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[statementfuckingends]

You've reached Timothy Stoker, leave a message at the tone and I'll get back to you.

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[epistemological]

Jon walks around his desk and sits down and it's clear that he's... he's tired. Drained. Oh, he might be well fed (though even that's near the point where he's going to have to take a statement again, not that he notices, given how used to being hungry he has been) but emotionally, he's very much at the end of his tether. One more thing, his eyes say, and something might crack.

It looks like he comes up with a couple of approaches, a few questions, a few things to say. But what comes out is a very tired, almost plainative question that's only charge is deeply emotional.

"...what the fuck, Daniel?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

Daniel glances between them, clearly at a loss. Another adjustment, though this one a little more difficult. He has to delve into more sincerity, rather than deception or deflection, which is not what he wanted.

"Hey! Why am I the one one trial here? Yeah, so I came in here looking for a book. I saw he was here. Yeah, I'm pissed that I can't touch Elias, so I fucked with him a little. But I've been messing with him - literally since I got here. I just got a little caught up. So sue me. Nothing happened. He hit me, I hit back. I'm not even armed; what could I do?"

Which is a dumb question and he knows it. But he's trying to make a point.

[statementfuckingends]

"Apparently plenty. You don't need a fucking weapon, you're too smart for that."

There's a coolness to him as he says that. Just because you've said sorry, Jacobi, doesn't mean Certain Topics are easily forgiven.

"You don't get the luxury of your bloody doe-eyed harmless act with us, you git."

[epistemological]

Jon looks up from where he'd been staring at the desk as he hears Tim mention Jacobi being 'too smart for that' and 'doe-eyed harmless act's. And it's like... he hadn't even thought of that. He'd just-

The library was his space. He'd worked very hard to keep violence from it, after that initial massacre. How Iris was killed. How Lark got hurt. The way Alec had clearly wanted to kill him, then and there, and he hadn't even had an argument against it other than the fact that it would make Lark's entire choice to defend him pointless. It had had a very intense effect on him.

This wasn't even in the same ballpark, but as tightly wound and fragile as he's feeling of late, it just-

It hits differently when someone you know and trust and care about brings that to your door.

But the idea that this is part of some plot, that there's some manipulation at play here-

That makes him close his eyes tight and press his fists against them as he just breathes. Because he wants to cry. But the very idea of doing that in front of anyone but Martin is utterly anathema. And his breakdown before had only made things with Daniel worse.

He cannot.

He will not.

So he takes a few breathes and he breathes out slow and low at last before pulling in deep. And finally, he says-

"Daniel, I'm already walking a tightrope wondering what manner of reverse psychology gambit Elias is going to play on me, or Tim, or Martin. I-

"I really hope I don't have to worry about how you're going to manipulate me." A hard swallow and his voice is softer. "B-because to be quite frank, I'm not sure I could take that right now."

[mrballisticsdummy]

He chews on the inside of his cheek as they talk to him, as Jon stews on something and Tim fusses. He glances to the side, listening to the advice, the memory, of someone who isn't them, just briefly, before he stares hard at the door.

When he speaks again, there's a blithe playfulness to it. He's flippant about it. Closed off.

"Woooow. This has been a real great day. I love the accusations getting flung around here. This is - a lot of fun. Jesus, Jon. I'm not a manipulator. I mean, okay, Tim. Yeah, I fucked up. I'll leave Hickey alone after this. I got my nose broken for my trouble. Can I just go now so I can get yelled at by a third person today?"

[statementfuckingends]

Sorry, Jacobi, but Jon pushing back a mental breakdown right next to them takes slightly higher priority over your temper tantrum, and his eyes stay on Jon as soon as he spots the Archivist balling his fists.

"Sure thing, Jacobi." He's paying attention, of course, but his tone is dismissive, no anger at all. Disappointed. "Go have fun making it three for three you've blow up over nothing." He finally looks over then, and his expression is just. Resigned. "Don't bother cleaning up after yourself. I've got it."

[epistemological]

Jacobi's tone hits Jon like a fist, his face going pale and a visible shudder through his shoulders as he forces down a swallow. He needs another one before he even tries to open his mouth, and he looks more horrified than Jacobi probably expected.

"I wasn't- it wasn't an accusation, Daniel-" his voice thready and tight, tightly controlled. Another hard swallow.

He doesn't look at Tim.

"I don't-

"I don't accuse my friends of things. N-not anymore. Never again."

He continues not to look at Tim.

"I'm asking you. I'm asking you please."

[mrballisticsdummy]

Jacobi's quiet for a long time. Tim had dismissed him, but he doesn't get up from the chair. He just watches his warden, then his friend, as if he doesn't know what to do with them. And, truthfully, he doesn't. He doesn't know what to do. He had pretty plans laid out, things that he was going to use to distract and deflect. Flashy little mechanisms here and there. Pretty words. Shiny confessions that mean nothing but only served to give him time to think and plan.

But he looks between the two of them, the two people he said he would protect, he swore to himself that he would protect, and it comes crashing down around him. Jon, visibly upset. Tim, disappointed and angry. Jacobi thinks he can actually hear the sound of the explosions in his ears as everything falls apart. He's hurting them.

He's failing them.

He sucks in a quick breath and it's more of a shudder. He feels every injury from the past week all at once, as if he had been keeping it at bay by sheer spite, and tries not to focus on it.

"I'm sorry," he says very quietly and it's the most sincere combination of words he's said in weeks.

Then, a little louder. "I'm sorry. I - Jesus Christ, I - " He tears fingers through his hair hard enough to hurt. He doesn't cry, but he might as well be. "I'm done with it. With - him. This. I mean - for real." He looks up to Tim, then to Jon. Trying to make them understand. "Honestly."

[statementfuckingends]

Jacobi's silence would have kept Tim ignoring him, thoroughly dismissing the demolitionist in favour of Jon's far more urgent emergency; even going so far as to sit on the edge of Jon's desk, ready to give him more support when Jacobi leaves.

But Jacobi doesn't, and. As quiet as that little shudder in his breath is, in the tense silence of the room Tim can't miss it, and his gaze flicks over automatically.

...he's never seen Jacobi like that. He's seen angry and hurt, a whole scale thereof, but not genuinely upset. Not like this, like. Maybe he actually gets it.

Damn it, Tim was supposed to be the grounded one here right now, and now his throat's gone all thick.

"Welcome to the club." But despite the light words, there's an emotional weight behind them he doesn't quite intend, but leaks out anyway. The exhaustion is still there, but now there's a whole heap of relief with it.

Quite a lot of it.

[epistemological]

Jon nods to Tim's words, and to Jacobi's, and his hands open so that he can scrub his face a few times, breathe a few times, and some of the color comes back into his face as his shoulders drop from around his ears. His hands draw away, folding in front of him on the deck, and he can't help a fond if tentative smile up at Tim where he is before he looks at Daniel.

His voice is stronger, less strangled, when he speaks. The relief? Jon's feeling it too.

"This is what he does," Jon explains, sounding almost like a man waking up from a nightmare, "this is how he really hurts you. Hurts the people you care about." A breath out. "And we just... avoided it."

His smile is wry as he looks over at Jacobi again.

"Welcome back as well."

Because he's missed the real Jacobi. Quite a lot, really.

[mrballisticsdummy]

The tension in the room is lifted; he's finally been able to fix something he's broken.

And he feels awful. Jacobi...doesn't feel relief. Or anything other than exhausted shame. He runs a hand down his face, forgetting about his nose and his bruises and sucks in a quick hiss of pain.

"Yipee," he says with absolutely no enthusiasm. He just leans back, looking up to the ceiling as if he might find answers written there in some sort of cryptic letters. When nothing manifests, he pulls himself to standing. "Tim, will you stay with him? I'm gonna...go clean up my mess in there, I guess. And go."

[statementfuckingends]

"I mean, it's not like he can make me leave," he says, giving Jon a quick wink.

When he looks back at Jacobi, it's with a slight smile. Still a bit tight, but it's genuine, and he shifts slightly to give Jacobi more attention. "I can grab us a bottle from the Lounge if you want to unwind later."

A real offer, since Jacobi is now looking as trash as the rest of them.

[epistemological]

“Fucking giant nuisance,” Jon complains with deep fondness. It’s obvious he’s still unwinding and looking better as he goes.

“You know where to find me when you want to.”

A renewed invitation.

“Until then, Daniel.”

[mrballisticsdummy]

He's relieved they're doing better, but their playful banter only seems to cut him deeper. The barbed wire he had surrounded himself with when Jon was hurting is gone, and everything cuts far too deeply. He can't even compartmentalize properly. Maxwell isn't in his head. No one's in his head except his own shamed thoughts.

He's just sad and - tired.

"Tomorrow," he promises Tim and while he can hear his voice in his ears, it's distant. He knows that he just needs to process it and he'll be alright, but Jacobi hasn't processed anything properly in a very long time.

"Let a man mope for a day after being a complete asshole, huh?"

Jon gets a nod and he leaves to the table where he had fought with Hickey and picks up the books that had been scattered before he retreats to the cabin he calls home.

[statementfuckingends]

"Right." But that's the past thing he aims fondly at Jacobi as the man leaves, and he waits a good few seconds to make sure the man's footsteps are gone before he leans back on Jon's desk to take a long, very slightly haggard breath to exhale out in one long sigh.

"You alright, Jon?" His voice is still soft when he addresses Jon a good few seconds before he looks at him. Concerned, not pitying.

[epistemological]

Jon just nods… and breathes out slow. He doesn’t look at anything or any one for a moment before he nods again. Like he just checked and it’s holding steady.

“That… that was close.” Beat. “Shit.”

[statementfuckingends]

"...yeah. It was a bit." He reaches over and gives Jon's shoulder a light squeeze. As much for his own need for contact as an anchor for Jon. "But we got in on the ground floor this time."

[epistemological]

He leans into the touch and gives a brief, quick nod. Tim will feel him relax under his hand a little.

He lets out a soft, mirthless chuckle.

“I meant it. W-what I said to him. I-“ he finally looks up at Tim, “I’ve- I’m not repeating that mistake. Elias or no. That goes for him, and you, and Martin.”

[statementfuckingends]

"...good." He's not sure he can say thanks; there's too much hurt all tangled up in that, that he's not sure he could ever fully unknot. But seeing Jon's reaction then, hearing him say it. It does still mean something. "Genuinely, I'm glad to hear it."

Because he's not sure he'd survive going through that again. Not from Jon, not from anyone else. Every time he tried to prove his faith in someone who he thought trusted him, he only got burned.

(An insidious little voice wonders, if the problem is just the common denominator.)

But the thought doesn't show on his face. Doesn't need to. He twists to face Jon a bit better, resting one knee on the desk as he gets comfortable. "You remember that part of that means telling me if you need anything, yeah?"

[epistemological]

"Elias off the ship," he says in a deadpan before letting out a tired, but still good-humored chuckle, "and I'll remember it as long as you do."

He taps one of the desk draws twice and lets his eyebrows jump. Drink? He'd do a smoke but they're still in the library. No ignition sources, thank you.

[statementfuckingends]

He gives a grateful little smile at the offer. "Yeah, sure," he says, pushing himself gently off the desk so he can flop weightily into the other office chair. "We've earned it."

[epistemological]

Jon nods and reaches down to pull out the little box. He opens it, pulls out the two tumblers, and the bottle before he's pouring out a couple of fingers for both of them.

"Shit."

This one is not so much a comment of shock of frustration or even annoyance. It's a little bit of amazement.

[statementfuckingends]

The sheer simplicity of the statement makes Tim laugh, quiet but genuine, and he lifts his glass to meet Jon's.

"Cheers. For bloody stopping something."

[epistemological]

Jon will lift it back.

"Cheers for... something going right. I was starting to think that was impossibly recently."

[statementfuckingends]

"Never let it be said the universe makes it easy for us."

He takes a sip as he leans back in the chair.

"Still, I think that's actually the most I've ever seen him get, like. Affected. By the shit we've been trying to explain. I owe you one for that."