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When he hears Sasha's voice, the real Sasha, play through the tape recorder, tinny and lofi and distinctly not the same voice that had said "good morning" to him as she handed him the latte she'd owed him after losing some dumb bet they had made the day before, Tim's blood freezes in his veins. It's a bottoming feeling, one that grips his stomach and makes him feel as though he might be sick.
Honest to God, he'd just broken into Jon's office for a tape because he was pretty sure a name had rung a bell and wanted to double check. It had been something Sasha had followed up on. He remembered because she had stressed over it for a whole week, trying and failing to make contact before finally realizing that she'd been reading Martin's note wrong and his "1" had actually been meant to be a "7" and she'd been calling the wrong number the whole time. Tim had found the whole thing much funnier than anyone else had, at the time, though Sasha eventually came around enough that her complaints about Martin's handwriting became playful ribbing.
Mostly playful.
When he'd asked her about it today, she'd not remembered, but he hadn't been able to let it go. The name was the same, he was sure of it, and for some reason, he needed to Know for sure. Something about this place always made him a little more anal retentive than he'd been in previous jobs.
Ordinarily, Tim could just ask Jon about it, but lately, Jon's been so impossible to deal with, between the complete and sudden distrust of all of them and the accusations of murder and the stalking. He'd decided to wait until Jon went home for the evening to use the key to enter his office.
He's not sure how long he sits there, feeling simultaneously numb and flayed open like a gutted fish. All at once, he remembers. It fills his mind like an over-boiled kettle, like hot sugar poured over his neurons, sticking to each and burning until it hardens.
He doesn't hear the door click open.
"Tim?" Jon calls, suspicion so think in his voice that it makes Tim sure his eyes have flashed red. "What are you doing in my office?"
"Fuck off, Jon."
Jon startles. "Oh," he says quietly. "Something--what happened?"
Tim doesn't, can't say anything. Jon, this iteration of Jon, anyway, is not the person he wants to talk to about this.
"Do you... want I should leave you alone?"
That... isn't what he'd expected. Tim had anticipated Jon telling him to get out of his office, or demanding an explanation, or both. Honestly, he'd already gone through the effort of getting angry about it, so when Jon doesn't say that, he sort of deflates, hot air leaving in a rush that leaves him shivering.
No. He doesn't want to be alone, he realizes. So, he shakes his head.
"Okay. If I, erm, sit here in the corner, then?"
"That's okay."
"Right. Should I talk to you, or do you want quiet?"
"Why the hell are you being so nice?" Tim demands. Jon blinks. He doesn't even try to play it away, act like the answer should be obvious. No "because we're friends" or "I am nice." Jon is nothing if not self aware, and the smoke from the burned bridge has been pouring from Tim's ears for weeks.
"Well. You're crying."
Tim hadn't even realized, through the haze of panic and nausea and grief--shit; he hadn't even realized grief was in there, because if That Wasn't Sasha, then where was she? He knows better than to hope for the best.
They sit there for a long time. Tim isn't sure how long, exactly, tracking the shadows through the office, occasionally looking up to find Jon sitting with his eyes closed. He looks tired, like always. As the angle of the shifting daylight changes the appearance of Jon's face, he finds himself feeling angrier and angrier. More than once, he's said that he hardly even recognizes Jon anymore, between the paranoia and the snappish attitude and the complete disregard for his own body as eating and sleeping regularly have slowly fell by the wayside.
How dare Jon be so memorable, every fucked up thing he's done, every rude thing he's said, the furrowing of his eyebrows as he studies them and the twitch of his mouth as he makes unfounded and awful accusations. What gives Jon the right to be the one who sticks so firmly in his memory when Sasha was lifted?
"Have you eaten?" Jon suddenly asks, startling him from a trance.
"What?"
"Food. I'm guessing you haven't eaten any."
Tim blinks. "Uh. Not since lunch." A glance at the clock reveals that it's nearly 9 p.m. and they've been sitting here for quite some time.
"You should do."
"Not hungry."
"Yeah. Well, you should have water, at least. I'm going to heat up some leftover curry. Sit with me."
Numbly, Tim gets to unsteady feet, wincing against the pins and needles.
For once, Jon is right, Tim has to admit. He was hungry, or, rather, he needed something to steady his blood sugar. Of course, the few bites of takeaway that he managed to stomach does nothing for the shaking of his hands and the dizzy feeling behind his eyes. He sits there silently, daring Jon to say something so he can tell him to shut up, to fuck off and leave him alone again, but he doesn’t. Jon waits and waits, maybe for Tim to speak, maybe for Tim to attack him because these days he always thinks he’s being led into a trap—but he doesn’t. He picks at his own plate; he sips his own tea. And Tim deflates.
“You’re going to think I’m mad. Like, really raving.”
Jon doesn’t blink. “Try me.”
“It’s Not Sasha.”
Silence. A long beat. Then something… releases Jon. He leans in toward Tim after months of leaning away, takes his hand after months of flinching from them.
“Oh, fuck.”
Yeah, that’s fair.