#cw strained frindships

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Suggested listening is Natalya from Preludes by Dave Malloy.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

After The Circus- Part 2

@janekfan

cw: strained friendships, arguing, fainting, dizziness, trauma, references to Jon's getting covered in lotion, disassociation, hallucinations/delusions sort of, and arguing

Jon continues to have a rough time.  

Jon comes to.  Or maybe he wakes up.  It’s… impossible to tell when everything over the least several weeks has faded into a fuzzy nightmare of soap suds and floral lotion and plastic hands.  Prodded and jostled and touched.  

And then waking up.  

He has no idea where he is.  

Can’t tell the difference between waking and unconsciousness when everything has faded into a dizzying smear when he passes out most times he’s been dragged upright.  

He decides he is best off not moving until someone tries to move him again.  

Not that it ever worked before, but maybe.  Just maybe if they think he’s asleep he’ll be left alone.  Or at the very least not punished for struggling.  If that even happened.  He can’t remember.  It’s all… all so distant.  And he just can’t think.  Not through the haze of muscles pulled too long and too far.  The stiffness in his deadened limbs.  The bruises from being moved too roughly.  Damn his EDS.  

Maybe he’ll get more rest.  Maybe fade from consciousness before any bit of his body complains too loudly.  

Maybe…

He tenses at footsteps heavy in the eerie silence.  Racing skidding heavy.  He doesn’t dare to hope that they belong to who he hopes they do.  Just a trick of his mind.  

Stay still.  

Stay quiet.  

Just… just don’t think about it.  Think about nothing at all.  And at some point it will be over.  One way or another.  It will be over.  

“Jon?  Jon?”  And he can’t ignore that.  Not when it sounds so much like Martin.  Not when he dreamed of this tone and miraculous rescues he doesn’t deserve and will never arrive.  

Just a dream.  

Just a brief reprieve, and as much as he wants to sink into the delusion and grasp at all the comfort he can before he is jerked back to the real world nightmare… he can’t.  He can’t let himself dream or hope.  Best to just resign himself to being trapped… possibly forever.  It would end eventually.  One way or another.  And as much as he wants to save the world… there is only so much one person can do.  One scared and tired person.  

“Jon!  Are you here?  Are you okay?  Shit, Jon, Tim only told me this morning!  I would have been here, I swear.  I would have… Jon?”  The door is thrown open.  

It’s loud and Jon gives up playing possum, and tries to back himself into the corner.  

This isn’t real.  It isn’t real.  It can’t be.  He must have dreamt the hallways and the archives.  

The cot and all the comforts surrounding him that he is just starting to notice are all tricks of his mind.  He’s finally lost it.  This is like the paranoia but worse, because now he can’t even trust his own mind.  

He can’t be in document storage.  Tim can’t have helped him there.  He can’t be here.  

He’s got to be in the hallways still, being slowly driven mad by the endless twisting.  That’s what that thing does, right?  Makes you doubt?  Like case #0150806.  Right?  

Or… or.  This is another dissociative episode during… whatever Nikola’s skincare routine for him is/was?  Is this what dissociation does?  

He doesn’t know.  He’s just tired.  And dizzy.  And scared.  Christ, he’s so scared.  

Hand on his arm and he’s screaming.  

Cold, slick, floral, hands, cold, sick. 

Struggling.  Making himself small.  Get away get away get away get away get away.  

But the hand leaves.  

It leaves.  

It doesn’t tear at his clothes.  

It doesn’t come with a pool of floral, greasy lotion.  

Most importantly, it leaves him colder, because the hand came with body heat.  

His dreams never leave him warm.  No phantom heat.  All the phantom heat bled away from cold air on exposed, slick skin.  

“Martin?”  Voice rough from disuse and screaming and thirst.  

“Jon?  You’re alright.  You’re alright.  You’re safe.  We aren’t going to hurt you.”  

Jon heaves a shuddering breath.  Tension leaving him fast enough to leave him dizzy.  Well… dizzier.  Or maybe that was just his abused body protesting everything.  He sways.  

He’s warm.  Not fully aware.  Groggy enough to let himself float.  Eyes weakly fluttering open just a crack.  Just enough to be met with an up close- and- personal patch of freckles.  Thick wool pressing into his cheek.  He can’t make sense of it.  He just wants it to last forever.  

He doesn’t want to become aware of the whispered argument occurring above him.  He just wants to sleep.  

“Tim, why didn’t you tell me sooner.  You found him last night!”  

“Easy, Martin, don’t shout at me. I didn’t just leave him on the floor, I put him in the cot.  Even tucked him in.  Even left him a glass of water.  Bought him soup!”

“That he was too out of it to drink!  Unless you think he made it to the break room and back in this state!  Barely recognized me.  You should have brought him to hospital!  Or at least… at Least called me!” 

Jon is only thankful that they are trying to be quiet.  He… wishes he cared about the conversation.  

“Yeah well.  He’s an adult…  Doesn’t need me to take care of him.”  Tim.  Petulant.  Sulking like a scolded child.  

“Oh right because you see an unconscious anyone who’s been Kidnaped and you think right they’re probably fine.  Right-o I’ll just bring them a glass of water.  I’m sure they can take care of themself, despite being unconscious.”  Martin, spiting words, but still enough that he doesn’t jostle Jon.  Not even a little.  “You can’t just leave someone like that.  Not even if you’re pissed at them.”

“So you’re saying that if Elias Doushard was unconscious on the floor, you’d what?  Hold his hand?  Call him an ambulance?”  

“You did not just compare Jon, who’s your friend, since you need the reminding, to that murderous asshole who literally trapped us here, and literally killed someone.”

“Well monster-boss here trapped us here… you know… stalked my house.  Killed Sasha.”  

“Jon did not kill Sasha, and you know it.  And he’s just as trapped here as you are.  And look at him.  Does it look like he’s having a better time than you?  Not that it’s a competition, but from here it looks like he’s not having a good time at all.”

“It’ looks like he’s coming around.”  

He ought to tell Martin not to bother.  

What Tim did was more than enough.  More than he’s gotten in weeks.  …More than he deserves.  

“Hey there.”  Martin goes from that biting whisper to soft and warm and welcoming so fast Jon wants to cry.  

All that, just for him?  

Warmer and kinder than he even dared to hope.  

Hell, he was happy to just not be actively kicked last night.  

“Hey.”  He chokes out in a dry and broken whisper halfway to a sob.  

“I need you to drink something.  Think you can do that, for me?”  

Jon makes to sit up.  He finds himself flush with Martin’s chest.  Basically in his lap.  Legs stretched out on the cot.  

He makes to push away, and sways dangerously, his vision darkens.  

“Hey, hey, hey.  Easy now.” 

Martin’s arms around him again.  Drawing in warmth.  

“You still with me?”  

Jon nods.  

“Okay.  Tim?  I’m going to move, so Jon doesn’t have to.  You can get the glass Jon can so clearly handle all by himself and you can handle it for him.  Do not argue.”  

Martin moves slowly, and Jon can almost hear Tim scowling.  

Jon tries very hard not to flinch when Tim comes towards him with the water.  

Tim dodges his gaze, and Jon tries not to spill too much on Martin’s shoulder.  Tries not to take too greedy of sips.  Tries to rid his throat of the sandpaper ache of dehydration.  It isn’t enough.  But it’s enough to sit heavy in his gut and he cannot risk anymore.  

“Now if someone thought to get some into you last night, or got you a sports drink, things might be a bit easier on you now.  But someone didn’t think of that.  Or didn’t bother to, even if he did think of it.”  “Tim did more than- more than enough,” Jon whispers, voice broken from thirst and disuse and screaming.    

“Right because leaving you with water you aren’t well enough to drink on your own is the height of nurturing and caring and friendship.”  

Jon doesn’t want to be the reason Martin and Tim fight.  Tim is mad at him, not Martin.  

“Leave it.  ‘m not worth it.”  Christ, he’s tired.  He doesn’t have the energy to argue with Martin why he doesn’t matter.  Why Tim did plenty.  At least he didn’t just stay on the floor, because Lord knows he couldn’t have gotten up on his own.  At least there was water, even if he hadn’t been lucid enough to find it and drink it.  “Don’t… fight over me.  I’m not worth it.”  

“Well.  That’s incorrect, but I’ll argue that when you’re feeling better.”  

Probably for the best.  His head is swimming.  

The next time Jon wakes, he’s with it enough to take proper stock of the room.  He’s lying down this time.  Cradled in Martin’s lap.  It’s so warm, he wants to weep.  So comfortable.  

No hands grabbing him, just, two arms circling him.  Heating pad on his back.  wrists loosely bandaged.  

There’s more whispering.  

“It’s not like I just left him there.  I got him to the cot.  Left him some water.  Even got his heating pad.  I was angry.  Angry enough that I didn’t call you yet.  I did call you, but he’s not worth you losing any more sleep over him.”  

“Tim, I don’t think I’ve slept properly since before Prentiss.  And I’ve been worried about him since the worm attack.  I’ve been loosing sleep over him since he disappeared.  If you were so concerned about me, you would have told me.  Leaving Jon disoriented and alone for “my sake” doesn’t make it better.  That sounds like you’re just making excuses.  Which, haven’t you told Jon not to do?”  

This argument is different.  Less angry, but more pointed.  

Tim sighs.  Pained.  “Look.  Why him?  Why does he get to walk away from these things when Sash… and … and D-  Why him, okay?”  

Martin exhales slowly.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t know why.  But look.  Can’t you be grateful you didn’t lose him too?  I know you’re angry at him.  But… they’ve already taken two people from you.  At least they didn’t take three.  I know you wish it was someone else who got to walk away.  And I can’t blame you for that…”

“Stop.”  Dangerous and cold.   “Stop.  If you finish that sentence, I will do something I will regret.”

“You’re right.  ….Sorry.  That was… a little too far.”

Tim sighs again.  Deflates, more like.  “You’re right too.  Guess two people dead less bad than three.”

“That’s a start.”

“Hmm.  I think it’s time to water Jon again.”  A lighter tone.  

Martin snorts, before turning his attention to Jon again.  

Jon feels distinctly like he’s been imposing, but he’s actually too tired to go anywhere.  “Sorry…”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Martin says, holding him close.  “We’re going to be okay.  This isn’t your fault.”  

Jon wants to argue, but then he’s sipping on some lucozade, and he is so very tired.  

He can argue later.  He can apologize later.  To Tim.  To Martin.  To everyone.  

But for now, he’ll close his eyes.  

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Sick Fic I Didn’t Bother to Name Part 2

Basically Jon is sick post canon and Tim lives and is looking after him while Martin is at work.  See look you don't have to read chapter one!

Okay so I know we all expect my fics on Wednesday, but next week it will probably have to be early Tuesday morning.  So keep an eye out.  Wish I didn't have to switch it up, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.  

cw fever, delusions sort of? sort of flashback?, past strained friendships, I think that's it?

Jon is starting to lose track of time.  Getting lost between the seconds.  Gaping spaces where he isn’t awake enough to register what is going on or what episode he and Tim are supposed to be on.  He’s lost in the moments his gummy eyes are closed and between strained breaths.  

He knows it’s the fever.  And he thinks he knows where he is.  

He’s on the couch with Tim.  

In his and Martin’s home.  

But between blinking and the gaping chasms between one tick of the clock and the next, he finds himself in places that have been gone.  Long gone.  Burned to the ground.  Both the places and the things that occurred.  

He’s on the couch he’s on the couch.  He is on the couch.  He is using Tim as a pillow.  While Tim gently runs a hand through his curls.  It would be soothing if he wasn’t also seeing another time.  Another place.  Another Tim.  

A Tim with his face twisted in a familiar rage.  

Shoving him.  Redirecting a forgotten, graceless fall.  Legs giving way under the strain of the worst couple months of his life.  Whichever worst months those were…  Because for a while each month was the worst in a new and horrifying way.  

He is on the couch.  

He is on the couch.  

And Tim is speaking to him soothingly as his breath catches in a panic he knows is lost in time.  Out of time.  Unstuck like Billy Pilgrim.  So it goes.  

It would have been a sensible fear years ago.  

It Was sensible.  

When the exhausted slip of the tongue and static echoed off the hatred behind Tim’s eyes, ricocheting.  At least once slamming Jon against the wall when he lost control.  

And he knows he isn’t making sense.  And he knows that Tim would never raise a hand against him.  And it wasn’t as if Tim ever really did.  But he wasn’t gentle.  Touches that once-and-now mean comfort and safety then meant something too tight too rough too much and sent him into walls or to the floor or caused bruises on his stupidly sensitive skin.  

Jon is on the couch, mumbling to himself feverishly. 

Tim is worried.  Jon’s fever is up, despite the recent medication and the damp flannel on his forehead.  Tim doesn’t even think it’s too high, but Jon has always been delicate.  Or has been recently.  Tim wishes he could cast his mind back far enough to confirm that this is just the way his friend has always been, and not a recent development in the years in the Archives where the world was against this slip of a person.  

Tim tries not to think about it.  Because he can’t lose himself to regret when Jon is facing whatever his mind is throwing at him.  Even when his mind could very well be throwing the memory of a Tim that the present Tim regrets.  Guilt is something for the bottom of a bottle.  Or in the muscle cramping heat of the heavy beat pounding music and pounding feet.  Or in the thick of paint fumes and the wet splat of a brush against the walls.  

Guilt and anger are not meant for quiet moments on the couch watching over a sick friend.  Not for episodes of Avatar the Last of the Airbenders.  

No, this is how you rewrite the guilt and rage.  

He will regret and be angry with himself and the situation that is no longer the situation when he has his coping mechanisms, both constructive and self destructive.  

He soothes Jon.  With quiet reassurances and a gentle embrace, trying to gauge if Tim will have to step back to sooth, or if the words are helping, or if he should pause the show or if the familiar noise will help ground Jon.  

In another time, Jon stumbles across Tim in the break room.  Limping his way to make some tea and let that sooth the fire beneath his skin and the heavy weight of trauma.  Rubbed raw wrists.  His body failing to bounce back after kidnapping.  And the taste of static as the question he’s already forgotten pulls and answer he can’t comprehend from Tim.  

The twist of lips in a snarl.  

Jon reaching out to apologize, but Tim jerks away.  

Sending the unsteady Jon reeling.  

Tim is gone before Jon hits the ground.  Too dizzy to keep his feet.  

Jon is crying, and Tim wonders if he has grounds to blame himself.  He will anyhow, but he wonders if it is justified this time.  

But he can’t act on that sort of regret.  Substantiated or not.  This is not the time.  

“Hey, ace.”  If Jon were more lucid, he would absolutely hate the nickname.  Tim loves it.  It combines a lovely gender neutral expression with the happy double meaning of Jon’s sexuality.  Tim feels that it could serve to ground Jon to a friendlier memory.  Not to mention, well.  Okay he wouldn’t Hate the term.  But he would love to make a show of hating it.  “You with me?”  He pats Jon’s face lightly, and gently wipes away the tears.  He isn’t really sure if Jon is sleeping or hallucinating or just uncomfortable.  

Jon frowns.  He struggles with coordination enough to rub at his eyes.  Eventually he cracks open a fever glazed eye, bringing (Tim assumes) the world into whatever blurry focus he can without glasses.  

“Tim?”  Jon’s voice is rough.  Tim isn’t sure if it from congestion settling or just disuse.  

“The one and only.”  He throws in a cheeky wink.  He wants to say more, but doesn’t know where Jon is in his mind.  

A clammy hand reaches up and traces some of the scars Tim got in the unknowing.  

Tentative.  Both with the lack of clear vision, probably, and with a hesitation that Tim is fairly certain that comes with an uncertainty of where their relationship stands.  

“What?”  

Again, Tim isn’t sure if this is Jon lost in the past or just hazy on some details.  

“It’s Tuesday and Martin made you call out from work today.  Martin would have stayed, but I got off from work earlier today, so I am keeping you company.  Sasha is at work, though.  She’s probably jealous.  Uh… We’re watching Avatar.  Which you always complain about, but I know that’s just for show because I know you watch it on your own.  Oh!  And my favorite part!  The Magnus Institute has been burned to the ground!  And please don’t try to know anything, because you’re sick enough please don’t give yourself a migraine.”  

Jon doesn’t give him the typical annoyed look at over-explanations, so Tim has to guess that Jon was missing some of those details.  Jon relaxes, however.  Which is good.  Lucid enough to understand what he’s saying.  

“You back with me?”  He asks Jon.  

Jon makes a so-so gesture.  He’s stopped crying, which is good, but he’s still hesitant to relax against Tim.  

“Where had you gone?”  Tim asks against his better judgement.  

“Felt unstuck.”  Jon’s hand closes over Tim’s wrist.  Using it to cling to the here and now.  Tim understands that feeling.  

“Anything I can do?”  

“Just… be here?”

“Not going anywhere, bud.”  Tim promises.  

Being shoved.  Hitting the ground.  Curled on the unforgiving tile.  

He’s on the couch.  Tim is here, and he’s kind and solid.  

Tim is shouting.  Angry.  Biting.  Chilling words.  Bent too far to be a friend.  Twisted.  

Jon is getting dizzy from the unstuck feeling.  

Everything is spinning and he is dreadfully cold.  

Aching cold.  

But he’s afraid that every drag of his eyelids will take him back to echoing shouts and freezing tile and bruising hands.  

Jon wakes up screaming.  He tries to pull himself up, the blanket wrapped around him like restraints and he wants to be up and moving and free.  He screams when someone grabs his arms.  

Tight grip, enough to leave marks over his raw wrists.  Tim shaking him until the world upends itself and he’s on the floor.  On the floor.  On the floor.  

As Tim looms.  Angry and shouting and tall.  And Jon is so so so small.  Breakable.  In a way that no one seems to notice until he’s broken in front of them.  

He’s on the floor of his living room.  There are no bruises.  No rope burns.  

Just a precariously high fever.  Sitting crying and dizzy in the thick tangled blankets.  

Tim kneeling before him, making his posture as unthreatening as possible.  

“Jon?  Bud?  You back with me?”

Five things he can see.  Tim.  The laptop.  His cane.  The couch.  His ace ring.  

Four he can hear.  His own pounding heart.  His strained breaths.  Uncle Iroh on the laptop.  Tim’s voice.  

Three he can feel.  His sweat damp frizzed hairs plastered to his forehead.  The thick blanket that takes turns being a comforting weight and a panic inducing restriction.  Again, his heartbeat.  

Did he take his medicine this morning?  

Is he up for more medicine for his fever yet?  

The heat of anxiety is easing him back into the ice fever chills.  

Tim is reaching for him.  Offering him a hand.  Instead he tips forwards against him.  

“Back with you.”  Jon assures, finding his voice at length.  

For sure this time.  

Nothing like panic to jolt him back aware.  

Tim settles him back on the couch with care.  Presses a kiss to his forehead, and tucks him in again against the shivers.  

Jon settles back to watch another episode, Tim as his pillow once more.