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He could almost laugh at the sheer mundanity of it.
Stumbling towards the tube, soaked with rain and bone-tired, Jonathan Sims ran into some trouble. He’d been running into trouble a lot lately. Just last week he’d been burned, thrown through the sky, and hunted like a dog in the span of hours and now, here he was, being pulled into an alley and thrown against a brick wall with painful force.
Who was it this time? Plenty of avatars seemed to have a bone to pick with him these days. He closed his eyes, not even attempting to fight back. Just waited for the inevitable “Archivist” said with utter loathing. So the words he heard next surprised him.
“Empty your pockets. Now.”
Jon opened his eyes, baffled. It was a human. A man with wild, desperate eyes and an unwashed smell. But human. Just a regular, run-of-the-mill robbery. He was getting mugged. He couldn’t help the delirious smile that made its way to his face. This of course didn’t please the man robbing him and he was promptly slammed back against the wall, his head bouncing off the brick with a painful thunk. Stars flooded his vision as shaking hands moved in his pockets, pulling out a phone and a mostly empty wallet.
“Here,” he whispered, holding his hands out beseechingly. “It’s all I have. Sorry.” Sorry was his default response, apparently. Even when getting assaulted.
“Fuck’s sake,” the man murmured, flipping through the empty wallet and holding Jon against the wall with one fairly lax hand. He wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t even fighting. Jon was very, very tired of fighting. The man paused, seeming to consider his options.
“The jacket too, then,” he demanded, ripping it off one of Jon’s shoulders. He hastily complied, peeling the other arm off and handing it over. It was one of Georgie’s, oversized and warm. He would miss it, and she certainly wouldn’t be pleased. His legs started to shake as he watched the man grapple with his things- it had to be over now, Jon had nothing left. Except for perhaps his shoes, the one nice thing he had been wearing when he went on the run. The man was agitated, conflicted. Just leave, he pleaded, unable to get the words out. I don’t have anything else to give you.
“Stop lookin,' freak!” A hit to the face, another slam against the wall but this time the hands didn’t stay, letting him sink to the cold, wet ground. A kick to his ribs for good measure and finally the man was off, his footsteps echoing on the pavement as Jon keened in pain.
Everything hurt, the pain throbbing in time with his heartbeat. His head was swimming and black spots were dancing in his vision. He couldn’t call anyone, not without his phone. Why not just cough and shiver for a few more minutes, perhaps someone would walk by and see? You left at midnight, idiot. No one’s out except for you. And robbers. He would have to handle this himself, then. So with great effort, he managed to raise himself with weak arms into a sitting position with his back resting on the wall behind him. Blood trickled down his cheek like a stray tear- that must be where the throbbing in his temple was coming from.
It was strange to think about how easily he let things happen to him. He was so shocked, so pleased that it wasn’t another supernatural being coming after him that he did nothing, acting like it was inevitable. He could still hurt, still feel pain, still experience things that normal humans did. It certainly wasn’t normal that he found this so comforting. He let out a bark of laughter that turned into a groan of pain- time to get out of the cold. The Institute wasn’t so far, he had only been walking for ten minutes. He could do ten minutes, if he leaned against a few walls and took a few breaks. Jon would manage.
It was painstakingly slow and each move was torturous, but he eventually made it back, leaning against the front door with so much force that it slammed open and he stumbled to the floor on all fours. Nausea rose in his throat but he couldn’t throw up, not in the main hallway. It was bad enough that his palms left a bloody handprint that would surely spook the janitor; to leave him with vomit as well would be too much. Ed was always so nice to me, he thought, mind in a fog. Even when I didn’t deserve it.
On all fours was how he made his way over to the door to the Archives. Standing was no longer an option, not with his consciousness fading like it was. He had no time to feel embarrassed about scooting down the stairs like a child; by the time he collapsed in an office chair, he was already gone.
Another day in paradise.
Tim arrived unusually early to the Archives that day; he accidentally left his charger at the office and his phone was his main source of entertainment nowadays. He could always convince Martin or Melanie to take a long lunch break with him to make up for it. What the boss doesn’t know, the boss won’t mind!
There was a wet floor sign in the lobby, likely the result of last night’s rain, although the sidewalks had looked fairly dry as Tim walked in. He’d grabbed a coffee on the way, feeling unusually perky for another day in the hellscape they called the Magnus Institute. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad day after all-
No, it wouldn’t. It would be even worse.
The Archives were dark; not unusual since he was the first one in. On flicking the lights, however, he found his desk to be occupied by one sleeping boss.
Fucking Jon.
He groaned aloud but still the man didn’t wake. What the fuck was he playing at- the man had an entire office at his disposal and he decided to take a nap here, of all places? Was Jon trying to piss him off? Tim stomped towards the desk, ready to shake the man awake with a hand on his shoulder when he paused.
Jon’s shirt was oddly damp, like he’d been caught in the rain and never truly dried off. Tim could feel his shoulder blade through his shirt- this was typical for Jon, he’d always been bony, but this was verging on downright unhealthy. And he was shaking, small, trembling motions that Tim could feel even from his light hold on his back.
Concern warred with anger in his chest. Jon had always inspired his big-brother instincts, small and nervous as he was. But now the over-protectiveness was unwanted, a burden to the rage he kindled in his heart. You don’t deserve my sympathy. Not anymore.
But he found himself pitching his voice low and shaking his shoulder as gently as possible. “Boss?” he whispered. “C’mon, time to get up.”
“Hnngh?” the voice that responded was nasally and barely audible from the pillow of Jon’s arms. Tim let go as he watched Jon come to, raising his head to reveal a grotesque crime scene of a face. It was bloody and bruised, even swollen in parts. His nose was coated with blood and his eyes blackened.
“What the fuck?” he swore, grabbing at the bottom of his face and pulling it towards him, shock overriding his concern. Jon gasped in pain from the motion and his arms curled around his stomach as if shielding himself. He looked like he’d been beaten, and badly at that. Tim felt his ire rise- whether it was at whoever had done this to Jon, or at Jon himself for letting this happen, he couldn’t tell.
“Seriously, why are you here?” he asked severely, grabbing onto the man’s shoulders and ignoring his wince. “Go home, or the hospital or wherever the fuck you need to- not work, not my fucking desk.” He let go as the man seemed to shrink in on himself, looking so small and defenseless. Jon had no right to look like that. “Should I be calling an ambulance? It’s too early for this shit.” The anger kept spewing forth. It was easier to blame Jon than see him as a victim. It didn’t feel great- but then again, what did anymore?
“I’m- m’ so sorry,” Jon croaked. His eyes refused to focus, staring somewhere left of Tim. “Took m’ phone, took-took everything.” Jon’s eyes were starting to water and Tim had to look away; he couldn’t face this pathetic, vulnerable display. He didn’t like what it made him feel. “Nowhere else t’go, not- not anymore.” The hiccup was the final straw and Tim found himself shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping it around Jon’s shoulders in an almost involuntary gesture.
“Only you would get in this mess,” he muttered, unwilling to match his words to his actions. He gingerly took a hand to Jon’s side, ready to help him up. “C’mon. You’ve got to go to a hospital. I’m not letting you bleed all over my desk.” Jon began his typical protests, mumbles of “I’m fine” and “Jus’ take me to my office” that Tim ignored in favor of gathering the man up in his arms as gently as possible. His head was already lolling against Tim’s chest, surely a bad sign. He went completely silent as Tim carried him out of the institute, only waking when Tim managed to buckle the seatbelt across his lap in his car.
“Wher’ we?” he swiveled his head around, trying to get his bearings. “Where we goin’?”
“The hospital, like I said,” his voice struggled to carry the irritation he wanted it to. “Like you should’ve done last night. What happened, anyway? Piss off another person trying to get a statement?” He pulled the car out of the parking lot in an unsafe maneuver and merged into traffic.
“Nnnh,” Jon’s head dropped back to his chest and Tim sped up in response. Damn, damn. “Jus’ a guy, y’know?” And he laughed. It was an unhinged and painful sound; Jon grabbed at his sides again. “Jus- just got jumped. S’ kind of sad.”
Tim let the information sink in with a growing dread. Jon had been jumped, robbed, and beaten to shit and his first response was to go back to work. To laugh. To think a year and a half ago this would have horrified him- Jon would be inconsolable, embarrassed and angry. Jon wasn’t angry anymore. Tim had enough of that for the both of him. He wanted Jon to get angry, to be mad, to yell. At least then he would recognize him.
Jon went on, every word a dagger in his chest. “Y’know, this is the sec’nd time this happen’d in a week. S’weird.” He paused, his eyes squinting ahead in confusion. “I mean, if y’count Daisy. Took my stuff. Laughed. She gave it back, though. When- when Basira convince- convinced her not t’kill me. Dead-” Another hiccup and a laugh. “Dead men don’t need wallets.”
“Stop,” Tim said, his voice hardened. “Just stop. Stop talking.” No more reminders that Jon almost died. That the woman who did it still walked around the Archives and Jon said nothing. That if this were six months ago, Tim would have killed her for even touching a hair on Jon’s head with the intent to hurt.
“S’rry,” Jon mumbled. They didn’t speak for the rest of the way.
Tim waited at the A & E for more than a few hours, firing off a text or two to Martin, telling him not to worry if he saw any blood at his desk. This had the opposite effect, but Tim was too tired to deal with his fussing. He’d had enough excitement for the morning.
Jon was released surprisingly quickly, a nurse hurriedly pushing him into Tim’s arms with a rather false sounding “Feel better soon!” Jon had bandages all over his face and neck, and Tim could see through his thin button-up that he’d had his ribs wrapped up. He was listless as Tim wrapped him in his coat again, leaning heavily into his side as papers fell from his hand- a pamphlet on broken ribs, concussions, and a prescription for heavy painkillers. Tim balanced him with one arm, reaching down to pick up the paperwork with the other.
“That was quick. They ask a lot of questions? You look like a battered housewife. No offense.”
Jon laughed a bit at that- more loopy than unhinged. “Just tol’ em I worked at the Magnus Institute- didn’t ask questions after that. Wanted me in and out, I suppose.” Another horror of their job- nobody to run to when things got rough. Turned out hospitals were just as bad as the police. Fucking figures.
They continued to walk out to the car, Jon limping along in his hold. “This had nothing to do with whatever shit Elias has you doing, though,” he responded, slowing down as Jon winced in pain. “Shouldn’t you be reporting this? You lost your wallet, your phone. Gonna need that.”
“Oh, Tim,” Jon sounded so resigned, but gave him a soppy, unnerving smile. “S’not worth it. Who's gonna call me, anyway?”
Tim didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just buckled him into the passenger seat and got in the car, sighing. “Where’s home?”
Jon gave him a surprised look. “Institute’s fine, really-”
“No,” Tim raised his voice, stern. “I’m not taking you back there. Just give me an address, and take one fucking day off. No arguments.”
Jon shrunk back at his tone; he’d forgotten how much he hated yelling. Never reacted well to it. Even when Tim was trying to be nice, he still fucked it all up. Jon rattled off an address about twenty minutes away and they drove there in silence, Jon’s hands fidgeting in his lap and Tim’s hands gripping the steering wheel with unnecessary force.
He didn’t help Jon to the door. He didn’t want to see how he was living. If he needed help getting around. When Jon tilted out of the car, trying to shrug off his coat, Tim stopped him with a hand to his arm.
“Just bring it back tomorrow. You look like you need it.”
And Jon nodded, so surprised and so thankful. It’s just a fucking jacket! He wanted to scream. Stop looking at me like that!
He watched as Jon stumbled up the stairway, knocking at a door. It opened and a hand reached out to steady him, Jon leaning into it gratefully. Tim drove off before he could get a better look.
Jon came in the next day. He limped and Martin fussed. He tried to smile at Tim.
Tim did not smile back.
Months later, Jon will wake up in his cot, curled around the jacket. It was Tim’s favorite, well-worn but expensive. Jon had tried to give it back but Tim just shook his head. A week later, he died. And then it didn’t matter anymore.