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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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[statementfuckingends]

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.