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Rain batters against the window in loud, rhythmic beats. Outside, the sky is grey, and the view of the nearby buildings is smudged by the water on the glass. Still, Jon stares from his spot on the couch.
Water droplets land in thick beads on the glass. They trickle down, only to be swiftly replaced by another droplet. At this angle, they almost look like holes in the glass. Dark, pitted holes, burrowing into the skin (his skin) as worms wriggle deeper and deeper, carving tunnels through meat until he sings with the sweetest pain—
Something clunks softly on the table in front of him. An antenna flicks as he turns to the sound. A mug. It's simple, white and with a very pathetic looking cat on it. His lips twitch upward, and he reaches for the tea and takes a sip. It’s sugary and warm and he melts into the couch cushion with a sigh.
Tim finds a seat beside him, sipping from his own mug (black, with flame text reading ‘BISEXUAL’ over the corresponding flag). For several minutes, they sit in comfortable silence.
Now that his mind is starting to catch up with his actions, Jon is starting to regret this. There's no good reason for him to have shown up at Tim's flat unannounced— and at such a late hour! Not to mention, the rain left him so thoroughly soaked that he ended up having to borrow some clothes. Not that Jon minds, the clothes are very comfortable.
He's definitely intruding. He should go, now that he's warmed up.
He'll most definitely just get soaked through with rain again, but it's fine. He put himself in this humiliating situation in the first place, he can put up with the sensory hellscape of a punishment that is wet clothes. It's what he deserves.
“Sooo,” Tim starts, before he can say anything. “Everything alright?”
Jon glares down at his mug, thumb tapping the side restlessly. “It’s…”
What does he say to that? No actually, I've been having nightmares about the archives that keep me from getting more than a few hours of sleep, and leave me confident someone was watching me sleep from some unseen corner of my flat the entire time!
Nothing's alright, because since my predecessor was found shot dead, I've become convinced that someone's out to get me next, and everything's terrifying and I can't talk to or look at anyone because what if it's them!
I can't do anything anymore without thinking that someone might be watching me, analyzing my every move until they know exactly how to get away with it when they kill me! And when I finally reached my breaking point with everything, all I could think to do was run to the first person I thought of with no consideration to how put out you must be by all of this! If you're even safe!
No, surely not. He'd rather eat sand than put all of that on Tim. For Christ's sake, the man isn't responsible for Jon or his stupid, paranoid, overactive imagination! Because that's all it is, it's his imagination getting away from him and him letting it drive him mad. No one's watching him, or following him, or breaking into his flat, or planning to kill him. Least of all his coworkers. Least of all Tim.
But what if they are?
He purses his lips. Should he trust Tim? Can he trust Tim? Reasonably, there’s no reason not to— what reason would he have to want the head archivist dead? He was happy before, in research. They were happy. And then Jon got promoted.
Would Tim have said anything if Jon hadn’t invited him to transfer to the archives? Would he have wanted to, would he have reason to? No. No, of course he wouldn’t.
God, Jon's terrible, to even be entertaining this train of thought. Tim isn't some cruel murderer that's out to get him.
The tea tastes bitter on his tongue. Tingling, like an itch burning itself into the muscle. Maybe he shouldn't be drinking this.
It's been tampered with.
The niggling feeling scratching and screaming in his mind insists on it, on confronting Tim and seeing what he has to say for himself. There is no one you can trust.
At some point, while he was caught up in his storm of paranoia and doubt, Tim gently pried the mug from his hands and set both of their drinks down on the coffee table. The motion snaps Jon out of his stupor and he flinches slightly, earning a side glance and worried smile from Tim.
Closing his eyes, Jon takes a steadying breath. “I-it’s… It’s nothing, I’m sorry. This was a-a rash decision, and I shouldn’t have come unannounced, so… I should leave."
Though he moves to stand, Tim doesn’t let him, a firm hand on his shoulder keeping him seated. A hand— and arm— that's covered in patches, hiding away dozens of healing wounds dotted across his skin. Jon frowns at the sight that mirrors his own injured state.
“Hey, no, you’re… It’s cool. Erm.” He shifts uncomfortably, feathered wings starting to fluff up. He seems to struggle for words for nearly a full minute before sighing, shoulders sagging. “Seriously, Jon. What’s going on? You’ve been acting weird as of late.”
Jon visibly wilts, antennae flattening atop his head and his chin tilting down to sink into nonexistent neck fluff. He shaved it to seem more professional when he’d first gotten his job in research, but never has he regretted it more than he does right now. It feels cold and vulnerable.
Words fumble over each other in the search for an adequate answer; he stammers out a litany of filler words, trying to stall as if he might magically know what to say. His throat eventually settles on a distressed squeak and he cringes.
Insectoid wings curl around his form as if they can pull him away and into his own world, safe from scrutiny. But they can't, and he's left feeling stuck beneath Tim's concerned gaze. The silence feels heavier than the weight of dread in his stomach.
“I-I, er.” He scratches idly over the surface of a bandage, trying to figure out how to un-dig his own grave. “Just, ah. W-with everything with Jane, and… I’m just a bit…”
The unconvinced look sent his way promptly shuts him up. Which, to be fair, he isn’t unaffected by it. But clearly, Tim can tell that’s not what this is about.
With a huff, Jon pulls his knees up to his chest, still hidden behind moth-like wings. His voice lowers to sit just above a whisper, quiet enough that Tim has to lean in to hear clearly.
“Someone’s watching me. I-I know they are, I can feel their eyes everywhere I go, but I don’t know who it is, and if I don’t know who it is then how am I supposed to feel safe anywhere? Even if I did know! I-I don't, I'm not— And after we— after, erm, a-after… Gertrude— what if I’m in danger? No, I am in danger. They killed her, and they won’t hesitate to kill me. A-and I’ve been hearing footsteps around my flat? And there’s no one there. I search every room at least three times, every time it happens, and there’s never anyone there, but what if there is? What if there is and I can’t find them, a-and what if—“
“Woah, woah, hey, take a breath.” Tim holds up a placating hand, leaning to meet Jon’s eye. “Jesus, Jon, that’s…”
He bites the inside of his cheek. Quietly, Jon can hear the nervous tapping of his foot on the carpet. Of course, he’s just stressing the poor man out with all of this. He shouldn’t have come.
Besides, what if it’s Tim?
No, no, he wouldn’t. Would he?
“What am I meant to do?” It’s humiliating, how close to tears he sounds. His head ducks to join the rest of his form in the pitiful sight he must be right now, all fluff and fear.
“No, hey, c’mere,” Tim leans in, arms hovering in an offer. Hesitation swirls and doubt whispers; it's a trick, this is how he'll get you, you'll die right here and nobody will ever know.
He wants to hurt you.
The doubt is ignored and firmly shoved down in favor of leaning into him, clinging to his button up. The light dims as broad grey wings wrap around them both. Jon sinks into the soothing embrace, watery eyes screwed shut. Then a quiet sob escapes him, and the dam breaks.
Weeks of mounting paranoia, of swirling fear and distrust filtering every thought he has into something anxious, all pour out of him at once. Everything hurts; his chest, his throat, his head. Tears burn his eyes and fall to stain Tim's shirt.
He doesn't seem to mind. One hand brushes lightly along the notches of Jon's spine, while the other runs through his hair.
When was the last time Jon cried like this? Even his and Georgie's breakup hadn't brought this much sorrow. It hurt— of course it hurt— but by the time everything came to a head, he felt a resigned acceptance more than anything else.
Maybe when he lost his mother, having already lost his father and being left without anyone to love him. But he can hardly remember being four years old. Maybe he was still too young to even understand what losing her meant.
Or maybe he never has. Maybe this is about a lot more than paranoia leaving him scared and alone.
It certainly feels like he's letting out a lifetime's worth of anguish. By the time he's run out of tears, he feels empty, like there'd never been any feeling there that wasn't hurt. Without his own cries drowning out the rest of the world, he can hear soft chirps coming from Tim. The sound vibrates against the man's chest, and Jon melts into the feeling. He may be scared, but he's not alone. Not now.
The quiet feels like relief. His head is buzzing and he itches around the eyes, but for the first time in a long, long time, he feels light.
Also uncomfortable. Right, the way he's slumped forward is… probably not great for his back. When he starts shifting, Tim picks up on his displeasure and moves to help him settle.
The two of them end up slumped against the back of the couch, pressed into each other's sides. Tim’s wings still cradle them both, and Jon's head rests on his shoulder.
Finally, after a long silence; “You can stay. If you want.”
Brows pinched together, Jon sits up to meet Tim’s gaze. He looks dead serious. “A-are you sure? I wouldn’t want to— to intrude, or—"
“Jon,” Tim huffs, sounding mildly amused, “it’s fine. Besides, it’ll probably help with the whole paranoia thing if there’s someone else around, right? We can just pop on over to your flat tomorrow and you can pack whatever you need.”
Okay, fine. Maybe, he might have a bit of a point there. Having another’s company could be massively reassuring. And admittedly, if anyone, Tim is the one he’d trust with his life. Probably. Maybe.
He can’t linger on that doubt.
“Alright,” he concedes. “I… suppose it would be worth a shot.”
Tim beams at him, clearly proud of himself. For what, Jon has no clue, but it’s endearing. He looks like an excitable dog when he gets like this. It makes Jon’s chest twist tight with fondness.
“Great! Awesome. Now…” Tim leans forward and snatched the remote for the TV off the coffee table. "I think we've had enough emotional turmoil for one night. I'm putting something on."
Jon glances over at him with a raised brow. When Tim turns to meet his gaze, his lips quirk up and he motions with the remote. "Any suggestions?"
After several minutes of back and forth, they eventually decide he'll get to choose. Chances are, it'll be something Jon hasn't seen before, and hopefully something new will serve as a good distraction. Maybe he won't have to acknowledge the creeping anxiety pressing against his skull and pleading in a panic that, if not the man beside him, then surely there's someone else here that means him harm.
The show— some sort of comedy series about the afterlife— managed to do its job well enough. It’s, to his surprise, a show he ends up enjoying plenty. The first episode and a half was spent settling, reluctantly growing comfortable in the presence of another until his wings no longer curled around him defensively.
Eventually, the odd comment or two starts to dribble from him. With some egging on from Tim, it eventually turns into a running commentary on the series. As episodes tick by, Jon's anxieties seem to slough off of him. He feels more like himself than he has in a very long time.
And the nice thing about it is that it leaves him feeling safe enough to be tired. Lord, has he been tired these past few weeks. Months? The time has blurred together a bit, since…
Well.
He hasn't been able to sleep. The nightmares, the unexplainable sounds coming from some unknown location of his flat— it's all driven him to a sleepless madness. But here, now, with Tim, his mind's deemed it safe enough to be tired for the first time in a very long while.
The rain slows outside to something lighter, a gentle patter on the window, nothing more than background noise to the telly. The sound cradles him into a gentle lull, antennae draping themselves loosely over his hair. His eyelids start to droop as his form tilts to one side. When a comforting weight settles across his shoulders, he leans fully into it with a contented hum.
It's not long before he's drifting. Engaged ramblings have tapered off into the occasional mumble that only serves as an attempt at coherence. At one point, Tim murmurs something to him. Jon can't hear what he says, but his voice is soothing. His vision is blurred, eyelids too heavy to see through clearly. What episode are they on again?
He’s only faintly aware of the show going quiet and the screen in his sliver of vision going black. The world shifts, jostles, then drops. His eyelids fall shut, and his head falls onto something (someone?) solid and warm.
Something soft sinks beneath his form. Brows pinched, he rolls over as the warmth slinks away. A breathy chuckle, muttered words that fail to reach him in his exhaustion, and a thin sheet is pulled over his shoulders. The world is painfully cold, and he can't sit still.
There's a thump from somewhere in front of him, then the sound of shifting fabric. Finally, the warmth returns, draping over and settling atop his form. Relief soaks through his skin and he melts.
Feathers brush lightly against his cheek and coax a sigh from him. As cozy as it is, though, it's not enough to ease him to sleep, and he shuffles closer to the source of safety.
His arms wrap around a form whose arms wrap around him in turn. Something soft is murmured into his hair, and the hum he attempts in response sounds more like a faint mrrp.
What little awareness of the world around him finally slips, and the gentle bliss of another's care soothes him into repose.