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Jon feels he should be used to his life being in danger at this point. At some point, it should just become commonplace. The fear should stop being so sharp, so overwhelming. But, he's never been very lucky and every time he can feel how close he is to death, his legs lock up, his heart pounds hard and wild in his chest, and he's assaulted with the same vicious spiraling panic.
Of course, it doesn't help that his hand throbs in pain, pulsing like the same flames that devoured it. It doesn't help that his leg still has a deep debilitating ache when he stands without his cane.
It doesn't help that he's almost always hungry and tired at a bone deep, primal level.
He feels the car slow from his cramped position beside the body of Michael Crew. They must be off-road now, because the trunk shutters and bounces, and he, as cramped and small as he feels, still manages to be jarred from his position. He smacks his head on the roof of the trunk, cursing at the fresh source of pain.
The car stops and Michael's body slides against his. The smell of ozone combines with the smell of blood and he feels nauseous and lightheaded all at once.
If the car's stopped, then they've reached it. 'It' being wherever Daisy disposes of the bodies she doesn't want found.
Shit.
The trunk pops open and he has a second where he considers running. Daisy hasn't reached the trunk yet, he has a chance - a window. He could run. He could.
He shifts, ready to chance it in the woods, moving to get out and run like hell. Just as he’s collecting himself, pulling his legs underneath him, the trunk opens more and he closes his eyes against the harsh light. He won’t let this stop him.
He pushes forward. Maybe he can surprise her and get a head start.
Except, his legs have gone numb and he falls - not a long distance, not in his cramped position- as his leg slips out from under him and he lands on his injured hand.
It burns.
White-hot pain blacks out his vision and, by the time it's back, Daisy's already grabbed the back of his shirt and is hauling him out. His legs shake, failing to hold his weight and his bad leg screams at the sudden pressure.
He lands sprawled in the grass, Daisy’s irritated voice floating over his head. And through it all, the fear courses through him.
There's a thump beside him and, through the fear, through the pain, through the pain lacing his entire body, he turns his head, vision swimming and spotty. Mike's body - is he dead? Can he die? will he wake up and send him falling forever again? - is crumpled on the ground beside him. His face is smooth and ashen, the Lichtenberg scar stock white against his skin. Blood’s crusted on the back of his head.
He's grabbed again, pulled to his feet, and this time he manages to stay upright. He's afraid of what will happen if he stumbles again.
"You, Daisy snaps and Jon hunches his shoulders up, "Carry it.”
She gestures sharply at Mike, who is easily a head taller than him and a great deal heavier, even as thin as he is. Even if he didn’t have a burnt hand and bad leg, even if he’d had a good night’s sleep supporting him, even if his body wasn’t aching with hunger and cramps, even if his head didn’t pound with every slight movement, he would still struggle to carry him. It. Whatever.
There’s a reason he works in academia and it’s not his athletic prowess.
He opens his mouth to protest, but Daisy brandishes her knife and snarls, "Don't talk."
His mouth clicks closed and he nods, immediately regretting it his stomach swoops and the world seems to spin.
In the end, he half-carries half-drags Mike away from the car. He grabs him by the shoulders and somehow manages to get the body somewhat draped over his shoulder, allowing him to stumble after Daisy. It’s fear that allows him to, the drive in the core of his being to not die here allows him to lift and drag and not think about where they’re going.
The forest isn’t too thick to block out the light and the orange glow of the sunset exacerbates the ache in his head. He looks down at his feet and focuses everything he has on not dropping him and putting one foot in front of the other.
“Christ,” Daisy says eventually, “I don’t have time for this.”
He can’t see her with how his gaze is pointed at the ground and he’s so focused on just taking one more step that the sudden removal of Mike’s weight causes him to fall, face first, in the dirt.
A steel toed boot nudges at his side and he blearily raises his head.
“Get up.”
He does. Somehow. Daisy wastes no time in zip tying his wrists together, her grip bruising. She hoists Mike up effortlessly and continues the trek into the woods.
Georgie is probably right - he needs to eat more actual food, he needs to eat more often. He just needs to actually eat. Maybe then everything wouldn’t feel so sluggish.
Finally, she stops and he stops behind her. She drops Mike gracelessly, letting his body hit the ground hard.
“So, what now?” he asks, before he can stop himself, “You kill us?”
Daisy huffs and the edges of her mouth curve upwards, as though amused. “You think he’s going to save you?”
He starts to object, but it means nothing - it does nothing.
She takes out her gun and shoots him.
Jon jumps and scrambles back. Blood seeps from the wound and there are gaping, marred holes in his head. His stomach twists and it occurs to him he hasn’t actually seen a gun-shot victim before. All he’s really seen is Leitner, with his skull bashed in, but this is somehow just as bad.
“Empty the bag,” she says and his good hand tightens reflexively on the strap of the backpack.
The gun still glints threateningly in her hand and he swallows down a sudden bout of nauseous fear as he unzips his bag. She goes through the items one by one, but he’s not listening, not really, because the reality of the situation is settling in. He’s going to die here, buried next to a person he hardly knew - if he even was a person anymore.
He’s going to be put down like some rabid dog.
Horrifyingly, he feels his throat start to clog and his eyes sting with tears and sweat. Despite the fact he’s still panting and the shock of everything is filtered through the syrup-ey filter of a head injury, he feels the fear in him push out through tightly controlled tears.
“You sneaky little freak,” Daisy says suddenly, turning towards him with his tape-recorder in hand. His tape-recorder that he’d definitely turned off when she saw it rolling back at Mike’s. And yet, it sits in her hand, the gentle buzz of a listening tape recorder loud in the accusatory silence. “You want to record this? Alright, I’d have to destroy it anyway.”
He shakes his head, ignoring the way the treeline spins and spins and spins as he does so, and holds his tied hands up in surrender, stuttering out unfinished excuses.
She holds up her gun again, leveling it at him, and shuts his eyes tightly and begs, “Please don’t shoot me.”
He can hear her advancing, hear the safety of the gun click off and he digs deep, wanting to find anyway out of this, “Why are you doing this? Tell me-”
She lunges at him, grabbing the front of his shirt and holding his neck to the tip of his old pocket knife. “Stop asking questions.”
He pulls back uselessly against her iron grip. She’s so much stronger, so much larger. He hardly moves at all, in spite of the frantic energy flooding his body, pleading him to get away.
“You brought a knife,” she says and repositions her hands so she can pull his chin up. She grabs the back of his hair and pulls until his neck is bent back. “So we go through the voice box.”
He can’t see her, not with the way she has his head forced back. He can see the tips of the tree line, the fading sun over the horizon. The strange, orange hue everything is cast in.
The knife digs into his throat and he can’t hold back his panicked tears. He doesn’t want to die. Not here. Not yet.
“Daisy,” a familiar voice calls and the knife pauses, Daisy’s grip relaxes. If he were trained in self defense maybe it would be enough, but he’s not. “Daisy, put him down.”
Basira - the other detective. Former detective. The one who brought him the tapes.
They go back and forth, but he stays in a furious limbo, the knife pressed into his throat, blood running down his skin, his feet digging uselessly at the ground.
“I always thought you just killed monsters,” Basira accuses.
Daisy’s grip retightens, the knife pressing in a little harder. Every breath pulls against the serrated edge. He can’t help the small, fearful sounds that escape him. Tears slip down, wetting his cheeks. “I do,” she confirms, her voice is thick with conviction.
He can’t see either of them, still focused on the hazy tree line, but he hears Basira sigh. “Just let him go.”
“You don’t know what he is. You don’t know what it’s like to have your secrets pulled out like teeth, just because he asked.”
“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t-” he manages to choke out before Daisy cuts off any form of speech he might be capable of.
“Shut up!” she snaps.
“Daisy!” Basira calls.
“Don’t you - Don’t you dare look at me like I’m crazy. It got me too - or do you think we gave him those tapes because we like handing out evidence?”
“What?” he cries, confused. He just can’t stop.
“That’s not how it happened,” Basira begins to object, but Daisy cuts her off.
“No? You asked me to take a tape to this murdering freak and I’m all set to tear you a new one for it, but then I get a cassette in my hand and - suddenly - all I want to do is deliver his tapes and spill my guts. First him, then his creepy boss.”
“It’s too far, Daisy, you know it is.”
He swallows down the sob in his throat and tries in vain to ignore the pain that comes with every movement of his throat, every breath.
Daisy hikes him up higher, his toes can barely touch the ground and she pulls so hard on his hair, he’s afraid it will rip out. His head is as far back as it can be, muscles straining and cramping with the stress.
She starts talking again, still stoney and sure in her actions, “He murdered two people, Basira. Maybe more. I’ve done one monster today, no reason not to do another.”
“I didn’t- I didn’t -” he starts, but the sounds get caught in the extreme angle of his throat and he’s forced to try again. His voice is somewhere between an assertion of the truth and a desperate plea. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
He hears movement - footsteps, maybe? - through the rushing in his ears, and Basira says, “For God’s sake, look at him.”
The grip on his hair relaxes and he pulls in quick, shallow breaths, trying to regain any sense of stability. He must look a right mess, but he can’t bring himself to care about that right now. Not through the pounding in his head, the cold fear still pumping through him, the blood soaking his - Georgie's - shirt.
“Then who?”
“I-I think it was Elias,” he says in a rush, before Daisy can decide to shut him up again.
At that, he’s fully let go. He trips backwards, regaining several feet of distance, his chest heaves and he forces himself to just - just calm down.
“Yeah?” Daisy considers, “He’s on my list too.”
He looks up and sees Basira stepping forward, forming a partial shield between them. “What if he asks?” she suggests.
Daisy’s taken aback by the suggestion and he watches her process Basira’s following explanation. It’s not a bad plan, all told. Especially by his standards.
“Would that work?” one of them asks, but he hasn’t been tracking the conversation closely enough to distinguish who.
“I-I don’t know, I could, I could try,” he responds. The more he thinks about it, the better it sounds. There can’t be too much harm in trying, not when it would solve the same mystery he’s been stuck on. And, besides, it’s better than dying here.
“Daisy,” Basira says. Her tone is sharp and focused, it’s reassuring to hear it in defense of him, “this could be our only chance.”
He watches the other detective think it through and can see the exact moment she settles on a decision.
“Alright, but if this doesn’t work, you’re still dead,” she concedes, the threatening quality of her voice returning for the last part of her statement. She flicks the bloody pocket knife blade closed, spots of blood hit his face with the motion.
He just holds his zip tied hands up, muttering an agreement. He locks eyes with the dead eyes of Mike and forcibly turns his head away, focusing on the dull gray color of Basira’s hijab. “What about Mike?”
“Hm?” Daisy says and she turns to the limp body, her stance almost bored. “Grab a spade.”
He does, if only because the fear of not doing so outweighs any physical limitations he has.
The hole takes a while to dig, even though the ground is soft with the recent rain. Daisy and Basira make faster work than him, unsurprising given he’s working with his burnt hand zip tied to his other, but he still catches the nasty looks Daisy sends his way. As though he’s too weak to be given sympathy. The dirt clings to him. It sticks to his hands and forearms, to the sloppily wrapped bandages on his hand, to the blood dried on his throat and face.
Eventually, the hole is deemed deep enough by Daisy and he’s grabbed by Basira as she hauls him and herself out of the small pit. She dumps Mike’s body in carelessly, his limbs laying at odd, uncomfortable angles, and his eyes stare blankly upward. Jon has the sudden uncomfortable urge to re-arrange him, so that his body doesn’t look quite so cramped, or to close his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the sky be solidly locked away from him.
He doesn’t do either of those things. He just follows the way Daisy and Basira begin to cover him, then they both sit back as Daisy disguises the grave.
Basira checks him over without words. He spots the subtle way she looks through the corner of her eye, assessing him. He keeps his eyes down and his hands clamped tightly to his chest. He doesn’t want to think about what he looks like, about the mud, sweat, and blood caked in his hair, about how ugly and red the gash on his neck must be, about any of it.
Instead, with her permission, he gathers his belongings and zips them safely back into the bag. The recorder’s reassuring buzz is gone, it must have run out of tape or turned itself off. He can’t sling it over his shoulder with his arms restrained as they are, but it makes him feel better to hold it. Having the bag brings back a small sense of safety.
“Come on,” Daisy says when the unmarked grave is thoroughly unrecognizable. If he hadn’t helped dig it, he wouldn’t be able to see the slight tells of recently disturbed dirt.
They make the walk back with little conversation, partially because Jon is clamping down on every thought he has that threatens to make itself into a statement or question. What he wants is for this to be over, to have a change of clothes, to have a good, warm meal, and maybe do some research.
What he gets is being forced back into the trunk for the ride back to the Institute, as Daisy firmly shuts down any alternative and he’s too exhausted to argue.
It’s dark and cramped, but not unbearably so now that he’s alone, and he just lets his mind be smothered by the soothing nothing. He doesn’t want to be awake or aware right now.
The actual conversation with Elias goes by in a blur of revelations and threats. The soft hum of the tape recorder reassures him, though, lets him ask the hard questions, but gives enough grounding that he doesn’t spiral into an inconsolable mess.
He’s ushered out of the office after Elias is less than helpful about everything, although having some direction with the Unknowing provides a purpose he didn’t realize he was missing. He limps back to the safety of the Archives, dull and dusty with the scent of paper and mildew thick in the air, settles into a corner, and tries - in vain - to record a statement.
His hands leave dirty brown and rusty red marks on the paper and his vision blurs as he tries to take in the words, to let them flow like an uncontrollable waterfall like they usually do. He keeps on shifting, trying to find a position that lets his leg settle, but no matter how he tries to move, it still sends dull, aching pains up the length of his leg. It pulses with the pounding in his head, the throbbing of his throat, the muted pain of his hand.
After some time, he decides it might be more productive to just… sit here, for a bit. He sets the statement back in its file, ignores the smears of dirt and blood that he leaves behind and very carefully leans back against an old filing cabinet to close his eyes.
Everything swells and recedes like waves as he tries to not focus on anything. The more he tries, the more aware he becomes of the itching of dried blood on his neck and dried tear tracks on his face. He feels grimy and small, but can’t find the will to get up and go clean himself up in the washroom.
Daisy very well might still be in the Archives, just outside his office, engaged in a conversation with Basira. He doesn’t want to have to limp past her - his cane somewhere discarded in Mike’s house - caked in dirt and dried blood, proving how much power she had over him.
Still could have over him.
The knock at the door startles him. Before he can shout anything out, the door opens, artificial yellow light backlighting the person in the door.
“Jon?” the person asks and he recognizes the voice as Tim’s.
His face burns as he realizes how pathetic he must look to anyone else. Sat in a dimly lit corner of his office, nestled by two boxes of files that had been misplaced by Gertrude, looking grubby and bloody.
Tim sighs, deep and long suffering. He remembers that he doesn’t have the patience for him that he used to - understandably, of course. He remembers that he usually just comes for a fight and something scared and hysterical rises inside of him at the thought. He doesn’t have the energy for that, he couldn’t even begin to defend himself.
He closes the door behind him and Jon spots the hard set of his mouth, the pinched annoyance in his expression. “What are you doing?”
It takes a minute for him to respond, his tongue heavy and unwieldy in his dry mouth with his head still spinning. “I’m, uh, I was reading a statement.”
“Really?”
He starts to nod and then thinks better of it, grabbing the file from where he’d set it beside him. “Yes, uh, statement - statement of, uh, Delilah, um…” he squints, the words are there, he can see them, but it’s like there’s a disconnect between the words and his brain and his mouth. Everything takes so much longer than it should. “Statement of Delilah Evans, regarding…”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Tim interrupts and he crosses the office, taking the file out of his hands. “You’re not doing this.”
He shakes his head before he remembers why, exactly, that’s a bad idea and shuts his eyes against the sudden spinning of the room. “I can, I can. I’m reading it.” He’s not sure, but he thinks his speech might be slurred, it’s hard to hear.
“You know what? I’m not doing this. If you wanna be self-destructive, go right on ahead, boss.”
“Oh, Tim, have you seen -”
Martin’s voice rings through the air. God, let him be injured in peace. The mortification is back, if it ever left, and everything is too much. Too loud, too painful. Too… too much. He wants to be in the peace of old paper and statements.
Tim must move away because his voice isn’t as close. “Perfect, Martin, you like dealing with him. I need to get this statement a new folder.”
The door clicks softly shut and he can practically feel Martin swaying back and forth in indecision. He hears him take a breath and release it slowly.
“Are you, uh, asleep?” Martin asks.
He huffs and cracks open his eyes. “No, I’m just, uh, just…”
When he reaches blindly for the statement, there’s nothing there and it takes an embarrassingly long moment to remember that Tim had taken it. What is he doing?
“I’m, uh…”
“Jon,” Martin begins, “Do you think it would be alright if you get washed up? I can bring you a change of clothes, if you need.”
“I don’t have a change of clothes,” he says, looking down at his dirt-stained “What the Ghost” shirt.
Martin squats down in front of him. “No,” he says, very patiently, “But I could grab some for you. Some of Tim’s maybe.”
He fusses with the sleeve of his tee-shirt. “He wouldn’t want me wearing his clothes.”
“I’m sure he’d understand. But, uh, even just washing your face would help. And, ah, getting some disinfectant for your neck.”
“I’ll get them dirty,” he argues, latching on to the sentence as best he can.
He blinks and everything is out of focus and fuzzy. He forgets what Martin is talking about. Something about… about getting him cleaned up, maybe? That’s not his job.
“Jon,” Martin says again, “Are you paying attention?”
He stares for a moment, taking in Martin’s concerned face, noting how nice and soft he looks, before reeling in his focus once again. He should let Martin know about his head, he thinks. He’d probably have some idea of what to do. “I’m concussed,” he says, bluntly, and hopes that answers whatever question has slipped from his mind again.
Martin smiles, but it’s not a happy expression. “Okay, I’m, uh, I hope - well, I hope you forgive me for this when you’re more coherent.”
“Maybe,” he responds, though he’s confused by the statement, “Probably.”
At that, Martin moves forward and he only has the presence of mind to shut his eyes tight before he’s lifted and Martin positions him to be carried bridal style. He feels his cheeks heat, but he can’t focus on it because all the movement has his stomach threatening to revolt and he really, really doesn’t want to throw up on him.
“You’re far too light,” Martin whispers and Jon wonders if he was meant to hear that, but then they’re moving out into the office and fear runs like ice through him again.
His hands clench unconsciously in the soft fabric of Martin’s sweater. He worries, for a second, that he’s ruined it.
It’s too bright in the hallway to keep his eyes open without also enduring head splitting pain, so he keeps his eyes closed and pretends that that means they’re alone. There are no cops who have threatened to kill him there, just him and Martin moving through the empty Archives. It’s a shallow comfort, at best.
He’s moving again and he holds tight to Martin as he’s wrought with intense nausea.
Martin carefully gets him to relax his grip and sets him on the ground in the washroom. Its fluorescent lights buzz slightly and he tucks his chin down into his chest.
The door swings open and shut and he waits. For what, he can’t remember, though he’s sure Martin told him. He hates head injuries. He hates how his thoughts move as though steeped in molasses, how his awareness comes and goes like the tide.
“I’m back!” Martin announces and Jon looks up to see a pile of clothes and a first aid kit set in front of him. “The clothes are from Tim and Melanie - and they both expect them back, so, uh, take that into consideration, I suppose. Anyway, Elias was actually very proactive in handing me this first aid kit, which is a bit creepy, but that’s a problem for another day, I think. What matters is, um, what matters is that you can get washed and fixed up and then you can rest for a bit. Maybe have some actual food - you are much too light, even though I know you’re not the tallest person, but still… and I’m rambling. Right.”
He blinks at the torrent of words and they refuse to make sense in his head. “I’m - I didn’t - I don’t understand?” He hates how weak the words sound. They’re so fragile, like a strong wind could blow him over. At the words, he sees him deflate and the look of concern appears to be almost self-loathing and he hurries to add reassurance, as best he can. “But thank you - for the, um, for helping. Uh. Helping me. Thank you.”
Really great, Jon, very smooth.
It seems to do the trick though and Martin is propelled into action again. “Can you stand?”
Jon tilts his head and the question swims in his mind. “Maybe?” He sucks in a breath, because he knows there’s no way in hell that the dizziness and pain combined will allow him to stand on his own. He forces out, “With help.”
“Right! Right, we can do that!”
He grabs his underarm and Jon forces his legs to bend and his feet to be placed firmly beneath him. Martin lifts and Jon’s legs shake with the effort, but he’s able to hold his own, with assistance. The dizziness and nausea spike again and he clamps his mouth shut.
“Do you feel sick?”
“Nauseous.”
“Ah…” Martin responds, “Well, do you think you can make it to the sink?”
He opens his eyes - when had he closed them again? - and sees that, really, it’s only two steps away. It should be hardly a thought to walk to the sink and yet the space between him and it seems to stretch.
“Yes,” he manages, “With, um -”
“With help?”
“Yes.”
Martin’s hand holds him a little steadier and they walk towards the sink. Sweat beads on his skin and he feels the same fatigue that hit him in his office grow stronger.
He just wants to sleep.
“Here we are,” Martin says.
There’s a washcloth already set on the edge, along with disinfectant, wipes and bandages. When did that happen?
The sound of the faucet turning on startles him and Martin gives him an apologetic smile.
Methodically, he washes his hands. The dirt and blood stain the water an ugly, muddy brown, but he focuses on the gentle warmth of the water on his hands, the way
the water makes him feel a bit more human.
The skin on his burnt hand stings and pulls and Martin takes the washcloth so he can clean the injured area. He’s gentler than he’d have thought possible and Jon finds himself staring that the steady movements of his hands in awe. He cleans his forearms and lets the water wash up on his upper arms. When he’s done that, he’s handed a washcloth for his face and he cringes as the crisp white cloth becomes dirtied.
Martin doesn’t let him dwell on it, though. Instead, he just prompts him to continue wiping his face clean. He runs the cloth under the water and squeezes out the dirt before bringing it back up to his face. The scars from Prentiss’s attack are old now, but he still feels their circular pump as he washes all the dirt from his face. Every time he pauses, Martin lightly nudges his hand, spurring the action on again.
Eventually, his face is clean again. Or as clean as it can be.
Martin takes the cloth then and runs it under the water, ringing it out until most of the excess dirt and blood have been washed away. “I’ll get you neck, if that’s alright with you?”
He keeps his focus on the basin, watching the way the streams of water pool and drain, grit and dirt floating downwards. “Yes.”
“Can you, um, tilt your head up?”
He obliges and catches sight of himself in the mirror.
Truthfully, he looks horrible. His hair is unruly and frizzy curls make an imperfect halo around his head. There are spots of his hair matted with blood, but he can’t see the extent of it. The bags under his eyes have only gotten worse, hanging heavy, and he can’t imagine how he must’ve looked before, with dirt and blood caked onto his skin. Like hell. Like death.
And worst is the gaping gash, like a gruesome smile, still feebly bleeding. The core of it is a shiny dark red, but trails of dried blood cover his neck and encrust the collar of his shirt. Martin’s hands move delicately around the area. His pale skin sticks out against the dark reds of the wound and his own brown skin.
He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to scrutinize the areas of him that may appear less human. He doesn’t want to focus on how dead he looks in the artificial light. He focuses on the ceiling tiles.
“There,” Martin says suddenly and his attention is brought back down to his reflection. The cut area of his neck is still red, but the skin around it is clean. “Now to disinfect and bandage it.”
Martin moves quickly, his hands surprisingly sure as he maneuvers the medical supplies.
The disinfectant stings and he lets out a shocked, pained gasp. Martin murmurs an apology, but remains focused on placing gauze over the wound and then placing medical tape around it, securing it in place and then steps back.
“Better?”
He hums, hoping that it comes across as somewhat positive.
He’s so tired.
“I know, but just stay awake until you’ve changed, then you can sleep.”
Jon focuses on his feet as they walk back to the pile of clothes and he peels off his ruined shirt. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“That’s okay, just focus on this.”
Normally, he’d probably feel the slightest bit self conscious about changing in front of someone else, but the promise of being able to sleep has wedged itself in his head and he finds himself changing as fast as possible, desperate to just have a lie down.
Melanie’s shirt is baggy and soft, the long sleeves hang loosely off of his arms and Tim’s sweats are the slightest bit too big, but they stay up, which is all that matters.
Martin must say something, but it doesn’t register before he’s lifted again and he clamps his eyes shut till he’s laid on the cot set up in the Archives. It’s perpetually set up now. He knows that people tend to crash here from time to time.
“Martin,” he says, catching hold of his wrist and the other pauses. “Thank you.”
He smiles, soft and sweet, and it strikes Jon just how warm the sight of it makes him, how cozy he feels, the pain ebbing into an afterthought.
“You have a very pretty smile,” he says before he can stop himself. His ears burn as he realizes what he said.
Martin’s face turns beet red as well and he stutters out a few half-sentences, but his face retains the same softness that Jon likes and he clamps his mouth shut to stop his traitorous tongue from revealing that.
“Good night, Jon,” Martin says at last, pulling his wrist out of his hand.
He pulls his arm back towards his chest and the fatigue finally overtakes him.
The smell of food wakes him, along with the alluring smell of tea. He cracks open his eyes, noting how heavy and warm he feels. He slept… very well, actually. For the first time in a while. Full wakefulness comes slowly, but not uncomfortably so.
His head has a dull ache and there are other pains, but they feel muted. Less sharp than they did in the woods.
Despite that, he still groans like an old man as he sits up, muscles protesting at the movement. His body, it seems, enjoyed being stuffed in a trunk about as much as he did. It’s reassuring that his thoughts feel more coherent too.
He swings his feet around, letting himself rest in the seated position, taking full account of his body.
When he looks up, he jumps, seeing Tim staring at him.
“Good morning, boss!” Tim says. His voice is falsely cheery and it puts him on edge. “Sleep well, did you?”
“I, uh…?” He clears his throat. “Yeah, actually.”
“That’s a relief,” he says, but it doesn’t sound sincere. “Maybe now Martin can stop being an overbearing mother hen.”
He hears someone squawk in the office, presumably Martin, and huffs a soft laugh. “I don’t think he knows how.”
Tim turns to him, “You’re luckier for it, though. The way I see it, you got back alive and that’s all we could worry about. The rest is just a grown man having to help himself.”
He hunches his shoulders, “Yes, well -”
He waves him off, gesturing to a plate of pastries and tea, which looks to have gone cold. His stomach growls.
“Eat up. You might have to warm up your tea.” With that, Tim moves to leave.
“Wait!” Jon nearly cries, taking notice of the absence of any walking aid. Tim pauses. “You haven’t seen my, uh, a cane, have you?”
“You mean the one you took with you when you disappeared? That cane? No, can’t say I have.”
“Right, of course, I’ll just, eh…” he trails off, not really knowing how to progress without admitting that he’s kind of afraid he’s stuck on the cot without one.
He shakes his head. “Relax, I’ll grab you something.”
It takes a few minutes, but he comes back with a cane that looks suspiciously like Elias’s. The handle is well worn with an open eye engraved in gold. He holds a finger to his lips and Jon takes the cane without question.
The cane really makes a world of a difference and he pushes himself up, moving to sit by the plate of pastries. His head still spins as he gets up, but nowhere near as bad as it had been.
While he eats, the rest of the world melts away. He focuses instead on the feeling of actual food in his stomach, sweet jam and chocolate fillings coating his tongue and he feels like a kid.
Holding the half eaten pastries in his hand, he can almost imagine himself, ten years old and too cynical, sitting at his grandmother’s kitchen table. He never knew too much about their financial situation, outside of the fact that his grandmother was as frugal as she was strict and they never took a lot of time to enjoy the frivolous things.
But when he was ten, the outdoor cat that had somewhat become his cat passed - it was killed by a neighbor’s dog. His grandmother sat him down and very bluntly explained, as was her way, that the cat had died. She had found it on the doorstep. He cried and it was one of the only times he would actually describe his grandmother as comforting. She let him cling to her while she made scones, brushing back his hair and humming along to the old radio.
As they came out of the oven, she prepared a pot of tea and set the table with clotted cream and jam. They sat at the table together and had tea. Tea with fresh baked scones and the good jam from the farmer’s market in town.
The chocolate croissant in his hand isn’t warm or fresh out of the oven, but it’s soft and he can close his eyes and almost imagine that same feeling of comfort. The same old hand brushing back his hair.