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Being tied to a chair (admittedly, off and on, but tied nonetheless) for days can wear a man down. This was something Jon knew well by now. Walking had been… increasingly difficult in the past months, knowing he should probably purchase a cane, with how his good leg had been hurting quite badly now from supporting most of his weight, but also knowing full well that he wasn't willing to stoop to that level. The level of someone who couldn't. Besides, he wasn't old enough to have a "good leg" and a "bad leg."
Jon's knees were still acting funny. They locked up rather often now, sometimes while he was walking, causing him to stumble and perhaps drop whatever he was holding. Not a huge deal, no, not really, more embarrassing than anything else. Oh, and it was still quite painful to bend them beyond a 90 degree angle. If anyone asked, he simply mumbled something about being sore, not mentioning the burning sensation in his thighs and the horrible tightness of his calves. The way he occasionally feared that his calves may never loosen again, rubbing them absently, feeling the knots in them.
Besides this, there were two things that Jon would benefit from about now: a larger desk and a haircut. Alright, alright, the haircut was superficial, but it was in an awful length, just long enough to get in his eyes, but too short still to tuck behind an ear or tie back with one of the rubber bands in one of the desk drawers. He liked it though, almost, even though the amount that came out in the shower was really starting to worry him.
Oh, the desk, well-- Shit.
A clatter, fumbling sound of several things falling. Jon didn't look up, only sighed, and kept typing on his laptop until he finished the notes he was paraphrasing. Then he turned.
The stack of papers Martin had brought in a few hours ago was now scattered across the floor, half under the desk, and half around, on the floor. As well as a cup of different pens, some of which Jon hardly used other than for chewing on. This is what he got for resting his elbow on the desk, and daring to move it without checking that nothing would fall over. There was only one thing to do now.
Standing and bending over to retrieve things from the floor only ever ended in Jon giving up, half-angry-and-half-pained tears pricking at the backs of his eyes, his legs burning. And crouching was out of the question. Jon would pay for that for days, every step dreadfully painful. He knew that after he tried crouching to get a new trash bag from under the kitchen sink at his flat. So he would have to slip down from his chair, and sit on the floor, put the things back on the table, then pull himself back up. No big deal. He was making do with what he had, and that was alright, that was what mattered.
Jon didn't bother locking the wheels on the chair, he knew that twisting his leg to find that button would end in a dull throbbing that didn't let up for a half hour, so he settled on simply being careful while lowering himself into the ground, hands on the chair. He had gained a lot of muscle in his arms in the past week from trying to keep as much weight off his legs as possible. His arms were sore all the time, but not with pain in the way his legs were, but in the way healing muscles ache. That made him proud, just a little, but it was hard to remember that with just how badly they ached when he dared lift an arm above shoulder height.
His elbows refused to bend the rest of the way, his upper arms screaming, begging him to stop putting them through whatever kind of torture this was, so Jon let himself fall the last few centimeters onto the floor with a dull thud!. He was okay. This was okay, he would grab the papers and pens, put them back on his desk, then climb back up, and return to his research.
Grabbing the first few papers wasn’t a problem, simply reattaching the sticky notes that fell off, shuffling them back into a neat, rectangular stack, then reaching for the more scattered ones. He checked the floor again, no, only dusty hardwood floor. No more paper. Raising his arms above his shoulders was the hard part, that was when his biceps really began to protest. Grunting a sigh between his teeth, he managed to shove the papers back up onto his desk.
Okay. Now just the pens. Find all the pens, all twelve of them, and put them back into the cup. Then you’re done, then you can return to work, then this humiliating excursion will be over with.
Okay.
Okay.
Jon picked up the first few pens,--these were the plastic kind-- which clicked against each other softly. He held them in one hand while reaching for the cup with his free arm. It had rolled all the way over to the filing cabinet. He could reach it from here. He could definitely reach it from here. Besides, scooting over would be far too much work. Surely, he could reach it, along with the couple of Papermate pens that landed there with them. He really liked those pens quite a bit, mostly because they were brightly colored enough that he wouldn’t be able to ignore whatever was written in them. They were just past his shoes, and a little to the left. No big deal. Not a big problem.
Leaning forward, the bottoms of his thighs ached in protest. His shoulders ached with disuse, threatening to tear even more if he leaned a centimeter further. It was fine. He was just being a baby. He could reach them, then calmly return to working.
Making another one of those horrible half-muffled screams, Jon was able to roll the pens close enough to pick them up. Then used one of the pens to nudge the cup closer to him, until it finally rolled the last half a meter, to where he could pick it up.
That should be all of the pens, now, right?
He slid all the ones he was holding back into the cup; they made a soft clicking sound. Now only to get back up onto his chair, and return to working, while distantly hoping Martin brought him another cup of tea, but not wanting to go through the trouble of specifically asking.
Sliding the cup back onto the desk, Jon settled in for the hard part. It was funny, really, that when you were very weak and tired and beaten down like he was, you’d expect that things would be easier to do sitting down, right? Sitting on the floor? Well, that part was definitely true, Jon knew that damn well from the number of times he’d surrendered to getting dressed while sitting on the floor simply because his legs hurt far too much to justify standing the whole damn time.
The hard part was getting back up. It was finding something to grab onto, something to hold, praying that your legs wouldn’t give out and leave you stuck on the floor. And hoping that whatever you were holding onto wasn’t about to break. The hard part was trying to angle your legs properly, just enough to push you up without tearing something in them. And Jon would be just fine. He’d done this many times, now, although never in his office, it would be alright. He had done this so many times at his bookshelf, looking for a book on one of the bottom shelves, not bothering to bend his knees, but to sit down, get the book, then pull himself back up by grabbing onto the table a meter away.
He really did need to get that cane. But that wasn’t what was important.
Jon reached behind himself, placing his palms on the rough, plastic feel of the chair. He pressed down, experimentally. The chair didn’t move more than a centimeter back. His arms ached. Okay. Okay. He was okay. He could get up. He could sit up, he wasn’t that far gone, he wasn’t helpless, he wasn’t--
He started the painful process. His arms screamed. He lowered them back to his sides. Jon felt a momentary flash of panic-- what if he couldn’t get up? Now, now, he was being silly. Of course he could get up, he wasn’t an elderly woman in one of those commercials where the consumer got their own “call 999” necklace. He was barely even thirty, he wasn’t there already. He was okay. He was okay.
Trying to raise his arms above his head proved otherwise, with an involuntary groan that escaped his throat. Alright, that was okay. He could sit here, stretch, and wait until he felt strong enough to pull himself back up. Not a big deal. He could wait a little while.
Perhaps five minutes passed--his sense of time really wasn’t that good anymore--before he heard footsteps in the hall. They got louder with each second that passed, and a soft click-clack-clack accompanied them: that had to be Tim. The only person in the office that wore shoes other than sneakers, that would make a sound aside from a gentle, rubbery shuffling, was Sasha, on the occasion that she wore fancier shoes to work, and well… Sasha hadn’t been in the Institute for a while now.
Sure, there were other people at the Institute that wore shoes other than sneakers, that wore boots that made that harder clack! sound, but they never bothered coming to this section of the building. They were usually more in their cubicles, on the second floor, not--
This was all rather unprofessional. Jon reached up behind himself, trying to push himself back up, but-- Oh, that was not a good feeling.
Tim knocked twice, hard and firm on the doorframe as he always did. “Hey, boss?”
“Yes, Tim?” Jon called back in his usual, not-panicking, mildly annoyed voice, praying to whatever in the goddamned hell was out there that Tim wouldn’t--
Tim opened the door.
Shit.
Now, the soft clack! of Tim’s boots, except in Jon’s office. Jon turned to see him; Tim was carrying a file, mouth open, about to go on about something, before he stopped. “Jon, what are you--”
“No one asked me.” Jon mumbled before he could stop himself. “No one asked when I got back.”
“I-- Pardon?” Tim paused, setting the file down on the fold out table that was usually in Jon’s office nowadays, even though there really wasn’t enough space for it. You couldn’t even open the filing cabinet without moving it in front of the door. Tim stopped perhaps a meter where Jon was sitting on the floor, and turned to look at him. He was in another outfit that technically didn’t violate the dress code. Just barely not-goth-enough to be presentable in a “business casual” environment.
Oh, Lord, the realization of what Jon had admitted hit him hard. “Sorry, Tim, I haven’t been sleeping too well lately. Lot of nightmares. You know,”
“I do know.” Tim sighed. “But I’m not leaving until you tell me what you meant by that, and why you’re on the floor.”
“Tim,” Jon closed his eyes in frustration.
“Jon,” Tim countered. “I may keep forgetting to text you, and I may be too exhausted to hang out with you like we used to, but I’m still your friend. Why are you on the floor?”
Jon looked down at his shoes. “I don’t think I can stand up.” He whispered.
“ Jon,” Tim immediately said, glancing around the room for something, his earrings swinging as he turned. The earrings were of bats today.
“What,” Jon sighed. He could get up. He scooted back a few centimeters, and reached up onto the side of the desk, taking a deep breath. He could pull himself up. Not a big deal. He could do it.
“You never did get that cane, did you?” Tim asked, usual light-hearted tone absent, walking to Jon and holding out a hand. He was wearing several rings today, including that skull one he found at the thrift store a few months ago.
Jon took it. “No,”
“Put your arm over my shoulder, yeah? I’ll pull you up.”
“Tim, you can’t be--"
Tim stood up, dragging Jon up with him. Jon let out another cross between a muffled scream and a groan, before he fell back in his chair, then slid back half a meter due to the wheels. He could feel his heart beating in his back. His knees ached. He nudged himself closer to the desk with his feet. His arms still ached from those few moments of being over his shoulders.
“Jon, I’m not going to have you falling and being unable to get up.” Tim stated plainly, looking at Jon. “You know you were offered sick leave, y--”
“I know, Tim, but then who wou--”
“What does it matter, Jon? The skin-lady-clown is still gonna get us no matter what our plan is, okay? She got Danny, and I know she’s gonna get us too. There’s no use fighting it.”
“Tim--”
“Jon.”
“...Okay.” Jon looked down. “But I feel horrible just sitting here, watching it all go down, just--”
Jon wasn"t usually too good at reading facial expressions, but he could tell from Tim’s that he was really done playing whatever game this was. “Do you really think I wanted to sit and watch everything with Danny happen? Do you think I haven’t spent years wondering what I could have done different, what I could h--”
“I’m sorry, Tim.” Jon sighed, closing his eyes.
“-ave done to save him? What I c-- God, I…” Tim paused, looking down at his boots. “This isn’t the time to talk about this.”
“It isn’t.” Jon agreed.
Tim checked the analog clock on the wall, then said, “Look, we’ve only got a couple more hours before we clock out. We can take the tube to Boots, or Superdrug, somewhere, and try and find you a cane. I am not having you unable to walk, Jon. You think I don’t notice you tripping over your own feet when you’re carrying files from Doc Storage.” He turned, looking at the bulletin board for a few moments, then turning back to look at Jon. Softer, voice risking breaking but not quite getting there, he said, “I can’t have that.”
“Thank you.” Jon looked down. THen before he could think any better of it, he said, “I really thought Martin would’ve done something when I got back from Nikola. I mean, he knows what it’s like to get trapped like that. I know-- Shit, I d--”
“I’m sorry, Jon. I should have asked you.”
“I thought, maybe, Basira? ‘Cause she…”
“I thought you weren’t coming back, Jon.” Tim whispered. “I didn’t think I was going to see you again, and when you got back… You were different. You are different.”
Jon paused. “I know.”
“Yeah.” Tim popped a couple of his fingers. “Uh, what’s on that bulletin board?”
“Oh, that.” Jon looked at the board for a few moments, then back at Tim, preoccupied with that horrible tightening and untightening sensation in his leg. “That’s my uh, research.”
Tim looked at the photos, clips of words, sticky notes, thread connecting different leads, and thumbtacks for a few more moments. “Cool.”
“Yes.” Jon said. “Now, what is the file you were carrying?”
Tim chewed on his lip before saying, “Let me check the Boots website, see if they have a cane, then we can go get one. Okay?”
Jon smiled, softly, almost pained. “Thank you, Tim.”
Tim, while pulling out his phone, only said, “Anything for you, boss.”