Work Text:
“If I have to write one more word in this god-forsaken story, I’m going to scream.”
“Then stop writing.” Tim realizes who he’s talking to a second too late, only to be met with a glare.
Tim doesn’t think he’s seen Jon move all day. Aside from the occasional snack run or bathroom break, he’s remained firmly planted on the couch, tap, tap, tapping away at his laptop.
“The submission deadline isn’t until next week,” Tim points out. Or at least, he thinks it is. Jon flip flops between projects so frequently he can’t keep track anymore.
“Yes, and if I can have this story finished and sent off, then I can get started on my other works that are due this month.”
“And then what?” Tim asks. He tilts Jon’s screen by a fraction. “What’ll happen if everything for the rest of the month is done with?”
Jon blinks. “Well, then, I guess I could pick up a couple more projects, maybe get together a few more submission pieces. I might even have a chance to—”
“Jon.” Tim nudges at his computer screen again, threatening to close it over Jon’s fingers. “You could slow down.”
“I will,” Jon says, readjusting his laptop screen to resume typing.
Tim pauses, trying to figure out a new plan. Not that he expected the direct approach to work, but he’s trying to be more optimistic. “Jon, how many words have you written today?”
“Oh, I don’t know. 3.5k? 4k? I haven’t really been keeping track? It’s just first draft writing anyway; I hardly think it matters.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “I think sixteen times your daily word count goal is more than enough for today, don’t you?”
Jon doesn’t answer right away, instead letting the tapping of his keystrokes fill the silence. Tim wonders if he’s actually typing words or if Jon’s just faking it to look like he’s on a burst of inspiration. “No, Tim, I really don’t.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I wasn’t asking, wasn’t it?” Before Jon can ask, Tim sweeps him up into a bear hug. The laptop slides off his lap and harmlessly lands on the couch.
“Tim!” Jon squawks. He kicks, but not enough to hurt Tim. This is to show his indignance at being manhandled.
“Nope, mandatory break time!” Tim chirps. “Why don’t you watch a bit of telly with me? Or maybe we could go for a walk.”
“Or maybe I could stop working in the living room,” Jon snaps. The tone of his voice would be much scarier if he weren’t so visibly pouting.
“Aww, you love us!” Tim teases.
“Tim, this is not funny!” Jon wriggles against Tim’s hold, and when that proves ineffective, calls for backup. “Sasha! Martin!”
“They left, buddy,” Tim reminds him. He had a feeling Jon hadn’t really registered their goodbyes earlier. As much as he likes to pretend he can multi-task while writing, once he hits his stride, the rest of the world quickly fades out of his field of focus.
“You can’t force me to be little,” Jon growls, continuing to pout.
“You know, anger is the first stage of grief,” Tim jokes as he closes Jon’s laptop.
“You’re thinking of ‘shock,’ Tim,” Jon says, again not really helping his case on not being regressed. One of regressed Jon’s favorite things to do is to teach Sasha and Tim new facts, but especially if that means he gets to correct them.
“Ah, denial. The second stage.”
Jon pouts all the way into the kitchen, refusing to even look Tim in the eye. That’s fine. With Jon’s work schedule, he and Sasha have become well-acquainted with having to play the bad guy. Not to mention that Jon’s probably the most stubborn person they’ve ever met, meaning that these extended pouting sessions can last all day.
Tim’s main concern is getting Jon some food. His preferred foods when writing are anything within reach, which leads to a lot of snacking and not much mindful eating. If he can just get Jon a handful of vegetables, he’ll consider it a victory.
“What do you think?” Tim asks as he rifles through the pantry. “I could whip up some vegetable soup. Maybe something with rice?”
Jon sighs. “Tim, please let me get back to my work. I’ll do a half day tomorrow, I swear, but I have a lot I need to get done today.”
Tim nods solemnly. “Bargaining.”
Jon scowls. “Do you even know the stages of grief?”
“Anger 2, anger’s later, slightly more explosive cousin. Not as critically acclaimed as the first but still very potent with its message.”
Jon stops trying after that.
To his credit, he doesn’t try to sneak back off to the living room later. Then again, he and Tim have played this game many times before, and the result is always the same. Tim notices his absence almost immediately, catches him having just opened his laptop, and calmly picks him back up and carries him to the kitchen again. Not a very fun game to play, especially for a hyperactive kid like Jon, who needs constant stimulation.
Jon crosses his arms, leaning back into his chair. “When are Sasha and Martin getting home?” he asks sullenly. Apparently today isn’t a high willpower day.
“Probably in a couple hours,” Tim answers. He takes Jon’s fidget cube from the counter and places it on the table in front of Jon, ignoring the glare he gets in response. “Do you think they’re going to bring us treats back from the shops?”
“No. Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Treat me like I’m little. I’m not.” Jon stops glaring at the wall to instead glare at Tim. “And don’t make another ‘stages of grief’ joke.”
“Yeesh. Harsh crowd.” Tim turns away in mock-defeat, when he and Jon both know it’s a matter of time. The first step of Jon regressing is him insisting that he doesn’t want to regress, followed quickly by guilt and then crying.
So Tim stops trying to make conversation. Jon is great at giving the silent treatment, but he’s not so great at getting it back. He’s a chatty little thing while regressed, and the lack of attention will have him changing his tune soon enough.
~
Twenty minutes. He makes it through twenty minutes of quiet soup-making before he starts to get restless.
“Is it almost done yet?” Jon asks. “I’d like to get back to my work after this.”
Tim turns, raising an eyebrow. “No work. Soup. You’ve done enough work for today.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“The bags under your eyes will be the judge of that, and they’re sentencing you to an evening of relaxation.”
Assuming they’re five minutes away from a hunger-based meltdown at best, Tim went with the quickest soup prep possible. Sasha doesn’t care for the canned stuff, but it cooks quickly and he can just throw extra veggies in as needed.
Jon wrinkles his nose at the meal placed in front of him, but he doesn’t say anything. Being picky about his food is a surefire sign that he’s regressing, and apparently he isn’t in the mood to give Tim the satisfaction.
“So,” Tim says, sitting opposite the table to Jon, “what’s the big story you can’t pull yourself away from today? Another spider tale?”
“Uh, no, actually…” Jon trails off, averting his eyes. “It’s a novel.”
“A novel? You’ve never mentioned working on a novel before.”
“That’s because I just started it.” Jon takes a couple spoonfuls of soup just to avoid having to immediately elaborate. When he speaks again, he sounds even less sure of himself, if possible. “Just last night, in fact.”
“Jon! That’s so exciting! Are you going to try and get it published? You could be a published writer!”
“I am a published writer,” Jon says, a hint of childish defensiveness creeping into his tone.
And maybe that was a little unfair of Tim to say. “Published author” would probably have been a better way to word that. Jon’s work has been in multiple literary magazines and anthologies, but he’s never had an entire book all to himself. Honestly, Tim had thought it just wasn’t his speed.
“So what’s it about, eh? Give me the elevator pitch!”
“I only have a handful of characters, but I’m thinking about some sort of house that feeds off peoples’ fear,” Jon explains. His cheeks heat up, and it’s clear he’s trying to reel in the usual regressed excitement he feels from telling people about his stories. “So the characters feed into the setting and the setting feeds into the characters.”
“Sounds perfectly spooky!” Tim says. He’s not the biggest fan of horror, if at all, but he always reads Jon’s work. Sasha’s the editor of the house, so Tim’s usually there to give his first impressions and generally hype up Jon’s work.
And despite himself, Jon cracks a smile. “Yes. ‘Perfectly spooky’ is one way to describe it, I suppose.” He resumes eating, but the tension in his shoulders has lessened somewhat.
“Must be a change of pace, eh?” Tim asks. “Going from stories you can draft out in a week to something that takes…”
“A month if you push it,” Jon supplies, implying that he’s most assuredly intending to push it. “But the average is about six months.”
“I see.”
“It’s been frustrating,” Jon adds without prompting. “It feels like I’m getting nowhere at all. And even when I do, nothing ever feels sufficient.”
“It might be a good idea to take some time away from it. Maybe just a break day. Or maybe don’t worry about how it reads right out of the gate.”
Jon doesn’t answer right away, mulling over the suggestions in his head. When he finally comes out with an answer, it’s one that Tim expects, but certainly not for their current line of conversation.
“We can have ice cream after? And not tell Sasha?” His voice is soft and he’s slurring his words, a surefire sign that he’s tipped over the edge into full-fledged regression.
And well, Tim’s never been one to say no to those eyes. “Sure thing, bud. Just finish your soup, okay?”
Jon nods, still not looking Tim in the eye. He rarely does when he’s regressed, so Tim tries to read his body language instead of his face. It’s worked well so far.
Tim checks his phone, confirming that Martin and Sasha aren’t on their way back from the shops yet. Maybe if they’re lucky, they can sneak in one of the cartoons and get Jon settled, since Martin is bound to regress if he sees Jon’s tiny too.
In the meantime, Tim returns to the living room, scooping the abandoned laptop off the couch to put in Jon’s room.
He’s sure Jon will go right back work come morning, but for now, they can just focus on relaxing.