[That's one of the things he'd always liked about Jon. The way he listens. The way he looks at you like your story is the most important thing in the world. Tim can do that, too, often uses it to his advantage, but the way Jon listens is even more compelling. Except for when he doesn't listen at all, doesn't actually hear what you're trying to say.
His answering laugh is short, sharp, a sound of pain as much as it is grim amusement.]
You bloody idiot. I need you. I needed you, and you just...
[He just. Tim doesn't need to finish that sentence. They both know how it ends.
It's a long moment before he speaks again.]
We were friends, Jon. You were probably the closest thing I've had to a best friend since primary school. I needed you, and you decided I didn't.
[ Jon's head pops up like, like some sort of whack-a-mole target, eyes large in his face and shock, dismay, confusion written all over his face. The words come stuttering out almost immediately.]
What do you- that can't be- I'm not- you've had to, that is- you, I mean- [ there's a nigh-hysterical chuckle, all of it unpleasant, that bubbles up from him] I couldn't, I'm not-
Tim.
[ He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how that's possible, how it could be possible. But like so many things of late, so many moments, it seems as if regardless of the means or the hows or the whys, it may very well be possible. Might be the truth. And he-
He's not sure what to do about that other than to feel sick. He swallows, hard, and his voice is very small. Very quiet as he continues.]
I'm not- I'm not worth that, Tim. Especially n-not now.
[Of course he freezes. Of course he stumbles and staggers and were he not probably well on his way to tipsy right now, Tim has no doubt Jon would be halfway out the door, leaving behind a cartoonish cloud of Jon-shaped dust. It would have made him angry, once. It still might, later. Right now, though? Right now he's just resigned.]
Know that now, don't I? I know now you obviously didn't feel the same, and that's fine. It's all done. I've moved on.
[He takes another swallow of scotch, but even this one can't rinse the bitterness away.]
Let's not forget the part where I hate you now, remember?
[And yet, there's no venom in it. Just a sad, faint longing.]
[ That is actually where his sputtering turns into something slightly more volatile. Because- because that- ]
What 'obviously'? Why on Earth would you think that one thing would ever mean the other? I mean, I- I've never-
[ His throat is thick with something. Not with whiskey, unfortunately, and the urge to just stick the bottle in his mouth and chug is almost strong enough to make him do it. But he can't, because there's things he needs to say and alcohol poisoning he cannot get right this moment for any number of reasons.
His voice is choked, ragged and raw and wet as he gets the words out past the knot in his throat.]
Tim, you weren't- Christ. [ He shakes his head and it doesn't make it better, there's no making any of this better, is there?] You weren't just my best friend, you were my only friend, you bloody idiot. I just-
[ He finally untwists the bottle, harshly enough that a bit of the cap bites into his hand a little. The burned one's always a bit sensitive.
He breathes before he finishes what he's saying, but he holds off drinking until after.]
If I waited for- for that sort of thing to be mutual, I'd never have- have anyone.
[ And that's when he gets the bottle in his mouth and he spills a little as he pulls off, not that it matters. What matters right now?
How could he think that? How could Tim ever think that? That he didn't feel things, that he didn't care? He's not- he knows he's unlikeable. He knows he doesn't get people and they, largely, don't 'get' him either. He's given up trying, given up on the idea that anyone but maybe Georgie and the odd cat will ever look at him with any sort of fondness. People tolerate him, because of manners or- or- or- necessity or duty.
People put up with him because he exists in the world and they have to and that's all he really expects out of them. He expects them to appreciate when he's convenient and work around him and obey the social contract long enough that he can get what little interaction he needs and wants and he doesn't- he won't ask or expect more than that.
What Tim's talking about- Christ. Christ.]
Edited (slight tweak in language) Date: 2019-03-05 12:17 am (UTC)
[Obviously he's had more to drink than he'd thought, and he should have stopped hours ago. Years ago, maybe. Years before all this, before the institute, before the archives, before Danny--
Jon can't mean what Tim's hearing. He can't. Because doesn't that make it worse? If Tim wasn't just his best friend, was his only friend, and Jon still couldn't trust him, then what was the bloody point? What was the point to any of this at all?
His laugh is harsh, half a sob as it catches in his throat, and he sets the bottle aside, pulling a leg up, wrapping his arms around it in an effort to quell the trembling in his arms, the tightness in his chest.]
I'm the idiot??? If I'm the idiot, what does that make you, leaving behind your only friend to chase bloody monsters alone? Jon, for Christ's sake, why didn't you trust me?
[His breath escapes him in a shuddering rush, and Tim forces his voice even, even if it is small.]
I didn't have anyone else. And then I had you, and we had each other, and it was--better. Even with you being bitchy half mornings, and always ranting about the state of the archives, and being flustered and overwhelmed and unsure about everything, it was still so much better. And then you good as told me that none of that mattered and you couldn't trust me and you left.
[Another one of those hollow, whispered laughs.]
Maybe I am the idiot. I kept thinking you'd change your mind. You'd remember. Shows how much I know.
[ The words are, they're raw. Pained. Shaking and scotch-fueled and honest, so honest.]
You think that I left you behind because- because I don't even know why you think I-
[ Fuck fuck fuck he wishes he was sober. He'd be able to collect his thoughts so much better. But, he realizes, this would never have happened if they were sober. It couldn't happen. So he pushes forward.]
This place was fucking with us, Tim, it was fucking with you. What if I- what if it had it's claws in you and- and- and- involving you just made it dig in worse?
Gertrude was dead and if there had to be a target on me, I wanted to find the- the shooter before he put one on anyone else.
[ He looks at Tim, really looks at him, and pleads with him silently to understand. To get why he'd done it, even if now he thinks it'd been a mistake.]
Tim... you can't- you can't give up secrets you don't know. And as long as they didn't think you knew them, they wouldn't hurt you to get them. Or worse.
You- Martin-
I thought it would keep you safe.
[ He recovers, just a little.]
And it didn't. And I'm... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry it didn't.
It doesn't matter why, Jon! It doesn't matter that you did it to try and keep me safe, it doesn't matter that you--that you were trying to fix all this impossible, fucked-up mess, it matters that you were trying to do it alone! It matters that you just--
[The words escape in a rush, angry and raw and painful and harsh and so very, very hurt. It matters that Jon couldn't trust him. It matters that he all but walked into the mouth of the monster empty-handed.]
I was already in this, Jon. We all were. But I already knew about the monsters in the dark. They'd already got me. We could have done all that together. You didn't have to go charging in alone. Why couldn't you have just trusted me?
[The anger is only a brief burst, there and gone. All that's left behind is the sorrow and the regret and the very real desire to drink until he forgets it all. Fuck this place.]
[ The words hit like blows, and he reels a little as Tim goes, shoulders hunching in on him. His fingers hold carefully to the bottle but he doesn't even open it.]
I already knew I'd lost Sasha, all right? I couldn't-
I couldn't lose any more of you.
I thought- [ He draws in a breath.] I thought I was doomed anyway. I felt, even then- I felt like I was in too deep. The way- the way I heard Michael say 'Archivist'...
It was something I couldn't shake. And I thought-
I thought I had to do everything I could before it, this place, the monsters...
Before it all took me down.
[ He swallows and his head is still bowed.]
I didn't know, Tim. I didn't know about Danny. I didn't- I didn't know how bad it would be. I'm sorry.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2019-02-13 05:16 am (UTC)His answering laugh is short, sharp, a sound of pain as much as it is grim amusement.]
You bloody idiot. I need you. I needed you, and you just...
[He just. Tim doesn't need to finish that sentence. They both know how it ends.
It's a long moment before he speaks again.]
We were friends, Jon. You were probably the closest thing I've had to a best friend since primary school. I needed you, and you decided I didn't.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-13 05:23 am (UTC)What do you- that can't be- I'm not- you've had to, that is- you, I mean- [ there's a nigh-hysterical chuckle, all of it unpleasant, that bubbles up from him] I couldn't, I'm not-
Tim.
[ He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how that's possible, how it could be possible. But like so many things of late, so many moments, it seems as if regardless of the means or the hows or the whys, it may very well be possible. Might be the truth. And he-
He's not sure what to do about that other than to feel sick. He swallows, hard, and his voice is very small. Very quiet as he continues.]
I'm not- I'm not worth that, Tim. Especially n-not now.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-27 02:37 am (UTC)Know that now, don't I? I know now you obviously didn't feel the same, and that's fine. It's all done. I've moved on.
[He takes another swallow of scotch, but even this one can't rinse the bitterness away.]
Let's not forget the part where I hate you now, remember?
[And yet, there's no venom in it. Just a sad, faint longing.]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-27 03:02 am (UTC)What 'obviously'? Why on Earth would you think that one thing would ever mean the other? I mean, I- I've never-
[ His throat is thick with something. Not with whiskey, unfortunately, and the urge to just stick the bottle in his mouth and chug is almost strong enough to make him do it. But he can't, because there's things he needs to say and alcohol poisoning he cannot get right this moment for any number of reasons.
His voice is choked, ragged and raw and wet as he gets the words out past the knot in his throat.]
Tim, you weren't- Christ. [ He shakes his head and it doesn't make it better, there's no making any of this better, is there?] You weren't just my best friend, you were my only friend, you bloody idiot. I just-
[ He finally untwists the bottle, harshly enough that a bit of the cap bites into his hand a little. The burned one's always a bit sensitive.
He breathes before he finishes what he's saying, but he holds off drinking until after.]
If I waited for- for that sort of thing to be mutual, I'd never have- have anyone.
[ And that's when he gets the bottle in his mouth and he spills a little as he pulls off, not that it matters. What matters right now?
How could he think that? How could Tim ever think that? That he didn't feel things, that he didn't care? He's not- he knows he's unlikeable. He knows he doesn't get people and they, largely, don't 'get' him either. He's given up trying, given up on the idea that anyone but maybe Georgie and the odd cat will ever look at him with any sort of fondness. People tolerate him, because of manners or- or- or- necessity or duty.
People put up with him because he exists in the world and they have to and that's all he really expects out of them. He expects them to appreciate when he's convenient and work around him and obey the social contract long enough that he can get what little interaction he needs and wants and he doesn't- he won't ask or expect more than that.
What Tim's talking about- Christ. Christ.]
no subject
Date: 2019-03-09 05:32 am (UTC)Jon can't mean what Tim's hearing. He can't. Because doesn't that make it worse? If Tim wasn't just his best friend, was his only friend, and Jon still couldn't trust him, then what was the bloody point? What was the point to any of this at all?
His laugh is harsh, half a sob as it catches in his throat, and he sets the bottle aside, pulling a leg up, wrapping his arms around it in an effort to quell the trembling in his arms, the tightness in his chest.]
I'm the idiot??? If I'm the idiot, what does that make you, leaving behind your only friend to chase bloody monsters alone? Jon, for Christ's sake, why didn't you trust me?
[His breath escapes him in a shuddering rush, and Tim forces his voice even, even if it is small.]
I didn't have anyone else. And then I had you, and we had each other, and it was--better. Even with you being bitchy half mornings, and always ranting about the state of the archives, and being flustered and overwhelmed and unsure about everything, it was still so much better. And then you good as told me that none of that mattered and you couldn't trust me and you left.
[Another one of those hollow, whispered laughs.]
Maybe I am the idiot. I kept thinking you'd change your mind. You'd remember. Shows how much I know.
no subject
Date: 2019-03-09 02:34 pm (UTC)[ The words are, they're raw. Pained. Shaking and scotch-fueled and honest, so honest.]
You think that I left you behind because- because I don't even know why you think I-
[ Fuck fuck fuck he wishes he was sober. He'd be able to collect his thoughts so much better. But, he realizes, this would never have happened if they were sober. It couldn't happen. So he pushes forward.]
This place was fucking with us, Tim, it was fucking with you. What if I- what if it had it's claws in you and- and- and- involving you just made it dig in worse?
Gertrude was dead and if there had to be a target on me, I wanted to find the- the shooter before he put one on anyone else.
[ He looks at Tim, really looks at him, and pleads with him silently to understand. To get why he'd done it, even if now he thinks it'd been a mistake.]
Tim... you can't- you can't give up secrets you don't know. And as long as they didn't think you knew them, they wouldn't hurt you to get them. Or worse.
You- Martin-
I thought it would keep you safe.
[ He recovers, just a little.]
And it didn't. And I'm... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry it didn't.
no subject
Date: 2019-03-18 12:17 am (UTC)[The words escape in a rush, angry and raw and painful and harsh and so very, very hurt. It matters that Jon couldn't trust him. It matters that he all but walked into the mouth of the monster empty-handed.]
I was already in this, Jon. We all were. But I already knew about the monsters in the dark. They'd already got me. We could have done all that together. You didn't have to go charging in alone. Why couldn't you have just trusted me?
[The anger is only a brief burst, there and gone. All that's left behind is the sorrow and the regret and the very real desire to drink until he forgets it all. Fuck this place.]
no subject
Date: 2019-03-18 12:27 am (UTC)I already knew I'd lost Sasha, all right? I couldn't-
I couldn't lose any more of you.
I thought- [ He draws in a breath.] I thought I was doomed anyway. I felt, even then- I felt like I was in too deep. The way- the way I heard Michael say 'Archivist'...
It was something I couldn't shake. And I thought-
I thought I had to do everything I could before it, this place, the monsters...
Before it all took me down.
[ He swallows and his head is still bowed.]
I didn't know, Tim. I didn't know about Danny. I didn't- I didn't know how bad it would be. I'm sorry.