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Jon wasn't actually stupid; he knew he wasn't exactly well. For a start, the looming pile in his sink that looked more like a monster than dirty dishes wasn't a subtle clue.
He wasn't well. He rarely ate, even more rarely slept, he was constantly on edge, his apartment was a mess because he was never there, he was constantly hungry but could never bring himself to cook (or clean or do laundry or do the dishes or change his fucking sheets-), he was overworked, unproductive, he couldn't seem to indulge in any of his hobbies, his head hurt, his whole body hurt, he didn't do the exercises he was supposed to do, he couldn't bring himself to go to physical therapy, he couldn't focus, it was hard to think, it was hard to everything, his heart was always racing and his head was always pounding and he was all alone.
(And to top it all, he's been having the strangest reoccurring dreams these last months since January. They weren't nightmares, exactly, but they had still left him oddly shaken when he woke up.)
He wasn't well. He didn't try to deny it. And he promised to himself that the minute all of this is over he will go and ask for help, he just… just needed to hang on until everything was behind him. That's all. Just be patient, Sims, just be durable. Just persevere for now.
He was always good at persevering. For most of his life, he was a kid barreling head first through life on a borrowed time. He was really supposed to die at eight. And here he was, twenty-nine and living on his own and scoring a well respected position in his chosen field of work. He'd come so far, and he wasn't slowing down now. Even the fact he was breathing was a miracle on its own – and more than he had any right to ask for – so really, it didn't matter at all if he was miserable and afraid and tired. If you'd thought about it for a minute.
And that's why he was thankful for the gift of not blowing things out of proportions that he was given, that allowed him to tackle each and every new day with enthusiasm and energy.
Well, maybe not every day. Some days were a bit harder. Yesterday, for example. Today too. And probably tomorrow.
But Jon had to keep going. It wasn't just about him. There was something dangerous in the archives, something that sought to cause harm, and he couldn't trust anyone around him to help him with it. Luckily, Jon was always at his best when he was on his own.
…It's true that today was hard, though.
(Last night he had those dreams again. They were becoming more frequent. And this time he saw this Jorden guy too.)
He woke up feeling like his chest is giving in, and knew today was gonna be a bad day. But he pushed that aside, like he does every morning, and he came to work like every morning, and scanned the room for potential threats and when he didn't find any he went straight to his office, and all but barricaded himself in, and with god on his side he intended to stay there until the unholy hour of five o'clock.
Of course, such a mission is not easy, and by noon he slowly understood that either god was not, in fact, on his side; or he simply was on his bladder's side. Fuck, he needed to pee so bad.
Greater men than him were brought to their knees by their flesh needs, so at least Jon was in a good company. He sighed and decided to stop delaying the inevitable. And hoping against hope that Martin won't try to talk to him, he opened his office door.
Martin did not try to talk to him, but did throw him a sad look that did something funny to Jon's chest. He ignored him.
The plan was to be in and out and back to the safe haven of his paper walls within five minutes tops. Jon was a fast walker by nature and an efficient person (any place of work would be lucky to have him, really) and on top of that he was also a man on a mission, so he figured he'll need three maximum.
Of course, that plan didn't include one Tim Stoker being in the bathroom as well.
Jon froze in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. God, he hated the effect Tim had on him. He was fairly certain that Martin was innocent, after the talk they had a few days ago, but Tim… Tim was a different story.
He'd told Martin he was relieved that it wasn't him, and he had to admit that he also desperately wanted it not to be Tim. Tim was a friend. The thought that he could be trying to hurt Jon, well… hurt. So he didn't really like thinking about him. People would be honestly surprised how easy it is to avoid people who work with you in the same space for nine hours a day, if you set your mind to it. Jon should really write a book about it, spread the word.
Of course, it is less easy to pretend you don't see someone when they are standing right in front of you, clutching the sink with white knuckles like a life-line, shaking up a storm. Jon, on what could only be pure instincts, launched forward.
"Tim?" he asked, voice wavering a little. "Tim, are you alright?"
That had earned him a laugh, bitter and faint. Fair enough.
"Um, wh-what do you need? Should I call Martin-?"
Tim shook his head slowly, more like he was amused rather than in an attempt to answer. "Typical," he spat. "Yeah, why don't you go running to Martin really, god forbid you try being a functioning human being or something."
That… had also been fair, he supposed. Jon has not been the most functioning man lately. But the accusation stung nonetheless. "I'm just trying to help."
Tim gasped, like he couldn't believe his ears. "Trying to help!" he cried. "No, Jon, believe it or not, but you running away again is actually not- it does not count as help! Fuck!" he was breathing fast, still hunched over the sink, and he was definitely crying.
Jon allowed himself one huff of frustration. "Then what is? Just- just tell me, alright?"
"I don't know! Just- agh, don't just stand there! Get me a glass of water, I don't know, don't just stand there and watch me cry!"
Bringing water, yes, Jon could do this. He hurried to the break room, returning quickly (fast walker and all). Tim took the glass from his hands in the same manner one might take a test sheet with a giant red F.
"Ugh," he let out after gulping the water down (fast drinker?), and then followed it's example and sat down on the floor, back pressed hard against the wall.
Jon was still standing at the door frame, awkwardly shifting from leg to leg. "What happened?" he asked, because of course that's what he asked.
Tim barked with bitter laughter. "What d'you think? Had a fucking panic attack. Geez, it's like you've never been to uni."
"I have," said Jon defensively, instinctively, because of course that's what he said.
Tim fixed him a cutting stare, loaded with so much emotion that Jon's legs almost buckled. "I know."
They were quiet for a couple of moments.
Then, almost on pure instincts again, half because it felt right and half from sheer incapability of standing the awkwardness any longer and having no idea what else to do, Jon sat down beside him.
He could feel Tim tensing at that, from surprise or resentment he couldn't tell, but he remained silent.
Jon's inner clock ticked away the seconds, and his bladder kindly scream-reminded him why he came here in the first place, but every muscle in him insisted that opening his mouth would be a bad idea; that doing anything other than sitting there waiting for Tim to speak would be, really. So he sat there, and he waited.
Tim was a master of social situations, and presumably his bladder was empty, so Jon suspected it could take a while. Tim had no reason to hurry. He wasn't like Jon (fast walker and fast eater and fast-everything-doer; has an unhealed leg injury making it hard to sit down on the floor for long; feels a deep need to fill up silences; loop-thinker if left to his thoughts for too long and so prone to get bored quickly; in desperate need to pee) and also didn't really care about his chosen place of work (it's been weeks since he stopped even trying to pretend like he gives a fuck about the archives, and Jon had eyes) so yeah, Jon suspected he was gonna have to sit here for a while.
Which sucked, because he was already way behind his three-minutes-tops plan and didn't even get to pee yet, but also was kind of fortunate, in a way, because…
Because it's been a damn while since he talked to Tim. And Tim just admitted to having a panic attack at 2pm on top of the bathroom sink. And Tim was his friend.
He was counting the squares on the floor by the time Tim opened his mouth.
"You didn't have to stay, you know," he said.
"No, I-I did, you were-" stuttered.
Tim cut him off. "No, I mean. Here. In the archives. You didn't have to stay."
Jon blinked. "What?" he said (always a man of words).
"After Prentiss. After… look, after what happened to you? No one would've blamed you, is what I say. If you had walked away."
For a moment, Jon felt stunned. And then- "I could say the same about you. You- you also- you didn't have to stay either."
"Nobody has to stay, that's not what I'm saying. That's not the point." Tim was getting pissed. Jon could tell. But he was a people's person like that – when someone around him got angry, Jon often got angry too.
"Then what is?" he snapped.
"You don't want to be here!" Tim proclaimed. "Don't deny it, I've seen you, you know, since then. You're clearly not happy here."
Jon huffed, offended without really knowing why, and opened his mouth to protest. "I'm-"
"You think we're all are trying to kill you!" he yelled. "You are going out of you mind, you fucking idiot!"
"I know, okay, I know!" Jon replied, raising his voice as well. "But I can't leave now! Okay? I don't care, whatever, hate me for it, but I can't. Not without some answers." His voice broke a little on the last word.
"I don't- gah, I don't hate you," Tim growled. Jon raised an eyebrow. "I don't! I hate that you've gone off the rails, I hate that you won't take care of yourself and that I have to suffer because of it, and I hate how utterly irresponsible you are and how alone you make me feel, but I don't hate you, I miss you! And I'm angry at you for being such a shit friend! But I don't fucking hate you, so don't you dare try to act like I'm the irrational one, okay, not when I'm the only one of us who even tries to hold this shit together."
He was shaking a bit. His eyes were still red. Jon could see it, even if Tim avoided looking at him. And suddenly Jon felt so tired.
"Look," he said. "It's clear you've been thinking about it a lot. I want to talk about this, I promise I do-"
"Oh, don't you fucking dare disappearing right now, you bastard-"
"I'm not, I'm not! I'm not disappearing, I just think we both need a moment to breathe, and I for one really, really, need to pee, so…"
"Oh," said Tim, all the fight going out of his sails, "yeah."
And so he got up and went quickly inside the cubicle, counting the seconds as he did his business, finishing up and sitting down next to Tim after 52 seconds (not even his best record to date).
When he dared to cast a glance to his side, Tim's face was cleaner, wet in a way that suggested water instead of tears.
Jon knew he had to be the first to speak. "So, um," he said.
"Yeah," said Tim, one syllable dropping from his lips like a goddamn bowling ball.
The silence was so fragile that even a plastic knife could break through it, let alone a bowling ball. Jon took a deep breath, and tried to be brave (this was all he seemed to do lately anyway).
"I'm sorry I've been a shit friend," he said. "I've been through a rough time."
"So was I," hissed Tim. Fair enough, but rude for interrupting.
"I know," he hissed right back, a petty little thing that he was, all open and sharp and uncomfortable, trying to convey he doesn't want to fight.
"I don't ask for much, Jon," Tim continued, like he didn't even notice him saying anything, "I just ask for like, the basics! For you to not shut me out, for you to remember you're not the only one with trauma in this whole building, for you to remember that I followed you blindly and without any complaint into the archives… the basics! Just the bare minimum one can ask for!"
"Tim-"
"For you to not stalk my house, maybe? Like, fuck, Jon, if you're anxious and paranoid and you're in my street just come inside, we could talk about it, I could help you find a therapist, I don't know! But don't fucking stalk me, I can't believe I even have to say it!"
He… had a point. Jon knew – in the same way he knew he wasn't well – that he was being pretty awful lately, not just an awful friend but also a plain awful person, in all honesty. He couldn't fault Tim for getting hurt. Or for getting angry. He was right. That was the problem. If he'd been wrong, none of this would've hurt so much.
"Well?" said Tim, eyes fixed hard on the sink in front of him, not that much higher above his head line. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"
Jon really, really didn't. What could he say? I'm sorry that I'm afraid you'll kill me dead in my office? Or maybe I'm sorry I disappeared on you right after a very traumatic experience but to be completely honest I don't think I can change? There was no point in apologizing for something he couldn't guarantee he won't do again. That was just cruel and unfair. Jon wasn't cruel, he didn't think he was- he was just so goddamn tired and he couldn't (couldn't, couldn't, won't) prioritize feelings over… over whatever the hell this was. This voice inside his head screaming at him bloody murder, insisting he is a dead man walking unless he will be fast enough, smart enough, capable enough to fix this, to solve this, to defend himself. He couldn't apologize for that. Not when lives were on the line.
What could he say? How could he make Tim understand him? What was strong enough, what was true enough? Sorry that I'm a mess of a person? Sorry that I failed to keep you safe? Sorry that I thought I could be a good boss to you, sorry that I dragged you into this just because I was too afraid to go into it alone, and you were a familiar comforting thing in a new frightening place? Sorry that I used you like a goddamn security blanket? Sorry that I am so incompetent that it took less than a year for you to get hurt under my watch? Sorry that I almost got you killed? Sorry that I ever took this bloody job, that I ever thought I was good enough to be in charge, ever thought I could amount to anything or be worth the air I breathe?
"When I was little, my parents died," he heard himself saying instead, out of nowhere, his mouth opening and closing without his consent. "Did I ever tell you that? Grew up with my grandmother. A nice woman. A bit distant. I was a hard kid."
Tim watched him, silent. His eyes, leaving the poor sink alone, now borrowed holes in a target that deserved it; Jon's head.
Jon, a coward like he was, didn't look.
"I was a hard kid, and she was quite old by then, but she found a way to keep me occupied. Turned out I liked to read. A lot. So she started picking up books from all sorts of second hand places, bringing them to me without even checking what it is she's giving me."
"Jon," said Tim, something urgent and scared in his voice, but Jon was rolling now, stuck in his own words like he has so often got stuck in statements.
"One day, I-I... she… I opened a book I shouldn't have. It was…" his words died in his throat. Faltering, he turned to find Tim's eyes. "Tim, do you… everything we hear here, even before Prentiss, did you… did you believe in it? Before?"
Tim's expression was hard to read, a mix of surprise and confusion and astonishment, even, and something else, not very familiar. But when he opened his mouth, showing teeth while doing so, the only thing visible on his face was tired fondness. (Jon knew that kind of fondness very well. He rarely ever got any other kind, not in all his years.)
"Jon," he said, "you were the only person in this supernatural themed institute who didn't believe in the supernatural. Yes. Yes, I believed, even before Prentiss." There was something so tight in his smile, that made Jon's heart kinda tag a little, surprisingly painfully.
"Well," he sighed. "So I guess there wasn't even a single skeptic in Sodom, then. I… I never had any doubt the supernatural exists."
Martin, when Jon confessed the same to him, was aghast. Demanded to know why. He was even a little hurt, if Jon had to guess.
Tim was nothing but somber.
"I knew it," he said, not even an inch of vindication in his voice (and wasn't that a shame? When had Jon last heard Tim being vindictive, or petty, or having any sort of fun? God, he was an awful friend/boss/person). "You met it too. Right? That… something."
Jon nodded. His eyes laid on the bathroom door. "That book. I shouldn't have opened it. I didn't know."
Something probably clicked into Tim's brain, because he took a sharp inhale. "It wasn't. Tell me it wasn't."
Unfortunately, it was. Jon nodded again. Tim's eyes grew big, as his mouth grew pinched. "Leitner?"
That name sat between them for a couple of seconds, filling up the air.
"I was eight."
Something broke in Tim's expression. Something raw that Jon had never in his life seen directed at him. It made him feel trapped. And scared. "I'm sorry, Jon," he said, his heart practically spilling out of his face. "That's horrible. What did the book- what happened?"
He wasn't sure if he'd be able to speak if he tried. He tried to try to speak, because it was easier than simply just trying to speak, less binding. But his mouth felt foreign and his words didn't feel like he owned them, more like they owned him. He tried again.
"An older kid. Some… some asshole who hated me. He… I couldn't control it. The book made me move without me even realizing. I read it, and suddenly I was outside and he was there and…" deep breath, Sims, keep going, "...and he took it and tried to make fun of me, but then the book took control of him instead of me and he… there was nothing I could do." Keep going, keep going. "I think he died. There was a…" his breath caught, like choking on air, and he tried desperately to catch it again. "…spider."
Tim breathed slowly, looking him up and down, like seeing him for the first time. "A spider?"
"A giant spider. Mr. Spider. He ate him. I'm… pretty sure."
"And what happened to you? How did you escape?"
That was a question he never once asked himself. He didn't escape that day. Nothing about what he did was escaping. He was being let go. Mr. Spider allowed him to walk away. "He didn't need me," said. "He already got his meal."
Tim flinched at the prospect of a person being called a meal. Hm. So much for the cold hard truth. "And what did you do?"
Jon shrugged. "Nothing. What could I do? I did nothing." The words stung on their way out of his tongue. "I did nothing."
Suddenly there was an arm around him, followed by another, and then Jon was enclosed in a tight tight hug, the kind he didn't experience often. Tim's chin was resting on his shoulder, and it must have been uncomfortable for him to hold this position (it was uncomfortable for Jon) but he held it still, holding on, holding on for dear life. He was breathing heavily.
"I'm sorry," Tim said again. "I'm sorry that happened to you. That's… you were so young. No kid should go through this. Did you tell anyone?"
Jon knew his answer is the wrong answer, the one Tim fears. "No," he whispered, his face squeezed into Tim's chest, but even muffled as it was, the word could not be mistaken for something else, something better. Story of his life. "I never told anyone."
Tim went rigid against him. "No one?" he asked in a small voice, the same voice that asked him if he wants to go home at parties that only started or work gatherings that weren't that close to an end yet; the voice that asked him to please tell their boss he wasn't feeling well and won't be coming in today (on the same day in august two years in a row) without sounding sick at all; the voice that asked him if he wanted Tim to walk him home, and then when Jon declined asked quietly if maybe he'd rather come hang out at Tim's and watch a movie or something (and Jon remembered that, oh right, not everything is about you, asshole); the voice that had told Jon, once when they were having a conversation in the break room when everyone else had gone out for lunch and they were alone, about the time he came out to his parents, and how he wasn't in touch with them anymore; the same voice that told him when they first met 'I don't want to talk. Can we please just work in silence?'
"No one until now," said Jon. Tim's hands were all around him. "You're the first."
After that, they both needed a moment to get their bearings. Jon was well over his estimated three minute break, and Tim had been in the bathroom even longer, and they both needed to stretch their legs a little.
They walked out together, and Jon tried his best not to look in Martin's direction to see if he saw them (he failed, and looked, and Martin was looking right back at him), and came to a halt when he realized they're both heading to the break room.
Tim smiled at him grimly. "I suppose it makes sense," he said, shrugging. "You wanted to get water too, right? Whelp, can't escape from you. Come on."
For a moment, Jon felt an almost painful surge of affection towards him. That was Tim Stoker for you – a generous man, who knew how to make someone feel welcomed, even emotionally drained as he was. He followed him into the break room; he was quite thirty.
They toasted their glasses of water like wine, and Jon leaned his head against sofa with a soft sigh, and basked in the quiet.
Next to him, still stiff and still coming down from a panic attack, Tim hummed in a question.
"Jon?" he said, "say, why… not that I'm not glad you did, but why did you tell me about that? I mean, why now?"
He turned his head to the side a bit. "You asked why I'm still here. Why I didn't leave even though I'm- even if it's taking a toll on my mental health to be here. Well, that's why."
Understanding was written all over Tim's face, clear as day. "You need to know."
"I need to find out. I need…"
"An answer."
Jon turned to look at him. "Yes," he breathed. "Exactly."
Tim studied him for a second, and whatever it was he searched he seemed to find it, and then he turned his eyes forward again, to his glass of water.
"Me too," he said. "That's why I'm here too."
Jon felt his blood freeze. "You…? A Leitner…?"
He shook his head. "No, no books in my case. Just… just plain old evil."
"What happened?" asked Jon. It was weird. He was pretty sure he didn't mean to ask this. He meant to ask if Tim feels like talking about it, like a polite fucking human being.
Another head shake, harder this time. "If it's okay, I'm… I don't really want to open it right now. Sorry. I know it's kinda unbalanced because you told me yours, but I…"
"Hey," stopped him Jon, and for some reason the words kinda hurt. "Don't feel bad, it's okay. It's completely understandable."
Tim smiled at him. "Yeah. Um, remind me to tell you about that, though. Sometime. I…" he cast down his eyes, lowering his voice. "I'd like you to know about it. Um. Just not today. Had quite enough for today."
Jon chuckled, relieved for the tension breaking a little. "Yeah, same here, if I'm honest."
"Jon?" Tim said, seriousness creeping into his voice again. Jon met his eyes. "I really am glad you told me about this. I know it was probably scary for you, and hard, because you don't trust me right now." He lifted a hand to stop Jon's protests. "And I won't pretend to understand why the fuck not, because I literally haven't done anything to you ever, but fine, okay, trauma works in mysterious ways. Just… thanks. For trusting me with this, for talking to me. You don't have to wait three months again to do that, alright?"
"Alright," Jon managed to answer. "I'm sorry-"
Tim stopped him. "No, I don't want your apologies. Just… do better. Okay? Things are too hard right now for you to leave me alone. I mean it. If you need things from me, if you need to see my fucking drawer or my fucking house, I don't know, I'll try to help when it isn't crossing my boundaries and we'll talk about it when it is, and we'll figure something out, but you have to try, okay? You have to. We have matching scars now, this is basically binding. We're fucking twinsies."
And Jon, god in heaven help his soul, laughed. For maybe the first time since Prentiss. Since months before Prentiss. It felt wrong and foreign on his lips, like some kids' toy, like being naked, like breaking and entering. But he laughed, and it felt wrong but good, like troubles. And he laughed because it's been so long since he laughed, because it's been so long since he cried, because he was human and desperate and tired and afraid. And Tim was there, laughing too, because laughter was contagious to humans, because he was a human, because he was a friend, because maybe, just maybe, there was a small chance he actually wasn't trying to bring Jon to his eternal doom. Maybe there was a small chance, the smallest of chances, that Jon was safe.
It was a scary thought, scarier than all other thoughts so far, but it felt like troubles, so it was worth holding on to.
And Jon, in his spare time when he wasn't stalking his friends, was capable of being a very stubborn man, who held on tight, tight, tight.