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He spends days in the hospital after waking up.
Georgie visits on occasion. They don’t discuss the words that they exchanged before; neither of them were ever particularly good at talking things out. Brushing over the spats and cruel words works, if temporarily, so that is how they operate. A thumb can plug up a leak in the dam, after all.
Regularly, Basira stops by to bring statements. She delivers them, leaves the room while Jon records, then takes the tapes and written statements back to the Institute with her. No small talk is exchanged, and he expects nothing more or less of her.
Often, he thinks about Melanie, Daisy, Martin, and Tim. It hurts, a raw ache deep in his chest, when he thinks of them. He does his best not to think about Elias. Eventually, he has to stop himself from thinking about any of them. The memories swirling around in his head, of how he acted, of how he treated them all, make him feel sick to his stomach.
It’s a rather twisted display of survivor’s guilt, in a way. In other ways, it is grief, pure and simple. He didn’t know he could still feel grief. For a moment, he is happy to feel anything at all. Then he’s just ashamed.
There’s no one left for you now, something whispers to him, dark and insidious, its voice like raw honey oozing from the comb.
”Shut up,” he says right back, and doesn’t allow it to get another word in.
Days and days go by. Wake up—did you really sleep?—sit, stare out the window, statement, sleep—are you sleeping? are you sure?—rinse, and repeat. Basira won’t talk to him when she brings the statements. Georgie stops visiting.
It’s starkly different from before, from 6 months ago when he was saving the world. He’s not sure he likes this silence, now. It feels like he’s missing something, like there’s a party he wasn’t invited to. Something lurks just outside of his view, and he needs to know, needs to see.
Privately, before he pretends to sleep every night, Jon prays. To who, he’s unsure. But there are words, mouthed silently in the dim light that streams in from the hospital halls, and he addresses them to a god.
Jon returns to the Institute a week and 4 days later to see a dead man lying on a desk. He tosses a pair of sunglasses up into the air, his boredom palpable, and catches them deftly before they fall.
”Tim?”
The man startles with surprise, snapping into a seated position. Although perhaps snap is too strong of a word for the way he moves, fluid and loose like he’s not entirely real. A shade off from what could be considered solid.
They meet eyes, and Jon is the first to look away. Tim scoffs and slides off the desk to stand, walking towards Jon soundlessly.
Face to face they stand, and Tim says at last, “Of course you’re the only one who can fucking see me. Of course.”
”I–I’m sorry,” Jon says automatically. The guilt is crushing, incomparable to any he’s felt before. Seeing Tim in front of him, real and unharmed except for worm scars and deep shadows carved below his eyes, is painful in the worst possible way.
They say survivor’s guilt is a killer. That those who survive a horrific ordeal, when their loved ones didn’t, end up lifeless, broken, a shell of themselves knowing that they lived, and someone else didn’t.
Now, standing in front of the man who set off the bomb that saved their world, Jon wishes fervently that he were dead instead.
Tim laughs. The sound doesn’t echo or reverberate. It disappears almost as soon as it escapes his throat, as though the words are snatched from the air by something more powerful than them.
There, then gone in a flash.
”It’s not your fucking fault.” He pauses, reconsiders. “Well yeah, fuck you for the past year of everything, actually. Fuck that. Fuck everything you did, everything you put me through. Fuck all of it.”
Jon waits through the tirade, standing still and silent in the face of Tim’s words. “Are you done?” he asks at last, when Tim seems to have run out of steam.
When Tim scoffs, it sounds almost like a sob. “Of course I’m fucking done, Jon. I’m dead, what else is there left?”
”Typically, it is the norm for ghosts in traditional media to appear because of unfinished business—”
“Shut up. I don’t have any fucking unfinished business. I did what I wanted to, I blew up the fucking circus, I got revenge for Danny. That was all I wanted, Jon! And all I wanted after that was to die, and I got that too.” He exhales heavily, forcing words and air from lungs that shouldn’t exist to hold either.
”I’m—” Jon cuts himself off, the word sorry half formed on his lips.
”No such thing as rest for the dead, I suppose,” Tim says with a vicious twist of his lips.
Jon nods. “Indeed.”
”They didn’t expect you to wake up.” Tim delivers the line almost conversationally, as he hoists himself onto a desk, sitting sprawled across it. One leg swings as it dangles off the side, while the other curls beneath him. “I didn’t either, but the possibility that you might was never really one I could shake off. Happy awakening, I guess.”
Dragging out a chair to sit down in, Jon drops himself into the seat, which is dusty from disuse and faintly stained. “I didn’t choose it, if that’s what you’re implying. I don’t know why I’m still here, really. We were right besides each other, so by all accounts I should be dead.”
”Fuck if I know,” Tim replies. “I’ve just been here, watching things happen. It’s…” His voice fades out before he shakes himself and continues again. “It’s been bad. You should ask Basira to fill you in.”
”Basira? But what about Martin? And why can’t you fill me in, if you’ve been here the whole time?”
Something shifts in the air, changes, and Jon stiffens when he realizes what he’s done. But Tim doesn’t react; the truth isn’t dragged from his mouth like pulling out teeth one by one.
”Well, to answer your second question, I haven’t been here the whole time. I’m only here as much as I have to be. Also, don’t feel like doing much work. I’m dead, boss, don’t make me do overtime.”
Jon laughs a little, despite himself, before Tim’s unamused, dull expression drags him back to seriousness. “And Martin?”
A flash of something darts across Tim’s face, and his whole posture seems to cave in for a moment. He slumps, his eyes fall to the ground, his head bows, but all for barely a second before he unfurls into his regular manner of holding himself.
”He’s otherwise occupied, working with the new head while Elias is out. I don’t know much more than that, I can’t see it.”
Frowning, Jon tilts his head to look over at Tim. “What do you mean?”
”It’s blocked,” Tim says with a wave of his hand. “I can’t go anywhere near them, sometimes, no matter what I try. It’s weird, and I dunno if it’s something I can work around.”
Somehow, it feels colder in the Institute than it was before.
”Alright.” Jon stands at last when Tim doesn’t seem to have anything left to say. “I’m going to go find Basira, and check my office for some things.”
”Whatever floats your boat, boss,” Tim replies, hopping off the desk. “I’ll be around, when I have to. Good luck with things. Try not to die. Stoker out.”
He seems to fade as he walks out the door, and Jon watches him go as a heavy feeling settles down in his chest.
Wandering the Institute basement, everything feels just a little quieter, a little colder. There had always been noise back then, even when no one was speaking. The shuffle of papers, his own voice reading a statement or playing it back over the recorder, the bang of pipes keeping the cold of the earth away.
But now, it is as though a dense fog has fallen over the Institute, rendering everything silent. Jon shivers.
”Hello?” he calls out cautiously, poised to—to what? Run? There isn’t anywhere to go. Nevertheless, he tenses, breath catching in his throat. No one responds. All is still, and he is alone, with the ceaseless feeling of someone watching from behind.
He enters his office again, exhausted from the conversation (more like a one-way screaming match, he thinks) with Melanie, and slumps into his chair.
”Christ,” he mumbles vaguely under his breath.
”Tim is dead! Daisy is dead!” Melanie’s voice echoes in his head.
He sighs, scratching at the uneven stubble on his face. They hadn’t brought him a razor at the hospital, and he didn’t care enough to ask for one himself. The hair on his face is scraggly, greying and untamed.
”You think I don’t know?” he asks the empty office at large. “You think I don’t care?”
Nothing responds. Typical.
When he leans back and closes his eyes, it’s almost as though he’s dead again.
It isn’t, really, but he can play pretend for a little longer.
A knock sounds out, and Jon jolts into a seated position to see Tim on his desk, kicking his legs.
”Basira’s here to see you,” he announces, inclining his head towards the door.
Jon’s face twists. “Is she here to throw things at me too?”
”Just let her in, why don’t you? And don’t let her know that I’m here. I don’t—I’d just rather be alone. Besides, I’m fairly sure you don’t want them counting you off as crazy. Ghosts aren’t real, Jon.”
”Right,” he mutters, before calling out towards the door, “ah, come in.”
The door swings open cautiously, and Basira steps into the office, regarding him with a narrow gaze. “Jon. You’re back. How are things?”
”Well, if you mean me, I’ve healed up quite well, thank you for asking,” he replies stiffly, gesturing at himself in example. “As for Melanie and her attempt to give me a concussion or possibly kill me altogether, I’m not so sure.”
Basira’s lips curve into a frown, and she pulls out the chair in front of his desk, taking a seat. “I did mention that there was a reason she hadn’t come to visit.”
”No, really?” Jon mutters sarcastically. “She nearly attacked me, Basira.” He does his best to ignore Tim, who’s once again playing a game of catch with his sunglasses.
With a sigh, Basira leans forwards, planting her elbows on the desk and looking right at him. “You and I both know it’s not that simple.”
There’s no arguing that, he supposes. It’s never been simple, not really, but he truly hoped that it might be, just this once.
”What happened, Basira?” he asks quietly, after the moments pass in silence, marked only by the ticking of the clock and somewhere nearby, a whirring tape recorder.
For a moment, he thinks she’ll ignore him entirely. But then she clears her throat, and begins to tell him everything.
When she’s done talking about Melanie, the Flesh attack, Martin, and the mysterious Peter Lukas, Jon lets out a bitter laugh, too exhausted to hold it back anymore. Basira looks pained, pursing her lips as if biting back reprimandments.
”Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
She gets to her feet, walks towards the office door. Briefly, she turns around and says, “Be careful, Jon. Just be careful.”
”Yes,” he replies, because what else can he say? “I’ll try.”
The door shuts, and Tim hops off the desk, where he’d been perched for the duration of the conversation. Thankfully, he hadn’t made too much of a nuisance of himself, and Jon found it fairly easy to ignore him for the duration of his talk with Basira.
”Well, she filled you in quick enough. Guess that makes sense. Cold hard facts and all, from a detective.”
Jon groans in response, rubbing his face. Fireworks explode behind his eyelids, and his skull pounds. “You weren’t going to tell me about all of this?”
Shrugging, Tim pockets his sunglasses, making a face at Jon. “I mean, Basira did a good job.”
”You could have told me, earlier,” Jon snaps back, suddenly all too done with everything happening around him.
”Could’ve, yeah,” he agrees easily. “Fuck that, though. I’m dead, this isn’t my job anymore. The only reason I’m still here is because I have to be.”
”Why do you have to be here? I don’t see any signs saying, ‘Timothy Stoker’s Place of Rest’.”
Tim smiles sharply, and it’s a punch to the gut, seeing him grin like that, so similar to how it was when he was happy. “Believe you me, Jon. If I had the choice, I wouldn’t be anywhere. I was ready, y’know.”
”Ready for what?” Jon says before realizing. His hand flies to his mouth, lips forming soundlessly in a futile attempt to draw back his words.
They stare at each other. It is still, and the silence watches, and waits.
”To end it, Jon. To end everything. Life was hell. Is hell. I don’t know.” Tim turns away from him, as if about to leave Jon behind.
”But—but you can stay now,” Jon says desperately, pushing out of his chair and rushing around the desk towards Tim. “Can’t you? Stay, I mean?” He reaches out, clamps a hand around Tim’s arm.
It goes through him. Jon’s hand closes uselessly into a fist.
Tim stares down at him, looking almost confused. His lips part, and his eyebrows scrunch. Once, Jon’s sure, he would’ve found it beautiful. They stare into each other’s eyes, and Jon’s pleading expression is reflected back through Tim’s dark gaze.
The cigarette in the ashtray on Jon’s desk is burning itself out. It smells of smoke, and sweat, and tears of exhaustion in that small, tucked away office.
”Haven’t you been listening, Jon?”
He turns and walks through the door. Jon’s left in his office, standing with his hands clenched and all alone.
Seated at his desk once more, he thinks he catches the briefest whiff of sea salt.
It’s quiet in the archives. Once, he would have relished the silence; less distractions, less wasted time, only work and work and more work after that. Only now, after months have passed and so many things have changed and gone wrong, can he appreciate what noise used to fill these halls.
The chatter of Tim, Sasha, and Martin just down the corridor from his office. A clink of ceramic as Martin carries mugs of tea to and from the breakroom. Footsteps as people went off to the library or to Artifact Storage. Their basement had never been loud, even when he complained of the commotion, but it had been theirs, and it had been (for a short time) home.
All of that is, of course, gone now.
Jon doesn’t leave the office much, bringing water and small non-perishable snacks in to keep himself sated (careful not to get crumbs on the statements, careful not to spill a drop of water).
Basira drops in from time to time, but her visits are brief and rare, and always tinged with an emotion Jon can’t quite identify. He tends not to question it anymore. Dwelling on these things does no good.
So the days pass, with statements and sleeping on the worn leather sofa in his office, and clothes that slowly gain more wrinkles, and days where he just sits at his desk and stares blankly at the wall.
It’s quiet. He hates it.
Tim, too, visits, and they speak occasionally.
”How’s Martin?”
”Good,” or “Bad,” or “I don’t know, Jon, I’m not the omniscient god here.”
Rinse and repeat.
A day and a week after he’s returned to the Archives, Jon ventures from his office to replenish his supplies, and to make a cup of tea. He’s learned by now that Martin’s cups of tea weren’t anything particularly special. Well made, yes, but if he follows the instructions and adds just the right amount of milk and sugar, it tastes the same. Just the same.
A better, wiser man would’ve come to the grand revelation that it was never the tea, but the kindness, the gesture of friendship, the Martin-ness of it all, that had made the drink so much more special.
Jon has never been a wise man, and he’s starting to think he was never all that good either.
At any rate, the water is boiling, and Jon sits on the countertop. He always enjoys sitting here, feeling a bit taller, even if he doesn’t usually do it because unprofessional, improper, don’t you dare, Sims.
Then Tim appears, face concerned and eyes narrowed.
”Jon, hide.”
Jon’s head snaps up, and he frowns. “Tim? What do you mean, hide—”
”Melanie, Jon. Do you want another plate in your face? Hide.”
Cursing, Jon leaps off the counter and shoves himself into the small slot of space between the refrigerator and the wall, out of view unless one happened to look there.
Thank whatever awful god happens to be listening that he’s small enough.
Waiting with bated breath, Jon closes his eyes and listens to the oncoming footsteps, bustling around the kitchen, opening and closing the cabinet doors and fridge, flicking off the stove (rude) and finally leaving. He breathes out slowly as the sound of her footsteps fades away.
”You can come out now,” TIm says, and Jon prises himself out of the cramped spot, joints aching dully. He stands properly again, stretching and wincing in pain. Tim watches from his seat on the countertop, precisely where Jon was sitting.
When he’s finished, Jon looks over at Tim and says, awkwardly, “Thank you, Tim.”
”Not a problem, boss. Didn’t want you getting your brains knocked out.”
For a moment, it’s awkward, but then Jon shoves past the tension and crosses over to the stove, flicking it back on to boil the water once more.
”How have you been?” he asks, because it doesn’t seem like Tim’s about to float off. The water boils, and he eases the kettle off just before it begins whistling.
Gesturing absently, Tim shrugs. “Same old, same dead. You?”
”Same old, same alive,” Jon says without thinking, then winces. “I didn’t mean—”
But Tim barks out a laugh in response, shaking his head. “Good one, boss.”
”Why’re you still calling me that?” Jon asks as he pours the boiled water into a grey ceramic mug. The swirling patterns on its smooth surface remind him of fog, misty mornings by the seaside as a child. It’s a pretty design. He wonders who bought it.
Leaning back against the cupboards, Tim shrugs. “Force of habit, I suppose? It rolls off the tongue.”
”Right,” Jon says, opening the fridge and sniffing carefully at the milk—thankfully, it didn’t seem to have gone bad—before pouring a little into his tea. The spoon clinks against the sides as he stirs, and he carefully adds two lumps of sugar before tasting.
Perfect. Just like Martin made it.
”How’s Martin?” he asks casually, hands wrapped around the mug, protected from the heat by the too-long sleeves of his sweater.
Tim’s face goes through a series of complicated, uninterpretable expressions. “I don’t know,” he admits, shaking his head.
Frowning, Jon looks over at him. “What do you mean you don’t know? You can see anything in this building, what—”
”He’s not here, Jon. Can’t you, I dunno, feel it with your weird eldritch powers or something?”
Jon wrinkles his nose at the phrase, but upon concentrating and asking silently, where’s Martin? he receives his response. Nothing.
”That new institute head has him,” Tim mutters. “Peter Lukas. Something to do with the Lonely, he’s been in a fair few statements.”
”I remember,” Jon replies, taking another sip of tea. It’s cooling faster than he anticipated, but then again, it’s been cold as of late.
When minutes pass and Tim doesn’t say a word—this would’ve been uncharacteristic, once—Jon finally musters up the courage to speak.
”I’m sorry,” he says, and it comes out in a whisper, so low that he can barely hear himself.
Tim’s head swivels, and he looks askance. “Say something?”
Jon nods, quickly, and says more forcefully, “I’m sorry, Tim.”
”Sorry for what?”
”Sorry for—for everything. For assuming you wanted to stay, when you told me already you wanted anything but that. It was—it was selfish of me, to say that. I should’ve known better, and I’m sorry.”
The words taste like bile, like expelling poison that’s been festering in him for so long. An apology, long overdue, waiting to be spat out.
Tim’s silent for so long that Jon has to keep looking over at him, to make sure he hasn’t just left. It would be easy for him to leave, to flee the scene as easily as—well, as a ghost.
”It’s alright, Jon,” is not the answer he expects.
”It—what?”
With a sigh, Tim repeats himself. “It’s alright. I get it. I wouldn’t want to be alone here either, and I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be in your fucking shoes.”
”Thanks,” Jon musters up, dry as always. He doesn’t know what to say, hadn’t expected such a quick turnaround of forgiveness.
”You’re welcome,” Tim says cheerily. “But seriously. Don’t worry about it. I’m a lot less angry now anyways, being dead kinda does that. Forces you to either chill out or burn out. At this point, I’ve done both.”
Jon decides that it’s best to not mention that loneliness isn’t the only reason he wants Tim to stay. This isn’t a second chance, or a do-over, or even a way to fix things. He’s talking to a ghost who will eventually disappear, who might even be the sign of a downward spiral leading to the psych ward.
This isn’t a chance at redemption, or love. It’s only a little bit of company, before the end of the world.
That, already, is more than he deserves.
”Thank you,” Jon says quickly when he realizes that Tim’s waiting on him to say something, anything, in answer to what was a fairly kind response.
”Anytime, boss.” Tim hops off the counter, graceful as he was in his lifetime, and heads towards the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see how they’re doing in Artefact Storage. I’ll shout if Melanie’s about.”
”Goodbye, Tim.”
”See you around, Jon.”
The tea has cooled in the time of their conversation. It is now a tepid, unappetizing temperature.
Jon pours it down the sink, and leaves the dirty mug behind.
”Statement ends.”
He sits back in his chair after making some cursory notes on the elderly Simon Fairchild, and closes his eyes. Making the statement felt good, disgustingly so, and he hates that he’s more energetic now, more awake. Sated.
A tingling begins on the back of his neck, and spreads down his arms, the hairs standing at attention. His skin prickles, and as Jon’s eyes snap open, he knows.
Knocking back his chair as he stands, Jon hurries over to the door, opening it and coming face to face with—
”Martin!
The man in question freezes, shoulders tensing, before he turns around slowly. His expression flickers, then melts away, his face settling into a smooth, unreadable visage.
”Hi, Jon.
Jon pauses to take him in. Martin’s changed, in spirit as well as physically. He carries himself differently—no, he is different. Before, he shrank into himself, trying to make his body as small as possible. But now, he doesn’t need to. Somehow, effortlessly, he’s managed to make himself twice as unnoticeable.
His wardrobe has changed as well. Warm colours, buttery yellows and blushing pinks, have given way to shades of grey and cold blues. His clothes are free of wrinkles, his hair is tidy, and his shoes look like they’ve been polished.
Once, Jon would have been pleased by this new Martin. Decorum, upholding the value of the Institute, keeping appearances up to snuff, all of those were very important.
Now, though, Martin just looks… sad.
”I haven’t seen you,” Jon says quietly, upon realizing that he’s been staring for far longer than is socially acceptable.
Martin blinks, then shrugs off the daze that seems to have settled over him for a moment. “Sorry?”
”I know you’ve been here, T—” he cuts himself off. Tim asked not to be mentioned, he should honour that.
”What?” Martin prompts him, frowning when Jon doesn’t continue.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just—know.”
”Oh.”
”Sorry.”
”It’s fine,” Martin says. He’s not fidgeting, Jon notices. He always used to fidget with his hands, before.
”You’re right though,” Martin continues. “I’ve been here the whole time. Just been busy.”
”With Lukas,” Jon says before he can stop himself. Fuck. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “You’ve been with Peter Lukas.”
”N—well, yes, but—” Martin stops himself again and again, fumbling through the words. “It’s complicated,” he settles on, and Jon raises an eyebrow in response.
”Right.
When neither of them continue the conversation, Martin takes a step back. “I should go, Jon.”
Jon steps forward in response, pressing closer. “How are you, Martin? Is everything—is everything alright?”
”Yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” Martin says stiffly, watching Jon with narrowed eyes like he’s waiting to be attacked.
Flipping through ideas in his head to keep the conversation going, Jon asks, “And your poetry? How’s that, er, going?”
Martin’s brow furrows in confusion before he responds. “I haven’t exactly had a lot of time recently, I—”
”You’ve been busy,” Jon fills in.
With a small sigh, Martin nods. “Yeah. Look, Jon, I’m sorry but I really do have to get back to work.”
”Oh—right, right, of course. Wouldn’t want to keep you,” Jon says, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
”I’m sorry,” Martin says again, his expression softening just a little. For a moment, the Martin that Jon used to know appears, flickering into existence again for the briefest of seconds.
Jon shakes his head. “It’s alright. Just take care of yourself, please? Not for me, just—for you. Take care of yourself. Stay safe.” None of the words he wants to say are adequate, are correct. But despite not having what he needs to truly express his feelings, Jon knows what he wants.
He wants Martin to be safe, and happy. That would be enough.
”I will,” Martin lies, and Jon knows it’s a lie, but there’s nothing he can do.
Martin walks away. Jon watches, and lets him go.
He can’t sleep. Of all the stupid, stupid things to defeat him, he can’t sleep.
Whether he really needs to is, of course, not something he particularly wants to know. Sleep is real, and human, and something he valued very little not so long ago. To find out now, that it has been taken from him, would be unbearable.
Regardless, whether or not he’s truly in need of sleep, Jon can’t. He’s tried everything possible on the old leather sofa in his office, fluffed his pillow, flipped his blankets, stolen from Martin’s old stash of decaffeinated teas—chamomile was an old, but nostalgic taste, something his grandmother had been fond of—but all to no avail.
(Sleeping in the cot hidden away in Document Storage might be more comfortable, but all he can think of there is Martin, and it hurts, far too much, to stay there.)
So he lies, wide awake, tired as to be in physical pain from it. Fingers curl into fists, and his nails dig into the flesh of his palms as he clenches his hands into tight balls of frustration.
”Fuck,” he whispers dully to the silent, dark office.
And it doesn’t help that he’s lonely. It’s never been a problem for him, when he’s all too used to being alone. There was a time, a brief while after Georgie, where things had been difficult, and the solitude felt all the more acute, but he was a lonely child, and he’s been a lonely adult. Being cut off from the world never affected him in the way other people seemed to be touched by loneliness.
It hurts, now.
It really, really hurts.
The office ceiling is vague and indistinct in the dark. His eyes have adjusted to the absence of light, but there’s nothing there to make out, just a blank grey space. Jon raises his hand in the air, holds it away from his face, then pushes higher, higher, stretching towards the sky.
He drops it in a moment, feeling utterly foolish. What is he doing, really?
What even is the point of this, anymore?
Reaching out to fumble for his phone, he turns it on. The screen lights up, too-bright and glaring. When his vision adjusts and he’s blinked the white spots out of his eyes, Jon looks up to see a ghost.
”Tim, why are you here? I’m trying to sleep.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Relax, I’m just passing by. You didn’t seem like you were doing too good of a job sleeping anyways, so not like I woke you up.”
”You could’ve,” Jon grumbles. “Maybe I heard something and then woke up, and then turned on my phone to check for the source of the sound.”
Tim snorts. “You often sleep with one hand outstretched?”
With a groan, Jon falls back into the sofa lying to face the ceiling once more. “You win.”
”I always do,” Tim responds with a nod of satisfaction.
Jon ignores him, and continues to stare at the ceiling. His phone is off, and the room is dark once more, but he can still feel Tim’s presence. Not in any omniscient way, but the way one knows when one is being watched, or how it feels to have a friend sitting besides you, holding your hand while you cry.
”I can’t sleep,” he mutters at last. It feels so childish to admit, even if he never ran to his parents crying when he was young. Never had the chance to, of course.
To his credit, Tim doesn’t move to mock, or laugh. He just replies, gently, “Yeah, I figured. You never did sleep much.”
”I took it for granted,” Jon admits. “I took a lot of things for granted back then.
”Everyone does,” Tim agrees idly, settling down on the floor, cross legged.
(A battle with his pride commences; a short tussle in which need wins out over dignity.)
”Can you… can you stay?” Jon asks, the words tumbling together in his attempt to get them out quickly, lest they disappear.
There’s a brief silence, before Tim says cooly, “What, trust me now that I can’t shoot you like you thought I did Gertrude?”
”I—”Jon starts, before closing his mouth, because it’s not as though Tim’s being unfair, is it?”
”You don’t have to,” he settles on. “I would never make you.”
Tim lets out a short exhale of laughter. “You can’t, Jon. How would you even begin to make me stay?”
”Exactly,” Jon says, forcing bitterness away from his voice. “So you can, you know, go if you want. Any time now.”
But the presence at his side doesn’t vanish.
”Why do you want me to stay?”
The blankets are suffocating again, and Jon kicks them back, wrestling with fleecy fabric that clings to his sweat-soaked skin. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to be so lonely. I thought it might help, having someone else here.”
”Even if that someone else is a ghost?”
Jon sighs as the cool air hits his arms and legs; it’s a welcome relief for once that the office is always so cold.
”Yes, even so. You really don’t have to. Worst comes to worst, I think Martin should have some of that rubbish instant coffee hidden away, and it’s not as though he’s drinking it anyways, so—”
”No, Jon.”
Pausing, Jon frowns. “No what?”
There’s a familiar, put-upon sigh. It’s a sigh Jon used to hear years ago, when he was a bit too snappy to a fellow researcher, or refused to go out for Friday night drinks with Sasha and Tim, or lost track of time and accidentally fell asleep at his desk. One of exasperation, yes, but equally, fondness.
”I’ll stay with you.”
He hadn’t expected this. Doesn’t deserve it. After all he’s done, after how he’s treated Tim, after everything that’s happened between them, Jon doesn’t deserve this kindness he so selfishly asked for. The thoughts threaten to drown him, but he pushes past it all.
I just need one night of sleep. Just for myself. Just to prove I’m still human.
”T-thank you, Tim,” he musters up.
There’s another moment of silence, and then Tim responds, “Don’t worry about it, boss. Get some rest.”
Jon rolls onto his side, facing towards where Tim’s voice must be coming from.
This time, the weariness that weighs on his eyelids finally sinks in. Too-tense muscles relax just enough, his eyes fully close, and at last, Jon drifts off to sleep.
When he wakes up, hours later, he’s alone. But for the first time in what feels like years, he’s slept.
He’s been at his desk for hours now. The tea he made earlier has gone utterly cold, and he shivers lightly in his thin cardigan. Recently, it’s been quiet in the office with no Melanie or Basira, and very rare glimpses of Martin that seem to become fewer by the day.
Tim visits, though not often. He’s usually there in the evenings now, and they’ve made a habit of bidding each other good night. It’s something solid, a rock amidst the everything else of Jon’s life, and Tim’s death. They don’t speak much; there’s very little to say. Occasionally, Tim will mention how Martin’s doing, or Jon will ask if he’s seen anything interesting from the rest of their coworkers.
Mundane things, as much as possible. Safe things. There’s precious little of that in Jon’s life.
Today, however, Jon wants to talk about something important. They’ve been dancing around it long enough, he knows that, and Tim must know as well. So it’s both a relief, and a jolt of nervousness, when Tim appears in the afternoon.
”Tim,” Jon says, standing to catch his attention. “I wanted to talk to you.”
His outfit never changes. Jon noticed this a while ago, but it’s still a little jarring to have that little reminder of the Unknowing every time he sees the ghost of his once-friend.
”What’s up, boss? If it’s about Mr. Sea Captain or anything like that, there’s no intel.”
Jon shakes his head, and takes a sip of tea to steady himself. “No, no, it’s not about that. It’s about you, actually.”
Tim tilts his head to the left in confusion, almost like a cute puppy. Jon immediately chastises himself for this thought. “How d’you mean?”
”Well,” Jon says, gathering his thoughts and reminding himself to breathe, Sims, you fool, “I wanted to ask… why you’re still here.”
Something in Tim’s face flickers, and goes blank. He replies, forced naturalness in every word, “I don’t know, remember? We’ve already had this discussion, no need to do it again.”
”Tim, it’s not… right that you’re stuck here. I don’t want you to have to be tied to this place even in death, and I never wanted that for you in life.”
”It’s fine, boss, don’t even worry! Besides, you’re not—it’s not so bad. A little spooky, but hey, isn’t everything?” Tim’s voice pitches higher, the expression on his face almost screaming at Jon to knock it off, but he persists.
”No, Tim. It’s not fine, none of this is fine! I don’t want this for you, I don’t want you to be stuck here with me. Why are you still here?”
The familiar pull of compulsion spills from his throat, and Jon’s heart nearly stops before he remembers that his powers are useless against the dead. For a moment, he wishes it would work, wishes that he could just drag an answer out of thin air. The wish burns, and he shakes it off, guilty.
Tim doesn’t reply for a long moment, and Jon’s almost worried that he’s going to explode back, but instead, he opens his mouth and says, “Did you know I don’t sleep?”
”What?” Jon’s brow creases in confusion. “What’s that got to do with anything—”
”I mean, I don’t think it’s that much of a surprise. What does a ghost need with sleeping, right? No need to recharge or whatever, I’m dead already,” Tim carries on, smiling slightly. It’s fake, and plastic, and it hurts to see.
”But actually, sleep is kinda nice. And I kinda miss it, a lot. I miss having the chance to just, y’know, when things get rough, take a nap, reset a bit.” He laughs a little, quietly. “Suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, workaholic you are.”
Jon scoffs, but doesn’t interrupt.
”So, y’know, I’m just tired. All the time. Not like I would be if I was alive and hadn’t slept in over 8 months, of course, but still pretty tired.” He shakes his head, dismissing the words. “No, actually, not tired. I’m exhausted, Jon, I’m so exhausted, I just—”
He takes a shuddering breath, looks down and away from Jon. Unsure of how to help, Jon approaches, though his presence is, of course, useless. It’s not as though he can offer Tim a hug.
”I’m so fucking tired, and I can’t sleep, and I just keep floating around, waiting for someone to tell me what to do, what I can fix, the final piece of the puzzle, so I can be done, Jon. So I can rest.”
”I need to be here, I need to be doing something. I thought I was done, but I’m not, and I need to help, and you—” Tim breaks off, eyes shiny as he heaves for air. It must be a reflexive gesture. There aren’t any lungs, no need for him to exhale carbon dioxide, no way to cut off oxygen from his nonexistent blood.
He lets his hands fall to his side, and Jon watches as his fists clench and unclench. “I guess I really am a ghost because of unfinished business, huh? Sorry to be a trope.”
”Tim…” Jon trails off. He’s abruptly, and painfully, speechless.
”It’s fine, boss. Don’t worry about it.” And with that, Tim floats back through the door, disappearing.
Jon stands frozen for a moment in the middle of his office, unsure of what to do before his ability to act kicks in. Without thinking, he closes his eyes and asks, Where is Timothy Stoker?
For once, the Eye is helpful.
When he arrives on the Institute’s rooftop, it doesn’t take the powers of an eldritch god to spot Tim. He’s standing by the roof’s edge, overlooking the city. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is just starting to set, the very beginnings of a beautiful sunset staining the skies.
”Beautiful day,” Jon remarks when he reaches Tim’s side.
They don’t speak, just stand side by side quietly, until Tim says, looking a touch guilty, “Sorry for running off.”
”It’s no trouble,” Jon responds. “I found you, didn’t I?”
Neither of them acknowledge just how Jon knew where to look. “You did,” Tim agrees calmly.
It’s another few moments of silence before they speak up again, simultaneously.
”About what I said—”
”Did you want to talk about it—?”
They break off into laughter, directed both at themselves and each other. “Go ahead,” Jon says, gesturing at Tim to speak.
Tim fidgets with his sunglasses, turning them over and over in his hands, the repetitive motion growing almost dizzying as Jon watches. He wonders, briefly, why the sunglasses had stayed along with Tim.
”I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he says at last, hands coming to a stop and forming a white-knuckled grip on the sunglasses.
Jon waits for him to continue. There’s no rush, not now.
”I said I didn’t know why I was still here, and I wasn’t lying back then. I didn’t know why I wasn’t just properly dead, why only you can see me, why I’m still tied to the Institute.”
He runs a hand through his hair; it’s a nervous gesture from a long time ago. Something Tim used to do a lot, and a quirk Jon picked up on after Tim revealed it as such one night at the bar, back when they were working together in research.
”But I—I think it’s become clearer overtime, to me, that I wasn’t really done when I, y’know.”
”Died,” Jon fills in, and Tim shoots him a glance.
”Yes, died,” he says, mocking Jon’s overly posh accent slightly. “When I died, I thought I was done. But—and hear me out, because this is going to sound stupid as all hell—I think I finally figured it out.”
When he doesn’t continue, Jon coughs, trying to prompt him to finish. “Well?” he asks, a tad impatient despite his best attempts to appear otherwise.
Tim sighs, and shoots him a little smile, one that seems to almost waver, like he’s afraid.
“Well, you see, there’s this bastard of a guy. We used to be real close, and a bunch of shit happened. Mostly his fault, a bit mine as well, you know how it is.” He shrugs exaggeratedly, cartoonish in the gesture.
Is he—no, don’t be ridiculous, Jon thinks. His mind is spinning as Tim continues, the words pouring out faster now that he’s begun. The wind picks up, rushes through them, making Jon shiver as Tim remains steadfast, unable to feel the chill.
”And I said some fucked up shit, because he did some fucked up shit, and back and forth it went. It was a real mess,” Tim says with a little exhale of laughter, “let me tell you. A real fucking mess.”
”But then, y’know, more stuff happened. None of it really fixed things, and I was still really pissed with that guy, because—like I said—fucking hell, he was a bastard. Still, when I died, even though I was satisfied with the way I’d gone out, I wasn’t—”
He sucks in a breath. “I wasn’t done with you, Jon.”
”Tim, I—”
He turns to Jon with a smile on his face, and something shining in his eyes that might’ve been tears. “Maybe the thing keeping me here all along was you, Jon. Imagine that. Even after every dumb stunt you pulled, I still didn’t want you to be alone.”
Jon’s hands are pressed to his mouth, holding back—what? He doesn’t have any tears to cry, or sobs to spill, and he’s utterly speechless. There’s nothing to keep from pouring out, and so he lets his hands fall from his lips, and to his side.
Palm facing upwards, Tim reaches his hand out for Jon, in a gesture that might’ve asked him to take it, if there was anything real to hold. Despite the lack of such, Jon reaches out in return, places his hand in the space where he would, if they could touch.
Holding hands with a ghost doesn’t feel like anything. There’s no chill rushing down his spine, no sudden feeling of cold air, or warmth, or sparks.
But there is love all the same, and that carries its own warmth, for both.
”I still couldn’t leave you,” Tim finishes softly.
”Tim,” Jon begins quietly, trying to find the correct words for this. It’s his last chance, after all. Even more so than that night in the motel of Greater Yarmouth. This, at last, is the end for them.
”I’m sorry I ever doubted you, and I’m sorry I never got the chance to tell you that when you were alive. Or—” he fumbles, “—I never took the chance to tell you. There’s no way to fix it anymore, no do-overs or chance to prove that I’ve changed for the better. But you were—you are—right. I should have trusted you, and I should have been there for you, as you would have been for me.” He bites his lip. As his glasses slip down his nose, he pushes them back into place and continues.
”For whatever it’s worth now, I am sorry. Truly. And if it’s worth nothing, I accept that.”
Tim stares at him with wide, open eyes, lips curving into a hesitant, beautiful smile. Jon hasn’t seen that smile since they went ice skating together years ago on a fateful winter’s evening, since before the promotion, since before everything went so wrong.
It truly is such a wonderful smile.
”Thank you,” Tim says at last, leaning in close. The words are low, private, a secret message just for Jon’s ears. No one else.
Before Jon can react, Tim bends just slightly, places his lips against Jon’s for the most fleeting of moments. The kiss feels like nothing. Jon will treasure it for the rest of his life.
”Goodbye, Jon.” He hesitates, and then something seems to almost fall into place, and he says, tears brimming in his eyes, “I love you.”
It’s only just before it happens that Jon realizes what Tim is about to do.
”Wait, Tim don’t—”
He doesn’t know why he’s rushing to peer over the roof’s edge; Tim can’t die, can’t be hurt, his bones won’t shatter and his skull won’t crack. But when Jon looks down, there’s no one there to greet him. The ground below is deserted, no sight of any living or unliving being. He’s gone.
Jon sinks to his knees.
It all comes crashing back. The loss, the failure, the guilt, the grief. He is submerged in it, the emotions filling him until they spill out, pouring from him endlessly. Jon chokes back a sob, then another, until he can’t prevent the tears from rolling down his cheeks, and his lungs from heaving for air.
He knows, of course, that this is all for the better. Tim is free now. No matter what comes after death, he is free. The logician in Jon, the man who turns his nose up at falsehoods and tall tales, who scoffs at the lack of evidence in statements, who relies on data and cold hard fact, revels in the joy of a job well done.
But Jon isn’t that man anymore. This, this is grief. No matter how he looks at it, he’s lost someone. Even if they were gone eight months ago, he got another chance, and he’s lost them now, for good.
His hands shake. He lowers them away from where they’ve been pressed against his lips, shoves them into his pockets before sliding down the wall to sit on the roof.
The sky is beginning to darken, but slowly, with summer’s light still seeping into the world. There’s more time in the day now, more time to live.
And even though he knows, objectively, that Tim is free now, for the better, Jon can’t help but wish that this time to live could have been for them both.
He gets to his feet.
There’s more work to be done.