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On Jon and Tim's first night in Beijing, Jon books them a double room in a respectably unassuming hotel near the Research Centre. The room is on the sixth floor, and Jon supposes that the view from the window might be quite striking, if he was in any frame of mind to appreciate it.
Tim drops his bag onto the bed nearest the door with a thump as soon as they walk in.
"I never want to sit that long on a plane again, ever," he says. He twists and stretches his back, which emits several alarmingly loud pops.
"I'm afraid you'll have to in order to get home," Jon says, moving to put his bag down on the far bed.
"Nah," Tim says. "We'll just do a bunch of hops. See the sights along the way. The Institute's paying, so why not?"
"Yes, I'm sure Elias will approve those expenses."
Tim snorts. "I can just imagine." Then he nods toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower. Unless you want first crack at it?"
It's an innocuous question, but Jon is still getting used to this old-new side of Tim—the way he checks in with Jon now, making sure that he's okay.
It's nice. He thinks it's nice. But it's strange.
"No, that's fine. You go ahead."
Tim nods and disappears into the bathroom.
The rest of the evening is like that—a bit fumbling as they work out bathroom logistics, then attempt to order some food ("I don't know why, but ordering Chinese takeaway when we're in China feels strange," Tim says). Even though Jon has spent occasional nights over at Tim's flat, somehow all their vocabulary for navigating a shared space seems to not quite fit here.
But they're both trying, and considering how tired they are, Jon is proud of them for getting through the afternoon with minimal snapping.
By the time the food arrives, Jon's eyes are drifting shut of their own accord. He knows he should eat before trying to sleep, should try to stay up to a reasonable time to help with the jet lag, but when he's startled upright by the sound of his chopsticks clattering to the floor from his slack hand, Tim gives him a look and he nods at the unspoken message in his eyes.
He pauses only briefly between the beds—at Tim's flat, they had kept sharing the bed out of habit, and, as Tim pointed out, as the best option to avoid severe back pain.
But here there is no need to share. He had booked the double room on purpose, so they could each have their own space.
He casts one glance over at Tim sitting on the bed opposite. Then he crawls under the covers and is asleep as soon as he shuts his eyes.
Jon had hoped that tonight, just for tonight, he would manage a dreamless sleep. But of course, he's never been a lucky man.
The room is dark when he claws his way out of the dream, chest heaving with desperate, gasping breaths. The clock on the nightstand informs him that it's just past three in the morning.
He lies still, trying to get his breathing under control, hoping he hasn't made enough noise to wake Tim. The remnants of the dream still cling to him, wisps of fog and the hate in Naomi's eyes hovering at the edges of his mind, and as hard as he tries his breath keeps coming in rough, ragged gasps (loud, too loud)---
"Jon?" Tim's voice comes quietly from across the space between the beds.
Damn.
"I'm fine," he says, trying to ignore the strain in his own voice. "It's fine, Tim, go back to sleep."
It's a bit stupid, he knows, trying to act like everything is fine. He's already told Tim about the dreams. Tim has nightmares of his own, he knows; of clowns and theatres and tin bathtubs, and that terrible helplessness, the feeling of being forced to watch someone else be torn apart.
But even though things are better between them now, there's always a part of Jon that feels the need to tread lightly; a part of him that worries that one day Tim will wake up and realize that Jon is a monster, that he's not to be trusted, that he should be pushed away.
So Jon curls himself into a ball, trying to make himself as small and quiet as possible, and hopes Tim will listen to him and just go back to sleep.
He's so focused on his own breathing, on trying to push the memory of the dream out of his mind, that he doesn't hear Tim get up, and he startles when Tim's voice comes again from just next to the bed.
'Budge up," Tim says.
"What?"
The mattress sags suddenly, and it takes Jon's sleep-addled brain longer than it should to realize that Tim has sat down on the edge of his bed. Before Jon can protest, Tim lifts the blankets and scoots under them, giving Jon a gentle shove on the shoulder as he does.
"Move over a little, I'm going to fall off the side."
Jon does, mostly because Tim is already there and Jon wouldn't put it past him to actually roll off the bed just to prove a point. Tim settles himself in the space Jon's made–in a better mood, Jon would needle him about how much movement it seems to take for him to get comfortable, but as it is he just lays still and tries to even out his breathing.
Tim finally begins to settle, near enough to Jon that he can feel his body heat. Jon feels him roll over one last time, and then a gentle weight comes down on his shoulder as Tim reaches over to place an arm around him.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
Jon can already feel his muscles relaxing, the shakes leftover from the nightmare already subsiding.
"Yes."
"Okay."
Tim lets his arm fully settle around Jon, his chest a warm presence pressed gently against Jon's back. Jon takes a deep breath, and Tim's arm tightens around him, just a little, in wordless comfort. Jon reaches up to where Tim's hand rests near his collarbone and squeezes back.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"Shh, boss," Tim replies. "You're welcome. Go to sleep."
And, miraculously, Jon does.