paracetamol? There are some in my desk, but if you can’t find them—”
“Jon,” Martin curtails, “I’ve got it. If I can’t find yours, there’s the first aid kit. You’re not exactly asking for frankincense and myrrh, you know. It’s no trouble.”
“Thanks, Martin; I owe you,” Tim says.
“You don’t!” Martin reassures. “I’ll be there soon. Ring if you think of anything else; the phone is mobile.”
As Martin shuts off the phone, Tim turns his attention to Jon once more, not bothering to sit since he’s just going to have to stand again in a few minutes, anyway.
“At the risk of you tearing me a new arsehole,” he starts, “can I ask what the paracetamol is for?”
Always full of surprises, Jon curls in on himself further rather than lashing out, crossing his arms in a way that makes him look small.
“It’s just a headache,” Jon lies.
Of course he lies. That’s nothing new, so why does it make Tim’s eyes sting?
“Right. So, it’s unrelated to the shivering and the—” he stops himself before he can mention the cane, fearful of crossing a line.
Tim himself had used crutches for the first month after the worms had done their damage, and even more difficult than the initial period of getting used to them had been the period in which he was weaning off them, where he might use them one day and not the next, or walk around in the morning without them but rely heavily upon them by the afternoon. It had been difficult to explain that his pain levels might fluctuate throughout the day without sounding like using his crutches was akin to wearing a sandwich board around his neck that read, “I’m hurting!” Tim had managed to get to the point where he doesn’t need them anymore, but Jon… immediately after everything, he’d closed in on himself. He rarely left his desk to stretch his legs, never went to any sort of therapy, physical or otherwise. It’s amazing, really, that it’s healed even to the extent that it has, amazing that he can walk on it without a cane most of the time.
Maybe it hurts more than Tim had previously considered.
Jon is just blinking at him, watching always watching, waiting for him to finish the sentence.
“I’ve brought the water,” Martin’s voice from the gap at the top of the doors rescues him. “Pills, too. And a few granola bars? I wasn’t sure how big the gap was, but seeing it now, it might be large enough to fit a takeout container through, if you’re hungry.”
Tim is hungry, but when the offer turns Jon’s face positively green, he finds out that he can subsist for the evening on a few granola bars, if the smell of real food would make Jon nauseous. He reaches up for the granola, the water (Martin hands in two bottles) and the small bottle of paracetamol.
“Martin, you’re an angel,” Tim praises. “The granola is enough for now, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”
Martin’s face peeks through the gap, his cheek pressed to the floor, and he frowns. “Jon’s all… he’s all bundled up. Isn’t it hot in there?”
Tim nods. “Toasty, yeah. He says he’s cold. I’m hoping the water helps.”
“Do you think he’s got a fever?”
Honestly, Tim hadn’t even thought of that, but it makes sense, and the possibility smacks him in the face for the first time that Jon’s not just being irritable about a cold, and there’s nothing they can do about it, stuck in here.
Tim’s silence is apparently enough of an answer, because Martin says, “I’m going to get the first aid kit. There’s a thermometer in there. Don’t have him drink the water just yet. He looks awful, and I’d like to get a read on it, if he’ll allow.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, timid in all things in life except his ability to take care of others, and Tim turns back to Jon.
“No arguments to that conversation we just had?” he asks, and Jon rolls his eyes.
“Would it really matter if I did?”
“Might make me feel a bit better, if I’m being honest,” Tim admits.
“Fine, then. No, I don’t appreciate the fussing. I can take care of myself.”
“You can, but you don’t.”
“That’s unfair. I’ve never asked—”
“That’s the problem!” Tim snaps. “After the worms, I was a wreck. Martin was a wreck. Sasha is… sometimes, I hardly recognize her. We were all traumatized, and you just came back suspicious and cold and mean. I hate it. I’m starting to hate YOU, and do you know how terrible that feels? To be mad at you for dealing with the same scars I have, even though I know how much it hurts? This place makes me feel like a worse person, Jon, and you’re a part of it.”
Jon’s breath hitches. Tim cares that he’s done that to him, especially when he’s already likely feverish, and the guilt feels like a victory. Making Jon cry feels like a victory. The guilt intensifies into an urge to sit next to Jon on the floor of the elevator, so close he can feel the heat radiating concerningly off of him.
“You’ve never mentioned that to me before,” Jon says in a voice he’s trying his best to keep steady.
“Can you blame me? You’ve been so… Outsidey, lately, you're impossible to talk to!”
“I have not been outsidey. ”
“Only because it's not a word. If it were, you'd be the definition of it.” Jon rolls his eyes. “Right in the dictionary, next to the conjugations, there'd be a picture of you. Scowling.” Jon scowls.
Once again, Martin’s return interrupts them.
“I’ve brought the kit! I’ll pass the thermometer through. Ready?”
As Tim stands, his heart twinges a little as he watches Jon swipe aggressively at his eyes. Tim pats his shoulder bracingly before he stands, but it doesn’t earn him the eye roll he expects--instead, Jon hisses a pained cry through his teeth, doubling forward.
“Jon?” Tim panics, hands now hovering over him for fear of making it worse. “What was that; what hurts?”
“It’s nothing, just—”
“What’s happening in there? Are you okay? Is it your shoulder?”
Tim looks up at Martin, once again pressed to the floor and peering down, holding the thermometer in one hand and wearing a look of fear.
“Your shoulder?”
Jon’s catching his breath, now, but it’s too late, because he’s given himself away. “I’m fine. It was just a twinge—”
“What’s wrong with his shoulder?”
Martin sighs, because he’s obviously attempted to have this conversation with Jon before. “He says it was a butter knife slip, but he’s got a damn stab wound.”
Jon is too sluggish to fight off Tim’s hands as he peels away the jacket and moves the jumper off his shoulder to reveal what is, indeed, a stab wound. It’s badly infected, that much is obvious from how red the surrounding skin appears, and it’s leaked through the few plasters that Jon had put over it in a half-hearted attempt to cover it.
“Holy shit,” Tim curses. “Jesus, Jon. This is infected, and how in the hell did you manage to get stabbed?”
“I… Like I said, I was in my kitchen—”
“Tim,” Martin curtails, ending Jon’s lame excuse before it has the opportunity to burn any bridges, “please, check his temperature. I need to know if I should call 999.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Jon objects, and it makes Tim mad, so he shuts him up with the thermometer. It’s not silence, not really--Martin is rambling nervously, and Tim can hear his heartbeat in his ears, though whether that’s from anger or fear is anybody’s guess. Still, the sound of the thermometer beeping a minute later makes Tim jump.
“39.4, Jon, seriously?”
“I… didn’t know it was infected,” Jon denies. “I thought I was just ill. Honestly, it’s hardly hurt until today. I thought it was healing.”
“Still, if you’d told someone when it happened, we could have helped. Cleaned it, dressed it. Probably needed stitches.”
“I thought that… I didn’t…” Jon sighs. “No, you’re right. I should have said something.”
“God. This is bad, Jon. I need to clean this up.”
“Here?” Martin squeaks, and Tim laughs humorlessly.
“What other choice do we have? He’s got a badly infected wound seven inches from his heart, and it could be hours before a doctor can look at it.”
“Okay, okay,” Martin concedes. “You’re right. I’m Googling.”
Jon frowns. “You’re going to Google—”
“You,” Tim snaps, “have lost your cranky judgement privileges.” When Jon winces, shivering again without the jacket and with his skin exposed, Tim can’t help but cave. “I know you feel shit,” he says, “and not just from the wound. And I shouldn’t have started a fight with you when you’re clearly ill. Just… table those feelings, and I’ll table mine, and just… be normal.”
Jon’s smile is thin and tired. “Normal,” he repeats. “Right.”
“The internet says to soak a cloth in warm salt water, then apply Neosporin. I’m going to get that together,” Martin says, hurrying off to gather the supplies.
Tim uncaps the water bottle and hands it to Jon along with a few paracetamol for the fever.
Perhaps it’s not “normal,” but since that’s out of reach, he hopes that this is at least a step toward “healthy.”