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It’s been a long day. Jon had spent most of it on his feet, not against his better efforts. Both Sasha and Martin had come down ill the few days before, and so he had been sent out chasing fake aliases and old building records. The sidewalks of London were not kind on his joints, and by midday his knees were screaming. Of course, determined and motivated past the point of his own detriment, Jon had only stopped for a short tea break before continuing on his wild goose chase.
When he finally arrives home to his flat, he takes the twelve excruciating steps to the couch, throws his cane to the side, and promptly collapses.
There’s footsteps from down the hall, further into the flat, and Tim pokes his head around the corner.
“Hey babe.” His eyes took a quick swipe of Jon’s current position. “Wow you look awful. No offense! Just….you seem tired.”
Jon thinks he should respond, thinks about telling Tim about how much he walked today, but all he can manage is a weak nod, which seems more like a tired jerk of muscle and joints.
Tim’s expression softens into something that Jon thinks he can label as concern. The shorter man sits himself beside Jon on the couch, hand reaching out to stroke a gray streak in Jon’s hair. Jon closes his eyes, a soft hum building up in his throat, and he lets his body slump into Tim’s, head against his thigh.
“Long day?” Tim asks softly, and Jon breathes a soft sound of affirmation. Tim nods, pressing gentle fingers into Jon’s neck, slowly pulling at the tension that has knotted itself around the base of his scalp. Jon sighs again, and Tim leans forward, face above Jon’s, wide hazel eyes staring down to meet his gaze. They stay like that for a moment before Tim leans back again.
“Do you want dinner?”
Jon makes another tired statement, something about a sandwich and trains, so Tim takes that as confirmation he’s had something to eat. Jon’s eyes are drifting closed, and Tim knows his habit of falling asleep on the couch, contorted in positions that could not be good for his spine.
“Let’s get ready for bed. I was just getting ready to shower.”
Jon whines at that, a tired protest, but makes a move to sit up. Tim knows he likes to be clean before he gets under the sheets. Slowly, using Tim’s shoulder as a support, he manages to sit up, and Tim loops an arm around and around his waist, letting Jon lean against him.
They steadily make their way down the hall, and although Jon knows Tim would stop and let him rest if he asked, he thinks if he stops, he’ll pass out right there on the hallway floor.
There are already two washcloths set out on the sink’s counter, and Jon slowly peels away his layers of clothing. Tim strips his button up before heading back out into the hallway. Jon’s too tired and focused on his current mission to really notice, but soon Tim is back, this time with the plastic shower chair.
Jon almost cries in relief when he sees it. He had forgotten about it, a new addition to the household, and he hadn’t had the need to use it yet. Tim sets it up, warming the shower, while Jon finishes undressing, finally taking his hair out of the half bun he kept it pulled up in. His scalp prickles and screams in relief.
He does need Tim’s help to lower himself down into the chair, his right knee shaking underneath him. Once sat down though, the persistent spray of warm water instantly begins to work at the icy tension he holds, melting away the tightness into a more dull and deep ache. Tim slowly moves the detachable head around him, careful to avoid his spine, knowing how temperature sensitive that area is.
Jon goes to reach for the shampoo, but Tim has already grabbed it. He holds out his other hand for Jon’s washcloth, the question in his eyes, and Jon doesn’t answer, just hands him the cloth, watches Tim place it over his shoulder, before closing his eyes.
Tim works the sandalwood and patchouli scented shampoo through his hair, taking care not to pull at the small knots yet. He perhaps takes longer than he needs, slowly but firmly working the shampoo into his scalp. Jon makes a noise of relief that has Tim chuckling low in his ear.
The rinse is gentle and warm. Tim helps Jon lean back, taking care to keep the water out of his face, knowing the sensory issues Jon has with his face being submerged. Next is the conditioner, a sweet jasmine scent that fills the bathroom. Tim is gentle working out the knots, relying on the conditioner to loosen them. A second rinse. Jon opens his eyes, trusts Tim to keep the water running back, and watches Tim, focused, as he works out the slippery conditioner. His shoulder and arms shift with confident, well built muscle. It brings Jon a feeling of peace and gentle butterflies.
When Tim begins to work a soapy washcloth over Jon’s tense shoulder, he gasps. The pain is more than he had expected, the water momentarily helping him forget. Tim makes a quiet noise of reassurance, the slide of the cloth more gentle now, careful and pushing lightly at the tightened muscle. It’s a slow but steady process, and Jon feels himself slowly stretching back out into his full length, although his body aches in protest as he does.
When Tim works down towards his calves, pulling at shuddery thighs that refuse to ever completely relax, he realizes that he’s crying a little. Tim looks up at him, apologetic, but Jon just nods and whispers a thank you.
When he’s clean, he sits and watches Tim scrub himself. It’s a little awkward for a moment as he realizes how voyeuristic this is, but it fades watching Tim quickly work over himself. Tim’s confidence flows from him, even during the simplest of actions. Jon is mesmerized as Tim pushes his face into the water, scrubbing at it perhaps a little too roughly. As he shuts off the shower and turns back to Jon, he shakes his head, short locks spraying water everywhere. Jon crinkles his nose and furrows his brow in response and Tim smirks at him.
“Are you going to help me get dry or not?” Jon means it to sound cross, but instead it comes out tired and a little bit infatuated. Tim’s smirk widens into a full grin, helping Jon to his feet, careful of the now slick tile.
Jon insists on toweling himself off, leaning against Tim as he does so, but when he reaches up to wrap an old t-shirt around his damp hair, his shoulders scream in protest and his left arm drops down without permission. It’s mildly painful and Jon has to grit his teeth to stop from letting out a soft cry. It’s stifled in his throat, but Tim catches everything, ever observant, and is taking the t-shirt from Jon, leading him slowly to their bedroom, pulling him towards their bed.
Jon doesn’t protest, letting Tim help him crawl in, sits there patiently as Tim meticulously wraps every strand of hair up into the t-shirt, tying it in place.
Finally, he’s turning off the light and crawling into bed alongside Jon. There’s a quiet shuffling of sheets and pillows, Tim pulling the blankets up over them. Then Tim’s arms are pulling him into his warm chest. Jon presses himself closer, ear pressed against Tim’s thumping heart and steady lungs. The whoosh and thrum holds him there, in a state of peace, as Tim lightly strokes his face, down his neck, across his shoulder, down his arm. Back up. Repeat. A cycle as steady and sure as the in and out of air filling his diaphragm.
Jon doesn’t remember falling asleep, lulled into peace by the quiet lullaby.