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Jon’s always had trouble sleeping, even before all this end-of-the-world business went down. It’s really not that surprising that he finds himself staring at the motel ceiling.
Tomorrow, they’re driving to the Wax Museum and putting an end to this ‘Unknowing’. He’s examined the plans in his head over and over, trying to think of any possible thing they could have missed.
Across the room, Tim shifts where he’s managed to fold himself into the ratty armchair in the corner (“If I have to fucking room with him, I’m staying as far away as possible”).
How he’s managed to fall asleep, let alone in that position, is beyond Jon. Despite knowing this could end very badly for him, he watches the way Tim's chest moves slowly as he breathes.
At this point, Jon has tried to apologize but been shut down so many times that he barely considers doing it anymore. He doesn’t blame Tim for it one bit, honestly. He can feel himself changing, turning into something more akin to what Nikola is than to what Tim is.
Still, he can’t help but feel something tug inside him when he sees the way Tim shudders in the chair, wrapping his arms tighter around himself (he’d refused a blanket when Jon offered, just snapped something about not giving a fuck).
When Jon stands up, it’s like he’s on autopilot. He certainly does not recall giving his legs the order to swing over the side of the bed, nor his hands the command to gather up the duvet and walk it quietly over to where Tim was sleeping.
He’s halfway through draping it over his coworker’s sleeping form when Tim’s eyes flutter and then snap open.
Jon freezes.
Tim stares at him. It’s a glare he’s gotten used to by now, one filled with fire and all of Tim’s (no doubt justified) anger.
Jon’s about to make some excuse, to say anything that would help him escape this situation without shouting (or worse) when Tim’s shoulders drop and his eyes fall away from Jon’s face.
“I guess it’s sort of cold in here.” Tim mutters, so quietly that Jon almost doesn’t hear. The words take him a moment to register, a second before he hears the quiet permission (small, but there nonetheless) behind them.
Before either of them can change their minds, Jon adjusts the duvet around Tim’s shoulders and makes a beeline back to his bed.
He watches Tim shuffle around for a few seconds, before finally going still.
Jon closes his eyes and tries to push away the thought that he ought to commit Tim’s face to memory.