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TLV: IC Inbox

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

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On the third day, Jon’s body? Heals. His eyes are restored, his throat; he’s still in his bloody clothes but that’s to be expected.

What isn’t expected is that the only response is a twitch of his finger… and then he’s still again.

The twitch of the finger actually makes Tim start, from where he's sitting on the end of Jon's bed (it's close, it's comfortable and honestly? It just feels safer). Because he hadn't expected movement whatsoever.

"Jon?" His legs wobble when he stands up, so he just kind of scoots down the bed to fold back the ~~shroud~~ washcloth they've used to cover his face, and. Tim's exhale might be a bit shaky, at seeing Jon's face intact again.

But. Jon's not moving. That was... that wasn't right, was it? He was supposed to be back.

His hand shakes a little, hesitance and exhaustion more than fear, but he carefully presses his fingers into Jon's neck, looking for a pulse.

There is no pulse.

What there is is movement under his eyelids, twitching like a man dreaming.

Or having nightmares.

The part of him that's a shithead older brother is tempted to push Jon's eyelids open and see if it does anything.

The more adult part of him, that's aware that this is definitely not the way a revival should work and is frankly more than a bit unsettled, pulls his hand back off of Jon's neck, and settles it on his shoulder instead, giving him a gentle squeeze.

"Come on, Jon..."

There’s no response. No, a tiny, barely noticeable pause in the twitching.

Then nothing.

It's only because he's looking that he sees it, that nothing of a pause. But it's still something, and he presses his lips together for a long moment to hold himself together.

He can't fall apart now.

Eventually, he manages to turn that sudden well of emotion into a shaky, hollow laugh. "Ahh, god. Martin's gonna kill you, you know."

Jon, rather uncharacteristically, has nothing to say to that.

God, he hates that. The silence.

"Can't believe you put him through six months of this," he mumbles, taking his hand off Jon and sitting back a little. More down near Jon's waist, so he feels less like a creep. "Three bloody days and I'm ready to hang you myself."

He's quiet for a minute, like Jon will just wake up and make some snide comment if he is, but when nothing comes after a minute or two he just sighs.

"Thanks, at least. For not making Jacobi kill you too. But he's still not taking it well. You're still his people and he had to watch both of us die. He's..." He takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair. He really needs a shower soon. "I had to lock him in Zero for picking a fight, before. Maxwell, then both of us at once, he's not. He's not made for this kind of grief. He doesn't know any other way of dealing with it than making everyone else feel as shit as he does, and I don't..."

He rubs his face with both hands, and it muffles the wet, strangled laugh a bit. "How the hell am I supposed to help him, Jon? Jacobi and I are the exact same fucking person sometimes, and it's not like I ever worked that one out."

He leans tiredly forward, resting his elbows on his knees so he can rest on his hands, both curled loosely over his mouth. His silence this time has an almost despairing edge, as he watches Jon's eyes just twitch silently back and forth, watching those nightmares of statements from a hundred poor bloody souls.

It almost makes him want to take a nap in the common room, just to see him.

"Please, Jon."

Edited 2022-01-25 21:12 (UTC)

Another of those pauses. Longer.

But the nightmares continue. Whatever's going on inside of him, even if he struggles, it's temporary. It's a drop in the ocean. He'd spent months recovering from the Unknowing, one protodomain of a ritual.

This... even at lower power, it was all of them, it was everyone here, it was suffering on a scale that he'd only had to experience for a few moments, hardly enough to even adjust to it, and he'd been taking it in like an IV for days. He'd called upon the Eye, had leaned into his power to be able to do what he'd done.

He might be hearing Tim. He might not. But he cannot wake. Not now. Not yet. ~~If ever.~~

Tim just keeps watching him for a few minutes.

It takes a conscious effort to make himself move, to pull the cloth back over Jon's face to hide the lack of damage. Fix the one on his neck for the same, but it's trickier when his hand starts trembling.

God, he really can't do this.

He slides back to the end of the bed, resumes the same two-handed Thinker pose. Feels his eyes sting, and wet tracks burning down his face when he screws them shut. Knots his hands together and presses them against his forehead like a prayer, but there's nothing sacred about the way his quiet breaths make his entire form shake, or the choked inhale that gets stuck in his throat and needs a second to knock it loose.

This is just... human. Six years of grief, of lack of control and madness and death and the loss of everyone he cares about. Finally shattering under that final weight of Jon not being back.

And he tries to keep his sobs as quiet as possible, so Martin doesn't worry.

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