Work Text:
They leave the flames behind them, smoke joining the already gray sky. There’s no one around for miles in this landscape ravaged by the lonely. It’s perfect for the kinds of burnings Gerry needs to do these days. The Lietners flightier, even more delicate as they cling to the scattered remains of their dead gods. It’s fine, though, better than being in a book himself. Whatever Jon did to liberate the people from the fears, what makes Jon’s eyes glaze over in a distantly when it’s brought up, it freed Gerry from the end. Along with all of the other people the Archivist had sent there in the first place. Directly or no.
This life isn’t bad, the fact that they’re still living at all can attest to that. And driving up north to these barren plains and empty buildings feels a bit like a vacation. It’s all Gerry ever wanted. Mostly.
“You’re an idiot.” Gerry laughs, and then winces. He presses himself closer to Tim’s side, gripping the arm Tim holds around his torso like a lifeline. They’re grimy as hell, smelling far more of sweat than deodorant. The car isn’t far, Gerry reminds himself, he can acknowledge the pain when he gets there. For now, one foot in front of the other.
“ I’m not the idiot. You could have told me it was a Lietner thing. You could have-” Tim breaths in through his nose, pulling Gerry through the alley at a speed that makes the pain in his side flare-up. “You know I don’t like to be kept in the dark.”
Gerry swallows. As much as he wants to feel shame for what he did, there isn’t much room in his mind of another emotion besides Ow. “I know-”
“Yes!” Tim says. He notices something in the way Gerry’s breathing, and slows them to a stop, lowering Gerry to lean against the brick wall. He leans in close. “ You know because I’ve told you. And what do you keep doing?”
“I keep leaving you in the dark.”
“Mhm.” Tim scoffs, “I’m going to check it out.” When Gerry nods, Tim reaches for his shirt, pulling up to expose his side. “This might hurt.”
“I don’t care.”
Tim lays his hands against Gerry’s side, gently at first and then with short, methodical presses. Each one of them makes Gerry flinch, hissing in through his teeth. He grabs at the back of Tim’s shirt desperately.
“I know.” Tim coos. “You’ll be alright.”
“Just get this over with, Tim! Fuck. ”
Tim nods, and when he feels and sees nothing, steps back to shrug his backpack off his shoulders. He kneels in front of it, pulling out the first aid kit for a quick inventory, before grabbing the alcohol, cotton, and bandages. Gerry turns his eyes to the sky. He knows what’s coming. Wishes he didn’t. He never could look while they gave him shots. One of the many small failings his mother would always find in him. Gerry clings to the old bitterness. She hasn’t hurt him in years, won’t anymore. But it’s easier to think about her than this.
Tim doesn’t count down, he knows how Gerry is. When the alcohol hits open wound, Gerry screams.
It putters out quickly as Gerry bites his tongue, face screwing up in his discomfort. Tim gives him a look of sympathy but works quickly. He bends down for the bandages.
“I’m going to need to get behind you.”
Gerry only nods, chewing at his lip. Tim slips an arm between Gerry’s shoulder blades and the wall, passing the roll under Gerry and around until his torso is wrapped up as decently as their position will allow.
Tim starts putting everything away. It doesn’t hurt less, but it’s nice to know nothing will get infected. Not any more than it already was, at least. Gerry lets some of the tension melt from his shoulders, as he looks down at Tim, brows furrowed cutely as he counts and then recounts their supplies. Tim looks up, catching him staring and Gerry doesn’t look away, managing a soft smile.
“Here,” Tim says, “We have plenty of paracetamol.” He shakes the bottle for emphasis and offers it to Gerry.
Gerry pushes his hand away, “Save it. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t be like that. We have plenty, come on. I can run and get you some water if you need.”
“I said I’ll be fine , Tim.” Gerry makes a show of rolling his eyes, slowing his breathing in a vain attempt to look composed.
Tim raises an eyebrow and takes a long step backward. “Stand up then.”
“What?”
“Stand up and walk to the car on your own, if you’ll be fine. It’s only three hundred meters, you can do that.”
Gerry feels his face blanch at the mere thought of it, but he nods and braces his elbows against the brick. It feels like he’s thirteen again, hands against his bedroom floor and willing himself to push, just push. Gerry does push, and the muscles in his torso tense in a way so familiar to him. Because Gerry is strong. He made himself strong after years and years of being helpless. He isn’t a goddamned thirteen-year-old anymore. His mother is long dead, and Gerry is still alive because he is strong.
But the body doesn’t care about your motivational speech. A pathetic sound crawls out of Gerry’s throat, and he falls back against the wall, shoulder knocking against brick and sending another shot of pain down his side.
Tim rushes to him instantly, “I didn’t mean that! I didn’t think you’d do- why are you so bloody stubborn? I can’t stand you. I can’t- I’m so mad.” He says, hugging Gerry close to his chest, careful to avoid squeezing where it hurts. Gerry melts into him.
“Take the goddamned paracetamol.”
“Okay,” Gerry says, speaking softly against Tim’s neck. Tim’s always been warm, and the scratch of a few days worth of stubble feels familiar against Gerry’s cheek. He feels faint, suddenly, the way one does when you’ve spent a whole day putting on a happy face and you’ve just closed the door to your bedroom behind you. Safe. Home. A place to break yourself down and reconstruct yourself better.
Gerry’s knees give out.
“Woah there,” Tim says, tensing his arms around Gerry’s armpits. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he whispers. Gerry only has the strength to nod along. “I’m going to get you some rest. And- And- I’ll learn to make some bloody soup or something. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You can’t go on like this.”
“I’m fine,” Gerry whispers, he smiles when he hears Tim’s frustrated sputtering.
“I can’t- I- You .” Tim growls, he takes a breath, softening, “You.” His voice sends a chill down Gerry’s spine. Nobody’s ever spoken to him like that before Tim, Tim who says his name as if Gerry is his prized possession in a world where they have nothing else. And it’s mostly true. “Just let me take care of you.” Tim breathes.
“ Okay .”
Tim lets Gerry go for just a moment, putting all of their supplies away and throwing his backpack back on. It’s cold without him, but Tim returns quickly.
“I can’t pick you up without aggravating the wound.” He laments.
“Worth it,” Gerry says, smirking.
“God, I hate you.” Tim laughs, “Say ah.”
Gerry swallows the painkillers quickly, and they wait for the medicine to kick in, Tim’s forehead pressed to his own.
“In my defense,” Gerry says, “I thought I was reading my novel.”
“You don’t put your shitty YA next to a corruption Leitner.”
“I realize that now.”
“You realize that-” Tim sighs.
“I wish you’d kiss me.” Gerry teases, half-joking, “As a distraction.”
“Nu-uh, worm boy. We don’t know if you’re contagious or something.”
“I’m not. We burned the book, so I'm safe to be around.”
“How do you know?”
“I Know .” Gerry says.
Tim goes quiet for a beat, blinking. “You’re telling me you consulted a dying, ageless, eldritch an all-knowing god of fear, who you hate, just to know if you could kiss me?”
“I may have.”
"Bwah!"
Gerry lifts his hand, the one on his good side, to rest on Tim’s waist, pulling him in closer. The flannel his boyfriend wears is thick and soft under his touch. Tim’s eyelids flutter, he hums.
“I mean it when I said I’m not going to kiss you.” Tim murmurs, letting his breath fall in warm curls onto Gerry’s neck. “That’s kind of gross, babe.”
Gerry laughs, pressing Tim gently away, “I’m ready to go.” He says, taking a shuttering step away from the wall. Tim frames Gerry’s space with his arms, not letting him fall.
“Up?” Tim asks.
“Uh, Up?”
Gerry trails off as Tim bends and presses his arms to the back of Gerry’s knees, making him collapse onto Tim’s chest. He throws an arm around Tim on instinct. It hurts to get into position, but only dully, and once Gerry’s fully up into the bridal carry, he can buy his face into Tim’s flannel in perfect peace.
He remembers when he came back to life. One person in the circle of Jon’s friends that surrounded Jon, Martin, and Elias’s body, limp and still bleeding. There was silence between them for a long while. Everyone was bitter, angry, confused, and far too tired to do anything about it. Tim and Sasha were the closest, both being taken by the stranger, engaging in some kind of odd, orderless conversation that comes from not knowing who one is and, for a moment, not letting themselves care.
And then the recovery days, as the rest of the world crawled out of the earth, off of battlefields, out of the jaws of hunters that were there just a moment ago, they went and burned down the archives. Tim and Sasha remembered their names. Gerry got used to being able to touch . Tim helped him with that, they were the only early risers, and in the gray mornings of the big house they commandeered, if only for the number of beds and food in the pantry, the two of them fell slowly in love.
“We’re here,” Tim says, strain in his voice. “I’m setting you down. Careful now.”
Gerry stretches his legs out toward the gravel on the ground, landing softly and leaning his arm against Tim’s car until he can pull the door open and haul himself inside. He leans back against the leather in relief, and sighs.
“Let me,” Tim says, reaching across to the passenger side.
Gerry almost protests as Tim pulls the seatbelt across Gerry’s chest, but the light touches Tim leaves with one hand as he makes sure the fabric won’t rub against Gerry’s neck, make him fall silent. Utterly resolved to this. Gerry isn’t helpless, he isn’t weak, but sometimes, maybe, he can have something as slow and sweet and beautiful as Tim worrying his lip as he does the buckle, Giving a few testing tugs even after he hears the click.
Maybe.
Gerry braces for the engine to start, but it doesn’t hurt when Tim’s car rumbles to life. And then they’re off. Tim turns on his music, something Gerry neither knows nor, judging by the overdone twang in the singer’s voice, cares to know. The tires peal against rock, and Tim talks about something. The soup he’ll make. He’s all bluster and arching his back in performative confidence. Gerry hears himself laughing where he knows he should, and Tim turns a bright smile his way, absolutely shining. There’s worry in his forehead, but Tim never was the kind to show too much of it. Tim says something in a tone that’s surely flirtatious, but Gerry’s eyes have fluttered closed before he has the chance to respond.
When Gerry wakes up, Tim isn’t in the drivers seat. It takes him a moment of drowsy perception to notice the keys are gone, and they’re home. Tim stands on the doorstep, body turned towards the car, but facing Martin, chatting animatedly. Martin tuts, shaking his head. Gerry knows that endeared smile. They’re talking about him
It’s then that Gerry realizes, despite the autumn-going-on-winter chill that fills the air, his head feels hot. His mouth feels hot. Gerry squirms under the stickiness of his skin. And his throat hurts. It's miserable.
Gerry tries to muster the energy he’ll need to step out and tell Tim to carry him up to their bedroom, get him a bucket of ice, and let him live in the dark until he feels human again, but he can hardly as much as move his hand to open the door. He turns his face to the seat, relishing in the moment of chill against his skin before the warmth from his face bleeds into the chair and steals it away. He immediately pulls back, feeling his skin shhhuk off the leather. Sitting up straight makes his head hurt, and lying down makes his back feel weird and and and.
Gerry tosses and turns, mentally begging for Tim to get here and hurry up. He considers going back to sleep to get it all over with.
Tim opens the door. Cool air rushes in with him, a small relief.
“Woah, there.” Tim says, “You doing okay?”
Gerry doesn’t know what he means to say when he opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a groan.
Tim presses the back of his hand to Gerry’s forehead. “You bastard.” Tim mumbles, affectionately, “Not contagious. You Knew this was going to happen. Christ, I can’t stand you.”
“Go away, then.” Gerry manages to mutter, wanting to pull away from Tim and push closer in equal parts. He doesn’t have the energy to put his usual smile on the end of his sentence.
“I’ll listen when you’re sober.” Tim says. He shuts the car door, and Gerry can hear him yell something to Martin, who calls back. Then Tim’s on the passenger side and unbuckling Gerry’s seatbelt. He guides Gerry to his feet and out the car.
Gerry shut his eyes against the noonday sun and leans heavily onto Tim’s shoulder. “Bed.” He says, head spinning, “mmm I want to go to- to my-”
“I’m taking you right there,” Tim assures him, “I promise. Up the steps now, there you go. Almost there.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Gerry hears a female voice call, he knows that voice, but the name of the speaker- Gerry loses his train of thought. He lets it go.
“He got himself corrupted,” Tim says. Someone makes a sound of alarm. “No worries, eye says it isn’t contagious with the Leitner burned.”
“He’s still going through it, though.” It’s Melanie. Mel-an-ie. Mel. Gerry goes to form the words, he doesn’t want to forget her name. He likes Melanie. She’s the good kind of mean.
“Up the stairs, now,” Tim says, and Gerry focuses hard on lifting one foot and then the other. He gets halfway up before his muscles start aching. The kind of pain that makes you think your legs might fall off if you don’t collapse on the spot and rest. But Tim urges him upwards, and Gerry doesn’t have the energy to resist.
The sheets Gerry falls onto are blessedly clean and cool. As soon as he sprawls out, Tim opens the window and lets the cold air in. Gerry should say he loves him just for that. He’s been meaning to say it for so long, but the temperature alone is more than a good reason.
Gerry crawls to put his head on the pillows and his feet near the footboard. He feels a small amount of pride at that. Look at him, being all proper and such and so on. Like someone's aged grandfather about to wheeze his riddle-filled final will. Christ, he’s parched.
Tim’s left the room, Gerry realizes, and he feels a stab of betrayal. His anger trying, and failing, to bubble up through his brain like walking through mucus. How dare he? How dare he leave Gerry here?
Gerry always gets lonely when he’s sick, knowing people have to keep their distance and he can’t go in for those casual hugs that he pretends to hate just for the fun of it. Gerry feels tears touch his eyes, his nose already too stuffed for it to make a difference. It sure would be nice to know that someone was there.
He doesn’t want to be alone.
After a few minutes of moping, Tim opens the door again. Gerry doesn’t turn to face him, glued in place by his aches. Tim presses his hand to Gerry's head again, and tuts. Then he lays a damp washcloth against Gerry’s forehead, and another against his neck. Gerry gasps with the relief of it. Tim pulls the blankets back, which Gerry put over himself despite the heat, just to feel surrounded by something, and lifts Gerry’s shirt gently, checking the bandages and then laying another washcloth against his back. He strokes Gerry’s side once, before pulling away, walking around to the other side of the bed. Tim holds out an ice cube, pressing it in towards Gerry’s lips. Gerry accepts it, even though it hurts his teeth, and revels at how the inside of his head cools. Like a computer with a good fan. Gerry can think a little clearer now. He drinks the ice as it melts.
He wants to say thank you to Tim as he reads the label on some cherry flavored nonsense that Gerry is going to fight to not swallow in a battle of gag-worthy glory, but there’s ice in his mouth, so Gerry stays silent and tries to express his gratitude with a look.
Tim puts the bottle down on the nightstand next to a few other bottles, a sports drink, water, a small bucket of ice, and cloths in a bowl and oh Gerry is a lucky man. He’s a very lucky man. Tim dances away to put some soft jazz on the radio. A CD he’d surely stolen from Martin.
Gerry doesn't feel so alone anymore. He feels warm.
When Gerry next wakes up, he's somewhat cooler, but his head is pounding in a dull and steady thump of pain so large it makes his hearing clip out when it swells to its peak. Gerry groans, cracking one eye open. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep, but waking up, he sees Tim snoozing on the bed across from him.
The sun is golden outside the window. Though Gerry can feel his phone pressing into his side, he doesn’t reach to check the time. He hardly feels the need, with Tim laying across from him, eyes closed and lips parted. He’s freshly showered, smelling like rose and sandalwood. Gerry wants to kiss him more than anything, but doesn’t. Tim said no. Instead, Gerry pulls himself closer to Tim’s chest, tucking his head under Tim’s chin and sighing into the familiar place there. As much as he loves this bed, the appeal of rest isn’t in the headboard, or the mattress, or even the nice sheets they managed to raid from an old ikea, as soft as they are.
Gerry can let himself relax in Tim’s arms, reveling in the distinct feeling of being tangible, human, alive. The pain doesn’t go, but it’s pushed to the background as the tension melt out of him. He’ll just have to focus on getting better soon. So he can redeem that kiss he’d owed.
Tim snuffs, moving his jaw to wet his mouth. Gerry only tucks closer, silently willing him to go back to sleep and stay.
Tim doesn’t go back to sleep, but he does wrap his arm around Gerry’s shoulders and squeeze. “How are we feeling?” he murmurs. Gerry can feel Tim’s breath fall over his scalp.
He sighs, “Much better. Not good, but better.”
“Mmm, I’m going to have to check your side soon,’ Gerry pulls Tim in possessively, making a petulant sound, “okay, okay,” Tim laughs, “Not yet, but soon.”
There’s a pause, and Gerry soaks it all in. Tim’s ditched his flannel for a cotton tee that isn’t as soft, but Gerry can hardly complain as he runs his hands over Tim’s side through the fabric. He can feel skin and fat and muscle, and when he presses softly at Tim’s hip, bone.
Gerry’s reminded again, though the thoughts are dull and far away under the weight of his peace, that so many people might find him odd. This fascination with touch, pressing himself bodily against Tim at every opportunity, but Tim only squeezes him back. Silent acceptance. The bliss of being able to simply exist, unjudged, with no expectations.
Sometimes he wishes he were intangible still, to be able to inhabit Tim fully, to show i’m here i’m here i’m here in touch, without the words that come out jagged and stuttering when Gerry says them. They always feel hollow. When Martin says a friendly ‘I love you’ before bed, Gerry doesn’t feel a thing. Not like Jon, who curls up on himself like he needs to take the words, as big as a yoga ball and far heavier, and hold them against his body. Gerry knows saying them- i love you- he knows it won’t mean less, and it will hardly mean more, Tim knows he loves him, and Gerry knows Tim loves him back, but the point isn’t the knowledge. It's the reminder. The lack of shame in saying that I would hurt for you, that scalding, bubbling feeling of love where you haven’t known it before. Gerry wants it. He wants it.
He presses himself harder into Tim’s chest, feeling the tears start in his eyes. He wills them back, distracting themselves with the steady thump of Tim’s heart. As soon as Gerry latches onto the sound, it lulls him back into complete relaxation. Tim, he’s reminded, is tangible, human, alive . And here, here, here for Gerry to cling to, despite the grossness building up behind his nose.
Tim shifts slightly, and when he speaks his voice is so soft it’s barely there. A lovely breeze. “ I-” he says, and Gerry hears the pause that he knows means Tim is worrying his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed. Gerry almost wants to see his face, but that means pulling away, and he’s far too content here, thank you. “Do you need some water?” Tim asks.
“Mmnope.”
“And how are we on pain?”
“I’m doing fine, Tim.” Gerry says, more awake now. He adds teasing bite to his tone even as he presses Tim’s head up with his own, “You’re more mothering than my own-”
“Are you sure you don’t need something to drink?”
“What’s wrong?” Gerry asks, his tone falling flat.
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Tim.” He warns.
“I just-” Tim takes a shuttering breath, and Gerry enjoys the rocking feeling of being pushed away and brought back under the swell of Tim’s lungs. “I want to do something. I want to- Are you sure you’re okay?”
“As good as I can be right now. And you are doing something. You’re being here with me. That’s all I can ask.”
Tim makes a hum of dissatisfaction, “I could go make that soup I was telling you about. Martin was telling me how.”
Gerry gips the back of his shirt, “If you leave me right now I will sneeze on you. Do it later.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t feel like en-”
“I love you.” Gerry says, sternly in his moment of irritation. Somewhere in the back of Gerry’s mind, it occurs to him to be mortified. But he pushes that part away, Even as Tim tenses against him, “ I love you so much, and I don’t need you to do a thing to deserve it, just... be here with me right now. Please. Please .”
“Okay," Tim says, "Yes. Yes anything. Anything, of course.” Tim pulls Gerry into a laying bearhug, squeezing so tight the pain in Gerry’s side flairs up, “ I love you too. I love you. God, I can say that now, I-”
“Mhm!” Gerry insists, patting Tim’s arm rapidly. A squeak of pain comes from him before Tim realizes, letting go entirely.
“Oh, I, shit. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be, love,” Gerry murmurs, looking up at Tim's face as it screws up sweetly. He puts his hand on Tim's cheek, reveling in how his love presses into it. They’re solid and whole and human and tangible and alive. They are in love, two relative points in space, with hardly room between them, whole and never lacking identity.
Not anymore.
Gerry pulls in without thinking, and at the last moment swerves to plant his kiss on Tim’s cheek. “Just hold me.”
And Tim does, letting his warmth bleed into Gerry as the sun goes from golden to pink against the walls. After an hour, Gerry pulls back, only a centimeter, to let his skin breathe. In another, Tim blinks drowsily, and turns onto his back.
“I really should go do dinner.”
“Mhm.” Gerry says, stretching his legs out.
“Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine to go down with you if I get a painkiller, it’s-” Gerry trails off, suspicious at the wolfish grin that’s consumed Tim’s face. “What’s up?”
Tim rubs the back of his neck, “ Nothing,” He insists, smiling to himself in a way that certainly means something . He puts a knee on the bed, sliding his hand under Gerry's arm.
“I can sit up on my own, it’s fine.”
“Let me,” Tim says.
“It’s-”
“ Let me.” When he looks into Tim’s eyes, he sees the pleading there, “I want to.”
Gerry lets him, and he can’t help but smile as Tim crawls out of bed and reaches for the paracetamol, reading the label once, and then twice, smiling the whole time. He grabs a cup and pours the bottled water into it. Its a bit of a waste, Gerry thinks, but it’s charming nonetheless.
When Tim’s finished his faffing, he puts the pills into Gerry’s mouth and holds the cup to his lips. Gerry has to rush to swallow it down before he snorts, barely avoiding choking. He wipes his mouth with the back oh his hand, still giggling. It hurts a little, but the bit of red flush growing on Tim's face makes it all the more worth it.
“Is this a thing for you?” Gerry asks, his eyes wet with all the good in the air.
Tim kneels beside him, resting a hand on Gerry’s neck for what begins in a caress and ends in not-so-subtle temperature check. “ I don’t know. Maybe? I just want to take care of you. You deserve it.”
Gerry smiles, reaching up to press Tim's palm against his cheeks, humming in satisfaction, “I do, don’t I? I’m amazing.”
Tim chuckles, and steps off the bed, taking Gerry’s hands in his own. He pulls Gerry to his feet slowly.
Gerry wants to protest. I am not Delicate, I am strong. But he swats the thought away without a second glance, he doesn’t give a fuck what he is, as long as Tim keeps looking at him like that, he’ll be a- a corruption worm, for all he cares.
Gerry leans into Tim’s side when he stands. He doesn’t need to, but it’s nice anyway. They make quick work of the stairs and come into the living area to see Melanie and Georgie laying on the couch together.
“Oh, are you feeling better?” Georgie asks, not turning away from where she runs her fingers through Melanie’s hair.
“Much. Thank you.”
Tim sits him on a barstool, and ducks into the kitchen, still in Gerry’s line of sight. Tim hums to himself as he reaches for the celery and onions, pulling chicken breast someone's defrosted out of the fridge and setting it on the cutting board. It’s nice to be there with him, Gerry thinks, even has his head flares in pain. He rests his chin on his hand and stares, eyes trailing down as Tim bends for the stockpot. It’s a nice view.
After the ingredients are all set out, Tim goes to wash his hands and scrubs the vegetables one by one. A homey aroma fills the air as onions hit oil and begin to fry. Tim reaches for a glass and fills it to the brim with ice, then water. He sets it down in front Gerry.
“For me?” Gerry asks, genuinely surprised.
Tim nods, chuckling as he scoots the glass closer, “You sound congested as hell.”
“I would’ve drunk it anyway.” Gerry says, taking a sip,” You don’t have to insult me”
Tim rolls his eyes, “ Sure you would.”
“Yes. I would have.”
They stare for a beat, and Tim’s smile only grows. Gerry imagines he looks the same. God, his boyfriend is beautiful.
“I love you,” Gerry whispers, and Tim smiles so hard it forces his eyes shut. Gerry’s heart does a funny thing when Tim draws his hand over his neck, pinching at Gerry’s chin to pull his face up. Tim gives a meaningful look, and then lets go, dancing away to dice the chicken.
Gerry hears Sasha come down the stairs, he doesn’t have to look, her feet fall lightly where everyone else tends to stomp. She greets the girls in the living room briefly, before coming into the kitchen and slipping behind Tim with a light touch on his waist, “Passing by.”
“Gotcha,” Tim replies, dumping the cubed chicken breast into a cast-iron skillet.
Sasha dips into the fridge for a bottle of water, and when she turns, Gerry shows his cheek. She obliges, giving him a peck over the bar.
“How are you doing?” Sasha asks, coming around to sit beside Gerry.
“Fine,” He answers.
“No, I was talking to Tim. Hey, remember when I got sick and you texted me every hour?” She calls. Tims chuckles and shakes his head, but he doesn’t turn around.
“You can't blame me after Martin's scare. And it was once a day, tops.”
“Lair!” Sasha cackles. When the laughter burbles to a stop, she sighs and she takes a long sip of her water, Gerry does the same. Sasha smiles softly as she surveys the space, “I’ve always wanted this, you know.” She says.
Gerry hums, “What? Like, in particular.”
“To be in a nice house with friends. To come down and see someone else cooking so I don’t have to.” She sighs again, “After everything, it’s just really nice.” Then she turns to Gerry with a coy expression, “What are you grinning about?”
“Hm?”
“You’re doing the Mysterious Goth Figure face. Smiling you you know something no one else does, I can see why all those statement givers were freaked out.”
“At least his hair looks better.” Tim calls.
“Yeah, thanks to you!” Sasha laughs. Gerry raises an eyebrow, and she waves a hand in the air, “I swear every statement you were in mentioned how bad your dye job was.”
“Well I’m sorry I didn’t have time to do it well when I was busy saving lives,” Gerry mumbles good-naturedly, taking a long draw of water.
“Okay Mr.Savior complex, you still need to spill the beans.”
Gerry pauses and then winks at her. “Love?” He calls.
Tim turns from the stove, face red with a shy smile on his lips, “Yes?’
“I love you.”
Tim clears his throat, covering his mouth with his hand as that smile splits his face. “I love you too, Gerry.”
“You’d better.”
Tim bites a laugh, “Drink your goddamned water.”
The soup takes a while, and they fill the time with meandering conversation and laughter. At some point, Jon and Martin come in from the store and pack the fridge. Melanie and Georgie grab a beer each and lean on each other in the archway, mostly silent except for the occasional snarky comment one of them makes. Sasha gets up to set the table, and Tim nearly fights Gerry for offering to help, making him sit while everyone sets out bowl and plates and throws last-minute dinner rolls into the oven. It feels weird to sit outside of the bustle of it all, and just watch. It’s hard but, Gerry realizes, pushing through the discomfort is what makes him strong .
And anyway, he needs to rest up. Tim still owes him that kiss.