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I.
—Jon, you need to run. Now.
—What? Why? What’s going on?
—Don’t look back. Just go.
—Tim I don’t understand—
— Now , Jon!
II.
Tim wasn’t the right person to take care of Jon. Too much had gone wrong between them. They’d hurt each other too badly, too completely.
Just a few days ago, Tim had noticed that Jon looked more tired and frantic than usual, so he’d taken the opportunity to push him further. He’d been snappier with him, relishing the way Jon flinched at his words. Enjoying the way Jon’s fear flared when Tim came into the room.
There was no one on Jon’s side, in their basement prison. Melanie and Basira weren’t much better than Tim, and Martin, Jon’s only real ally, had abandoned them all for Peter Lukas. Tim didn’t care. Jon was a monster. He’d trapped them all there. He deserved it.
Apparently, Jon had agreed, deciding to take his chances with the Buried without telling the rest of them. Because Daisy was stuck in there, and he wouldn’t leave her to suffer forever. Because he was the least likely to be missed. The chances of him making it out were basically nonexistent, but he did it anyway. For Daisy. For the person who had actively tried to murder him.
Tim tries to imagine how miserable he’d have to be to make that decision himself. How could he have purposefully put Jon through that?
Jon leaves a tape, explaining himself, and Martin swears at Tim.
“How could you just stand by and let him—”
“You know this isn’t his fault, but you keep insisting on blaming him for every single thing—”
“For God’s sake, you used to be his friend—”
That’s before Jon is gone for a full day, before Martin goes silent and cold, before he starts stacking the tapes all over Jon’s office. Once that happens, he won’t so much as look at Tim. He leaves, and Tim is alone, twisting Jon’s rib between his hands, such a stark reminder of his guilt. He doesn’t leave Jon’s office, doesn’t so much as look away from the now-unchained coffin. If Jon makes it back, Tim is going to be here for him.
“It was his choice, Tim,” Melanie says, and it takes everything Tim has not to growl at her. Tim knows Jon well enough to know when he’s making decisions with a clear head, and this was not a well-planned-out expedition. Jon’s rib is currently in his hands, because Jon decided that the best way to leave an anchor for himself was to go speak to Jared Hopworth, alone.
No, this was Jon choosing to do something because he couldn’t stand to be around the rest of them for a moment longer.
Three days in, the coffin opens, and Jon and Daisy stumble out, Daisy’s arm slung over Jon’s shoulder. Tim is on his feet instantly, shouting for Basira, moving to help Jon. Both of them are covered in dirt and look absolutely exhausted.
Basira comes in, and her jaw drops, seeing Daisy. It’s only a moment, though, before she’s moving to help, pulling Daisy away, taking her weight onto her own shoulders.
Daisy taken care of, Tim immediately pulls Jon into his arms, into an embrace that he isn’t sure he’ll ever release him from. In his arms, he knows Jon is safe, not throwing himself into whatever danger he can find. He presses his face into Jon’s hair, and it’s filthy, but Tim doesn’t care.
He thought he’d never see Jon again.
“Tim?” Jon says finally, his voice quiet and slightly trembling. It’s only then that Tim realizes how tense Jon is. Tim can smell how afraid he is, and it isn’t leftover fear from the Buried.
Jon is afraid of him, and Tim feels deep shame as he realizes that.
“I’m sorry,” Tim says into Jon’s hair. “Jon, I’m so sorry.”
Jon coughs. “What? For what?” Jon sounds so utterly bewildered that Tim can’t help but tighten his grip, hold him closer. He’d been so afraid of losing him.
“For everything,” Tim says. “For making you so miserable that the Buried seemed like a better option.”
Jon laughs slightly, still sounding uncertain. “It, uh—That’s not exactly—”
“You know what I mean,” Tim says.
“I—don’t think I do,” Jon says nervously, like he’s worried he’s somehow given the wrong answer.
“I don’t want to hate you anymore,” Tim says. There’s more to it than that. He doesn’t to watch Jon suffer anymore, doesn’t want Jon to be miserable. He wants Jon to be safe. He leans back, holding Jon’s shoulders and looking at him seriously. “I want you to be okay.”
“Oh,” Jon says. Tim smiles, running his hands down Jon’s arms. They come away absolutely filthy.
“You need a bath,” Tim says.
“I suppose there’s the shower Gertrude had installed?” Jon says. But no, that shower won’t do at all. It was designed for quick rinses, not the kind of heavy-duty scrubbing Jon will need. The water pressure is bad , and the temperature is tepid at best. No.
“Come back to my flat,” Tim says. “I have an actual tub. We can order takeout. You can sleep in a real bed that isn’t a cot.”
“Is that—safe?” Jon asks.
“As safe as anywhere else.”
Jon hesitates a moment longer, then nods his agreement. “A bath sounds—perfect, actually,” he says, and there’s a note of tension in his voice, deep emotion that he’s only barely managing to keep a lid on.
Tim squeezes him once more before pulling away. “Right then, let’s get a cab!”
“Wait, Tim, I don’t think—I mean—” Jon winces, gesturing at himself. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to find a cab willing to take me like this.”
Tim raises a hand to his mouth, thinking. It’s only mid-afternoon, so they could take the Tube, but—Small spaces, underground, bad idea.
“Basira?” Tim calls out, hoping the other two hadn’t already left. Basira has a car. Or, well—Daisy has a car that Basira has been using for the past eight months.
Luckily, he gets an answer back. “What?” she calls, her voice coming from the break room.
Tim goes over, dragging Jon with him, unwilling to let go of him just yet. He pokes his head in. They’re sitting on the couch, Daisy’s head resting on Basira’s shoulder, getting Basira and the couch thoroughly filthy. “You aren’t planning to stay here, right?” Tim asks.
“Uh, no. Thought we’d get a hotel room, somewhere with a real shower. Charge the Institute for it,” Basira explains.
“Cool. Mind giving us a ride to my flat?” Tim asks, and Basira just shrugs, which he takes as agreement. She owes Jon that much, at least, for rescuing her partner and all.
Jon falls asleep on the drive over, head lolling onto Tim’s shoulder. He only grumbles when Tim tries to rouse him, so Tim ends up carrying him inside. He’s worryingly light, and it makes Tim’s heart twist in his chest. He’d been watching Jon waste away for months, and he hadn’t even cared.
Jon is a little bit more awake by the time Tim gets him inside and deposits him on the couch, paying no heed to the dirt that gets everywhere. Tim crouches beside him, holding on to one of his hands, rubbing his thumb over Jon’s first two knuckles.
“Right,” he says. “Do you want a bath, or do you want to sleep first?”
Jon rolls his neck with a soft groan. “Bath,” he says.
“Okay, I’ll go fill the tub,” Tim says. He starts to let go of Jon’s hand, but Jon holds tight. “Don’t leave,” Jon says, his voice quiet.
Tim gives Jon a soft smile and squeezes his hand, before bodily throwing Jon over his shoulder and carrying him to the bathroom.
Jon yelps. “Tim! Put me down!”
“Just a moment, boss,” Tim says, laughing. These are the kinds of antics they used to have, before everything fell apart. Tim manhandling Jon because he’s so small and because he gets so embarrassed about it, in the kind of way that means he’s secretly having fun but doesn’t want to admit it.
When they get to the bathroom, Tim sets Jon primly on his feet. “There you are.”
Jon immediately sinks, ending up seated on the bathroom floor. “Thank you, Tim,” he says, his voice tight, his eyes faraway.
“Jon?” Tim says, getting on his knees beside him. “What’s wrong?”
Jon shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s—I’m fine.” He goes for a reassuring smile, but it misses by a mile.
“Jon, I can tell when you lie to me,” Tim says.
“I’m sorry,” Jon says immediately, and Tim’s heart breaks a little more for how genuinely scared Jon sounds. You caused that, he reminds himself.
“You don’t have to apologize, Jon. I just want to know what’s wrong.”
“I just—” Jon’s breath hitches. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I know you’re trying, and I swear I’m trying too, but I don’t—Being thrown around like that, it just—” Jon’s voice breaks, and Tim watches him bite down on his hand, hard, grounding himself.
He wants to reach out, stop him, but he doesn’t want to make this any worse. He should have known, shouldn’t have just assumed that he could treat this Jon like the one he’d known in research. How many times had Jon been kidnapped by now? How many scars has Jon collected?
Jon is bracing himself, like he expects to be hurt for this admission, and somehow that hurts Tim more.
“I’m sorry, Jon,” Tim says, putting as much genuine feeling into the words as possible. “I shouldn’t have picked you up like that. Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again.”
Jon blinks at Tim, like he’s done something totally shocking. Maybe he has. “I… Thank you,” he says. He clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair. He winces at the horrible dirt texture. “So, um… That bath?”
“Right.” Tim begins filling the tub with hot water. It fills quickly, and he stands, helping Jon up with him. “Uh, I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“Wait,” Jon said, grabbing his hand again. “I. Um. Would you mind—staying? I mean, you don’t have to, obviously, but I—” he lets out a nervous little laugh. “I’m not entirely convinced the tub isn’t going to try and drown me or something.”
“Oh,” Tim says. “Sure.” He sits down again, back against the tub, looking away as Jon peels off his clothes. Jon lets out a soft sigh as he steps into the hot water, and it makes Tim smile.
“Oh. Good lord,” Jon says after a couple of minutes. “This may be a problem.”
“Hm?” Tim says, turning his head just slightly, but Jon is reaching for him, so he turns around and looks.
The bath water is a dark, sickly brown, totally opaque. It looks like something out of a horror movie, and from the look on Jon’s face it’s clear that he’s had the same thought. He looks like he expects something to come out of the water and grab him, and honestly? Tim isn’t entirely convinced that won’t happen.
Damn eldritch bullshit.
Tim grabs Jon’s hand tightly and lets out a long breath, then goes for a reassuring smile. “It’s fine,” he says. “We’ll just drain and refill it. No problem.”
They do so, again and again, for long enough that Tim is starting to panic, wondering if the dirt isn’t stuck on Jon forever. Judging by his manic laughter, Jon is starting to feel the same way, but the seventh time they refill the tub, the water turns a normal, clear brown.
“Oh, thank God,” Tim says, finally releasing his vice-grip on Jon’s hand.
“Yeah,” Jon says, with a shaky smile.
They end up refilling again, to rinse the worst of the dirt clumps from Jon’s hair. Then again, for Jon to scrub away most of the dirt still sticking to his skin. By the time they’re filling up the tub for the ninth time, over an hour has passed, and Jon is flagging considerably.
Which is how Tim ends up seated on the side of the tub, washing Jon’s hair. Jon’s head is pillowed against Tim’s thigh, fast asleep as Tim lathers shampoo into his scalp. He has a detachable showerhead, and he rinses Jon’s hair, carefully wiping soap away from his eyes.
Tim finishes, and gently rouses Jon. “I’m going to grab you something to sleep in, okay? Be back in a sec.”
Jon just blinks at him and nods sleepily.
Tim tries not to be gone too long, partially because he doesn’t want Jon to get anxious, but also because he’s half-worried that Jon will drown, near-asleep as he is. His clothes are all too big for Jon, but they’ll be fine for sleeping.
He returns to find Jon fully asleep again, arms crossed over the side of the tub, head leaned against them. He smiles, and ruffles Jon’s wet hair. “Jon,” he says softly. “You need to sleep in an actual bed, okay? You can’t sleep here.”
Jon mutters something, burying his face more deeply into his arms.
“Jo-on,” Tim says, tapping on Jon’s cheek, over and over.
Finally, Jon groans a looks at him. Tim gives him a smile. “Nice to see you, sleepyhead. Time for bed.” He drops a towel on Jon’s head.
Jon pulls the towel off, rolling his eyes, but takes the clothes Tim offers him, dressing quickly and unselfconsciously. He wordlessly follows Tim to his bedroom, collapsing on top of the blankets.
“Jon,” Tim says. “You have to get under the covers.”
Jon doesn’t move, so Tim painstakingly levers him up, pulling the covers out from under him, then arranging them over him. “There you go,” he says. “Much more comfortable.”
Before he can leave, Jon reaches out, takes his wrist. “Stay?” he whispers. He sounds exhausted, but hopeful. Like this is something he really wants.
So Tim says, “Sure, Jon,” and climbs into bed beside him. Instantly, Jon curls up against him, so Tim hesitantly puts an arm around him, pulling him closer. Jon sighs softly, a noise of contentment. And then he’s asleep.
***
The next day, they go back to the Archives, and… things get better.
They’re still trapped working for an evil eldritch voyeur, but neither of them are quite so alone anymore. Tim takes to sitting in Jon’s office during the day, watching cat videos whenever Jon does statements. After, when Jon gets that lost look halfway between nauseated and satisfied, Tim shows him the best ones, and it makes Jon smile.
At night, they curl up together on a cot in the tunnels. It helps Tim’s nightmares, having Jon there, a cool weight beside him. Jon doesn’t mind when Tim wakes him up with his thrashing, and in the aftermath, Jon runs soothing hands through his hair, whispering him back to sleep.
There are still slip-ups. Of course there are. The history between them is fraught, and reaching for the friendship of their past isn’t always helpful. They’re both different people now, much more broken than before, and in getting to know each other again, they can’t help but brush up against jagged edges.
They’re trying, though, and just the trying is so, so wonderful.
III.
Jon and Basira go on a trip to the Arctic, and while they are away, someone makes a complaint. About Jon, who all this time has been feeding his patron by forcing people to relive their worst traumas.
“You need to talk to him,” is all Martin says as he hands over the tape.
Tim plans for it to be as non-confrontational as possible. Jon isn’t a bad person. He knows that. Jon wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t have some reason for it.
But Basira overhears them talking, demands to know what’s going on. She calls Jon a monster, and Jon flinches, and Tim wants to rip her throat out .
But a different part of him, weak but growing stronger, wants to rip into Jon. Tear him apart, taste his blood.
He’s been doing such a good job of ignoring it, up until now, pretending he didn’t know how he survived the Unknowing. Pretending he didn’t hear the constant rhythm of hunt hunt kill kill rushing through his veins in time with his blood.
He didn’t used to be able to smell fear.
Jon is afraid now, curled up small as Basira tears into him. It’s… intoxicating, that fear, now that he notices it. He wants to draw more out of him, to watch him tremble before he goes in for the killing blow. He wants to—
No.
He doesn’t want any of that.
He forces it down, forces himself to ignore the call of blood. “Basira,” he snaps. “You’re not helping.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but he is having none of it.
“Get out,” he says, punctuating the statement with a low growl.
Basira hesitates, looking like she wants to argue. He growls again, higher this time, faster, more threatening. She isn’t afraid of him, but she doesn’t push it. She just leaves, muttering to herself as she goes.
He turns to Jon. “Are you alright?”
Jon nods, too slowly. His eyes are distant, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. “You shouldn’t have chased her off. She was right.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Tim says, pulling Jon into his arms. He comes easily, and Tim sinks them both down on the little couch wedged in the corner. He cards a hand gently through Jon’s hair, dragging his nails against his scalp. Jon shivers minutely.
“Good?” Tim asks, and Jon nods sharply.
“Okay.” Tim wriggles a bit, settling them more deeply. “So, why have you been attacking random people in coffee shops?”
He keeps his voice light, but Jon still flinches. “I—I mean, it’s better if I’m strong, right? If I can use my powers when, when we get attacked again?”
“Yes, I heard you tell Basira,” Tim says. “What’s the real reason?”
“I—How do you know that isn’t the real reason?”
“I can tell when you lie to me, Sims,” Tim says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Jon’s head.
Jon laughs wetly. “Right.”
“So?” Tim says. “Out with it.”
“I’m just—so hungry,” Jon say, his voice breaking. “And I keep needing to Know things, and, and I’m just so tired, and—I mean, it doesn’t—I know it’s bad, but it’s not like I’m killing people. I don’t… I don’t know if I can stop, Tim.”
Jon’s voice breaks down fully then, and he just cries into Tim’s shirt.
“It’s okay, Jon. We’ll figure it out, it's okay” Tim says, over and over, soothing reassurances. He steadfastly ignores the Hunt-ridden part of him that wants to pin Jon down and listen to him beg for his life. He isn’t going to give in. He isn’t going to hurt Jon.
He isn’t .
***
Ignoring the blood works—until it doesn’t.
Tim starts taking late-night walks with Jon, just to get him out of the Institute. Just to get him away from the others, who more and more look at him like he’s some monster who at any second will betray them.
They go out well past midnight, so that the streets are largely empty, so that Jon isn’t tempted by every stranger they pass with a story. It’s more dangerous, sure, but they’re both inhuman enough to dissuade most would-be muggers. And Tim makes sure that Jon is always close beside him.
Jon’s hip had never quite healed from Prentiss’s worms burrowing into it, so they walk slowly, taking lots of breaks. They stay out as long as they possibly can, just chatting, enjoying the cool summer night air. Enjoying the sense of normalcy, of routine, of… escape, maybe.
One night, they get attacked by a band of Dark cultists, dead-set on revenge for Jon destroying their special sun. There are four of them, but they’re weak, and whatever tricks they have as members of the Dark are no match for Tim’s knife. He tears through three of them, and turns just in time to see Jon send the fourth running.
The scent of the Eye hangs heavily around him, and the blood is singing in Tim’s mind, blocking out rational thought. It isn’t satisfied with the slaughter before them. It wants a chase. A hunt.
Jon is saying something to him. He looks tired. He’s afraid, and that makes Tim afraid because—
— hunt chase kill hunt chase kill —
—he can hardly think, and Jon’s fear-scent is only making it worse. Stop it. Stop it , this is Jon, you have to get it together —
One of the cultist on the ground groans, shifting slightly, and Jon flinches away. Tim reaches out fast, grabbing his wrist. Jon’s fear spikes, looking at him with wide, wide eyes. “Tim?” he says, his voice soft, confused. And afraid. It’s so delicious, how afraid he is.
“Run, Jon,” Tim says, smiling as the blood rises in him.
“What? Why? Tim, what’s going on?” Jon looks so small, and Tim knows he could pin him down easily, work his knife into him and hear him scream, and—
—no, no , all Tim wants is to protect him. Jon is the only one he has left, all he wants is for Jon to be okay.
“Don’t look back,” Tim says, releasing Jon’s hand and stepping away, trying to keep distance between them. “Just go . The Institute isn’t that far. You’ll be safe there.” He’ll be safe at the Institute, right?
“Tim, I don’t understand,” Jon says, and Tim can hear Jon’s heart rate still rising, and he—
— hunt chase kill hunt chase kill —
“ Now , Jon,” Tim says, closing his eyes, trying to drown out the blood. A moment passes, and finally, finally, he hears Jon’s footsteps disappearing away from him, and it’s all he can do not to chase immediately. He has to give Jon a chance, right? It isn’t much of a hunt, otherwise.
Tim lets out a long breath. Another.
He counts down from ten. Again. Again. There, it’s easy. All he has to do is keep waiting ten seconds. He can hold the Hunt back another ten seconds, can’t he? It’s easy.
Ten, nine, eight—
— hunt chase kill —
—seven, six, five—
— hunt chase kill —
—four, three, two—
—one—
Tim opens his eyes and breathes, tasting the air. Jon is out of sight, but his scent is so familiar. His fear.
He smiles. Jon doesn’t stand a chance.
IV.
Tim tells Jon to run, so Jon runs. He understands what’s happening, even if he wishes he didn’t. He Knew why Tim survived the Unknowing, the kind of thing Tim was turning into. It had made him wary, at first, memories of Daisy knife against his neck weighing heavily in his mind.
Then the Coffin, and the apologies, and everything after, and somewhere along the way, Jon had let his guard down. He’d thought—
Well. It doesn’t matter what he’d thought, does it?
He barely makes it three blocks before he has to stop, catch his breath. His hip aches from running, and he knows he’ll never beat Tim to the Institute on speed alone. He ducks into an alleyway, then another, letting the Eye guide him in the right direction.
He jumps at every noise behind him, heart in his throat. It’ll be fine, he tries to tell himself. They really aren’t far from the Institute, just a twenty-minute walk away.
He starts down another alley, and then he hears whistling somewhere nearby, a jaunty tune, getting closer. He knows it’s Tim, Knows that he might as well be leaving muddy footprints everywhere for how easy it is for Tim to track him. He quickly ducks behind a dumpster, pressing himself close against it, hoping it’ll disguise his scent. He holds his breath, praying not to be noticed.
Footsteps pass by, not running but moving quickly. Moving with purpose. Relief lifts in Jon’s chest as they go past the alley, starting to get softer.
The footsteps stop. Jon stops breathing.
He peeks through the crack between the dumpster in the wall, and in the darkness he can just make out Tim’s outline, coming to stand at the mouth of the alley. “Jo-on,” Tim calls, his voice light and playful. “I know you’re in there.”
Tim takes a step into the alley, then another. He hasn’t seen Jon yet, but in just a few seconds, he’ll pass by the dumpster, and Jon will be cornered. Jon makes a decision and bolts , running as fast and hard as he can, ignoring the flaring pain in his hip. He can hear Tim laughing, somewhere behind him, footsteps coming after him. He pushes himself faster, dashing through alleys and back streets, hoping desperately that the Eye will guide him to safety.
It takes him to a chain link fence, with a small hole dug at the bottom by some kind of wild animal. It isn’t large enough for Jon, but he’s desperate, and he doesn’t let the digging teeth at the bottom of the fence stop him.
He makes it to the other side just ahead of Tim, and stands facing him, chest heaving, shirt torn. He’s bleeding, his blood dripping off the fence, but that’s the least of his concerns. Tim barely looks winded, and is smiling at him. Jon expects to see coldness in his eyes, something to reassure him that this isn’t really Tim chasing him. Hunting him.
But his eyes are just as warm as always. There’s almost a softness there, as he looks at Jon.
Tim loops his fingers through the fence and rattles it slightly, looking up to the top. Jon follows his gaze. It isn’t a particularly tall fence, and there’s nothing at the top to prevent Tim climbing over it.
Tim leans forward, resting his head against his raised arm. Jon stumbles back. He tries to breathe, he needs to breathe, but in his panic he can hardly manage more than shallow gasps.
“Getting tired?” Tim asks, that lazy grin still on his face.
Jon doesn’t answer, just breathes, trying to figure out where he’s going from here. For once, the Eye is being actually helpful, and he Knows that the fence surrounds what is essentially a vacant lot. On the other side, a few dozen meters away, is an unlocked gate, the padlock long since broken. If Jon can get there, the Institute is just a few blocks away.
Jon takes off, and behind him he hears the fence rattle as Tim starts to climb it. Tim gets to the top faster than Jon imagined was possible, and then there’s a thump as Tim drops down on the other side.
Jon makes it to the gate, fumbling the handle open and slipping out, slamming it shut again just as Tim reaches it. For one terrifying moment, they grapple with it, Tim pulling to open it, Jon pulling to keep it shut.
Tim lets go first and Jon stumbles backward, his momentum suddenly turned against him. He tries to catch himself with his bad leg, and the leg gives out, sending him tumbling to the ground in a flare of agony. He starts to get to his feet, to run, but then Tim’s hands are on him, shoving him up against the fence.
“Gotcha,” Tim says, pinning him flat. The chain-link rattles behind Jon, digging into his skin, and his breath is coming in short terrified gasps. Tim pulls the knife from his pocket, and Jon can’t help the high whine that comes from his throat. He wriggles, trying to escape, but Tim holds him firmly.
“Are you afraid, Jon?” Tim asks, tapping the knife against Jon’s cheek.
Jon swallows. “Tim, please, please don’t—”
“Don’t what? Don’t kill you?” Tim laughs, and there is no difference between this and his normal laugh. “Can you give me a single reason why I shouldn’t?”
“You’re my friend,” Jon manages, miserably. “This isn’t—This isn’t you. You don’t want to do this.”
“Hm,” Tim says. “Interesting argument. Trouble is, I’m really quite sure I do want to kill you. You are a monster, after all. And it’s only fair, isn’t it? You ruin my life, I end your life.”
It hurts, hearing Tim say that, and what hurts even more is that he has a point. Jon is a monster, isn’t he? And, for all the progress he’s made in his friendship with Tim, he is still the one who trapped Tim down in the Archives.
Even so. Jon doesn’t want to die, and certainly not like this.
Static rises.
Tim grunts in discomfort, wincing at the sudden heavy weight of the Eye on him. “Stop it, Jon,” Tim says.
“ No ,” Jon spits back. The static gets deeper, more all-encompassing.
With a growl, Tim slices into Jon’s cheek with the knife. Jon doesn’t flinch, encircled by the Eye as he is. He just keeps Looking at Tim, cataloguing every part of him, until finally Tim releases him with a growl, shying away from him.
Jon’s leg buckles, suddenly unsupported, and he stumbles, but he gets his weight back under him quickly, limping as fast as he can in the direction of the Institute. It takes a few moments for his leg to loosen up, but when he does, he breaks into a run. He doesn’t look behind him, too afraid he’ll see Tim just a few steps behind him.
The front doors are locked, and Jon quickly grabs his keys from his pockets, sliding it into the door with trembling hands. He hears quick footsteps, and he just barely manages to get inside, slamming the door behind him and turning the deadbolt.
Tim rattles the door a few times, glaring in at Jon from the other side. Jon’s heart is still hammering in his chest as he backs away from the door. He can see Tim, but he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s about to be attacked from behind.
After a few moments, Tim leaves, heading in the direction of the nearest tunnel entrance. Jon rushes downstairs, as fast as he can on his aching leg, and locks himself inside document storage.
It should be safe here. The locked door is sturdy, and after the Prentiss attack, the wall that separates the room from the tunnels was rebuilt, thicker. Even if Tim tried to hammer his way in through the wall, Jon would have plenty of time to take up refuge in his office.
He grabs the blanket from the camp bed, wrapping it around his shoulders, and sits in the corner closest to the door. The window on the door is small, and his position beneath and beside it will be hidden from anyone who tries to look in.
Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, and Jon starts to wonder if Tim has… given up. If he lost the trail in the Institute, somehow, or if he decided that pursuing this chase in Jon’s stronghold is a bad idea.
Then comes a knock on the door. “Jon? Are you in there?” It’s Tim’s voice, and he sounds… worried. “Jon, I am so sorry. That was—I don’t know what came over me? Are you okay?” A pause. “Jon, please open the door. I just want to be sure you’re okay.”
Jon doesn’t say anything, just stays as still as possible, breathing as quietly as possible.
“Jon, I know you’re in there,” Tim says, and there’s something tense in his voice now. The doorknob rattles, and Jon holds his breath, half-expecting the door to have somehow unlocked itself. It stays firmly closed.
There’s a long stretch of silence, and for a moment, Jon thinks that Tim has left. Then there’s a massive BANG as Tim furiously kicks the door. Jon can’t help let out a yelp of surprise, of panic.
“You can’t hide in there forever, Jon,” Tim says, no longer pretending at friendliness. “I’ll get you eventually. All I have to do is wait.”
Surely the others wouldn’t let him? Daisy has become something like a friend to Jon, since the Buried. Basira doesn’t trust him, but she at least believes in his usefulness. They would handle Tim, wouldn’t they?
“I’m going to cut you open,” Tim continues, his voice low with anger. “Your blood, dripping from my knife, wounds too deep for the Eye to save you.”
Jon swallows, trying to ignore him. It’s hard. It’s hard that it’s Tim saying these things, even if Jon knows that it isn’t really Tim, not really.
A sob rises in his throat. He’s lost Tim. Again. Even if Tim comes back to himself, Jon won’t be able to trust him. He’ll always be asking if it’s just a ruse, a trap. The days spent talking through statements with Tim, nights spent curled at his side—they’re over.
Tim keeps talking for a long, long time. Jon just sits on the other side of the door, trembling. Even when Tim goes silent, Jon doesn’t sleep, staying alert, watching the tunnel-adjacent wall for any sign Tim might be trying to break through.
Hours pass, and eventually, Jon hears footsteps outside. “Tim? Why are you sleeping on the floor?” It’s Melanie’s voice, and Jon freezes, as Tim lets out a soft, confused groan, waking up.
“Wha—I, um—Oh god.” Tim sounds—horrified. A knock on the door. “Jon? Are you in there? Are you okay?”
“What’s going on?” Melanie asks. “Why is Jon in there?”
“It’s, um—Listen, Jon, I’m going to leave, okay? I’ll just go for a walk, away from the Institute. And I’ll make sure you have plenty of warning before I come back, okay?”
“Tim, what the hell is going on?” Melanie asks.
“Nothing, it’s—Please just take care of Jon, okay?” Tim says.
“I’m not his keeper!” Melanie snaps. “I just want to know what kind of creepy nonsense is going on!”
“Then ask him, Melanie. I have to—” A door closes, and Jon loses their voices. A moment later, the door opens again. One set of footsteps comes back. “Jon?” Melanie says. “Are you going to come out, or—?”
Jon can think of too many ways this could be a trap. He doesn’t reply.
“Jon, I know you’re in there,” Melanie says. “I can see you.”
He still doesn’t say anything, and finally he just hears her sigh. “Fine. Fine .” She leaves, and Jon is finally alone, and he suddenly feels deeply, deeply exhausted. A bone-deep kind of exhaustion that tears at him. He’s hungry, he aches, and he’s just so—tired. He’s tired of all of this.
He falls asleep, still huddled in the corner, head resting against the wall. It isn’t any kind of escape.
***
Jon wakes up to pounding on the door. “Jon!” It’s Basira. “What the hell are you doing?”
Jon doesn’t know how to reply to that. Hiding, is what he’s doing, although it seems rather pointless when everyone knows exactly where he is. At least they can’t reach him, in here. At least it’s some kind of refuge.
Their words still get to him, though.
“Jon!” Basira keeps up her pounding. “We need an explanation. What is going on? Where’s Tim?”
“I-I don’t know,” Jon says softly. If Tim is really back to himself, if he’s really trying to give Jon space to feel safe, then he could be anywhere in London. If not, if he’s just biding his time until Jon lets his guard down— “You might try the tunnels,” Jon adds.
“Okay,” Basira says. “Were you planning to come out any time soon?”
“Not—not particularly,” Jon says, bracing himself for explosive anger. He doesn’t care. This room is—it’s safe.
Instead of challenging him, Basira just lets out a sigh and leaves.
***
Jon eventually makes his way onto the cot, curling up under his blanket. He wakes again to multiple voices outside his door.
“—you were supposed to get him to come out!” Jon just catches the end of the sentence. Tim is back, and he sounds—angry. Jon swallows, fear creeping in his throat, staying as still as he can on the cot. He doesn’t know why the thought of Tim seeing him scares him so much, but he wants to be hidden.
“It’s not our fault he’s stubborn,” Melanie snaps.
“He’ll come out eventually. He still needs food and water,” Basira adds.
“That isn’t—” Tim starts. He lets out a sigh that sounds more like a growl, and then someone knocks on the door. “Jon?” Tim says, his voice gentle. “I know you’re stubborn enough to just pass out in there, but please—please come out. No one is going to hurt you, okay?” Tim sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, and Jon desperately wants to believe him, but—
He thinks of how convincing Tim sounded the night before. He stays where he is.
***
About half an hour later, there’s another soft knock on the door. “Jon?”
Jon’s eyes snap open, and he’s over to the door in a moment. It’s Martin. “Martin?” he says, not quite believing it, despite clearly being able to see Martin through the window.
“…Yes,” Martin says. “Can I come in?”
Jon’s breath hitches in his throat. “Is—Is anyone else out there?”
“No,” Martin says. “It’s just me. Tim asked me to come check on you.” He lifts the mug in his hand. “I brought tea. And statements. Figured you might—need them.”
Jon stares at Martin for a long moment, then opens the door, pulling him inside so quickly that some of the tea splashes out of the mug. He shuts the door behind him, clicking the lock into place.
Martin looks vaguely annoyed. “Thanks for that,” he says, shaking spilled tea off his hand.
“Sorry,” Jon says. “I just—” He stops, unsure what to say. Martin is here, and that’s so unexpectedly wonderful, but he— “You said Tim sent you?”
“Yeah,” Martin says. “He told me what happened, and he wanted me to make sure you weren’t… dying in here. He said something about you getting hurt in the chase?”
“What?” Jon blinks. Oh, right. The fence. Blood. “Ah, yes, but I’m fine. I—It healed.”
“Good,” Martin says. “Well, enjoy the tea.” And then he starts to leave.
Jon grabs for Martin’s wrist before he can think about it. “Wait!” he says, his breath catching in his throat, something like panic.
Martin stops, looks at him.
“I—” Jon’s voice breaks. “I miss you.”
Martin closes his eyes for a moment, then opens his mouth to respond, but Jon cuts him off.
“I’m sorry. I know you can’t stay. I don’t—I don’t want to make things more difficult for you, really, I—I don’t.” He’s trying not to cry, but tears pool in his eyes anyway. He dabs at them with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Oh, Jon,” Martin sighs. He lets out a long breath, and then he sits down beside Jon on the cot and pulls him into a hug.
Jon goes limp against him. Martin isn’t warm and he smells—wrong. Like fog and salt water. Jon doesn’t like it.
But Martin is safe. He’s the only safe person left. The only person that Jon knows won’t suddenly decide to hurt him. A sob hitches in his throat, and Martin tightens his grip. One hand comes up to Jon’s hair, combing through it, gently pulling through tangles in its length.
Martin still leaves, far too soon, and Jon feels emptier for it. On some level, he knows that’s how Martin will justify this break to Peter Lukas. He tries to be okay with that.
It’s laughable, almost, the absolute state of his support network. The closest friend he has is an avatar who literally feeds on loneliness. After that, all he has are three people who have actively tried to kill him, and one more who has made no secret of the fact that she will kill him if she judges it necessary.
It’s funny, but thinking about it, curled up on his side on the cot, Jon just wants to cry. He’d trusted Tim. He’d really, really trusted Tim. Stupid. Why should he get to have a single positive relationship? He’s the Archivist. He exists for the world to try and kill him.
He wishes Martin would come back. He wishes he was curled up with Tim, warm and safe. He wishes—a sob forces its way from his throat—he wishes it didn’t all hurt so much .
V.
Jon says you can come back , Basira texts Tim. Tim lets out a long breath. It’s been two weeks since he’d hunted Jon, and he’d been staying as far away as he could, sleeping at his flat and stopping by the Institute as little as possible.
It’s been hard. There are so many little pieces of Jon in his flat, clothes and books and memories. He’s had nothing to do but replay that night, over and over in his brain, picking apart every piece of the ordeal he’d put Jon through.
He wishes he hadn’t enjoyed it so much.
He wishes there was no part of him that relished those memories.
He gets dressed, goes to the Institute, down the stairs to the Archives. Jon is in his office, the door closed. Tim knocks. “Come in,” Jon says.
Tim opens the door, and he can’t miss the way Jon’s fear suddenly flares, seeing him.
“Hi,” Tim says softly.
Jon swallows. “H-hello, Tim,” he says. He’s staying unnaturally still, and the fear isn’t going down. Tim can hear the rabbit-quick beat of his heart.
The blood is still chanting. Chase chase kill kill .
“I, um—How are you?” Tim asks. Stupid, inane question. Jon looks bad . His hair is greasy, unwashed, and there are dark circles under his eyes.
“I’m fine,” Jon says quickly. “Are you—?” Jon bites off the question midway through, looking down at the table, then just as quickly back at Tim.
“I’m better,” Tim says, even though it isn’t exactly true.
“Good,” Jon says.
Tim can’t stand it anymore, this awkward dancing around what happened. “Jon, I’m so sorry. I know that isn’t worth much, but what happened should have never—”
“Don’t,” Jon says, cutting him off. “Please. Please don’t.”
Tim blinks, confused. “What?”
“I know you’re sorry,” Jon says. “At least, I know—I know that Tim would be sorry, if he came back to himself.”
Tim blinks. “Jon, I am Tim . I’m not—I’m okay, now. I promise, I'm not lying to you.”
“How do I know that?” Jon says. “Might be a trap. Another part of the—the hunt.”
“No, Jon, that isn’t—” Tim stops. It’s fair, isn’t it? Jon had every right not to trust him anymore. There was nothing he could say to change that. “What about the Eye? You could capital-K Know. Right?”
“You think I haven’t tried that?” Jon sounds so tired. “It’s not interested in sharing that information, apparently.”
“So… what, then?” Tim asks.
Jon is staring at Tim’s chest, not meeting his eyes. “If you’re really back—Just—Know I don’t blame you that this happened. I know it wasn’t your fault, and it’s—well, I can hardly afford to hold grudges these days.”
He says it in such a hopeless tone that it breaks Tim’s heart, a little bit.
Jon continues. “But I’m not—I can’t let my guard down, Tim. At any moment you might be planning to kill me, and that’s terrifying.” He laughs wetly. “I can’t—” his voice breaks, and for a moment Tim thinks Jon is going to fully break down. But he just swallows, pulls himself together. “Things can’t go back to the way they were before, Tim,” Jon says. “No matter what you do or say, I will never be able to trust that it isn’t just part of the hunt.”
Tim nods. He feels like he’s going to cry, now, but—Honestly, he didn’t really expect anything different. Tim so badly wants to hold Jon close, make him feel safe, but even if Jon could trust that, it wouldn’t be true. Even now, the deep dark part of Tim is feasting on Jon’s fear.
Jon isn’t safe with him. Jon will never be safe with him.
“I’ll be seeing you around, then,” Tim says, smiling through the sheen in his eyes. Jon nods, and Tim steps out, closing the door behind him.
He pretends not to hear the soft click of the lock behind him.