TLV: IC Inbox

[statementfuckingends]

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

Text | Voice | Video | Action

Comments

[statementfuckingends]

Tim's smile is a gentle thing, more obvious in the way it softens the shape of his eyes than the faint lift of one corner of his mouth.

"Any time. You know that, right?"

He pushes himself to stand up, but only so he can move and sit directly pressed in next to Jon, leaning into the pillow and lifting an arm to wrap around his shoulders.

"It doesn't make you a bad person. Any of that."

[epistemological]

Jon's answer is a rueful laugh.

"Know" is a strong word in this case. He's sort of edging around that information. Not for lack of faith in Tim.

But he won't shut away from the arm around him. He might even settle up against Tim, eyes starting to pull a little.

"I... I missed you. I'm... I'm glad I have you back."

[statementfuckingends]

And Jon gets squeezed gently when he leans in, a gentle press against his hair, before Tim gets himself comfortable too.

"Missed you too," he says. And then lighter, more conversational, but still low because he can practically feel Jon falling asleep against him: "The first thing I did when I got there, actually, I got some poncy wizard to do some scrying spell for you guys."

[epistemological]

"'Poncy wizard,' hmm? Accepting cheap knock off Archivist replacements, are we?"

Is Jon curling up against Tim? Yes, yes he is. Is he snarking as well? He can multitask.

[statementfuckingends]

Tim's chest hums under Jon's cheek with his quiet, sincere laugh.

"Only if breaking his nose is an upgrade on how I treat you. Twice. He was my Warden there. Sorry-" and he puts on the most absolute naff Her Majesty's Royal Accent. "Initiate."

[epistemological]

Tim will feel the way his nose scrunches.

"Well, you did blow me up once, so it's hard to say. But... 'initiate'. Ugh. Sounds like a cult."

[statementfuckingends]

He lifts his free hand to rub down his face, but there's a despairing laugh in his exhale. "Ohhhhh my god, it was such a cult. Inmates there were Novices, the Admiral equivalent was the Deacon. It made the Lightless Flame look subtle."

He finally reaches over for his tea again. "Strange told me he wanted to help me find enlightenment."

[epistemological]

The "ew" face is obvious enough. Jon doesn't do subtle facial expression.

"Did he have a book and a ten part tape series for you? Offer you a payment plan with free shipping?"

A snort he regrets immediately.

[statementfuckingends]

"Oh, worse. So much worse," he moans laboriously. "He had my file."

[epistemological]

"That quickly?"

That is the "how unprofessional" tone, and Jon is clearly insulted as a Barge warden.

...we're not talking about what he did on the Galley.

[statementfuckingends]

Why would they talk about the Galley? Tim has so much drama to unload.

"Apparently I was enough of a pressure pot of sheer unadulterated rage that I couldn't possibly be left to my own devices for a second longer than necessary."

[epistemological]

"Oh, fuck him," he says with a grumble as he settles a little closer to Tim.

Though he lets out a huff of a laugh.

"You do have quite the temper."

[statementfuckingends]

"That's my temper, thank you very much," he says cheerfully. "And I'm not letting some stupid Stepford ship brainwash it out of me. One of the long-timers told me, people only seemed to graduate when they've decided they'd like to stay on board."

[epistemological]

"How very passive aggressive," he says with a huff, avoiding a snort for his head's sake.

"Ours, uh... Apparently we crashed it?"

[statementfuckingends]

A snort immediately cracks the companionable quiet, and Tim holds his mug against his mouth to stop himself from cackling.

"Oh, my God. I thought the Brig was bad. I'll have to chase that up later."

[epistemological]

"Mr. Flint was an excellent organizer. They hardly knew what hit them."

He huffs in amusement.

"You might need to ask Daniel for more. I died...well before some of the more extreme messiness."

[statementfuckingends]

Tim's smirk is his own quiet huff. "Don't worry, boss. Being tactful about horrible trauma is my middle name. I'm probably going to put a proper report together on everything later for posterity's sake."

[epistemological]

"I would greatly appreciate that," he says, though he's starting to sound a little fuzzy. Sleep comes easier when he feels safe and right now? He feels safe.

"Are you- I'm assuming you're glad to be back here."

He looks up.

"Jacobi is graduated. I don't think I ever asked if you were planning to stay for anything else."

[statementfuckingends]

"I'm glad to be back," he echoes warmly.

He tilts his head slightly so he can meet Jon's gaze.

"I've got another deal I want." His voice is soft, quiet like he's trying not to get his own hopes up. "Giving everyone back the memories the Not-Them took."

[epistemological]

That makes Jon wake up a little, something tremulous and careful in his own eyes, before he reaches an arm across to give him a hard squeeze. It's not quite a hug as a wordless need to express something words aren't quite adequate for.

"Good," and his voice is a little hoarse with all that. "I'm here for another as well, though Daniel's... got some time to go."

[statementfuckingends]

Tim's arm squeezes Jon's shoulders as well, when he gets that sincere cling, and his hand comes up somewhat automatically to run his fingers through Jon's hair.

"I'm planning on sticking around," he says quietly. "For as long as you need me."

[epistemological]

He looks up again at that.

"You shouldn't-

"You don't have to do that, Tim. You don't- I don't want to hold you back from- from anything."

[statementfuckingends]

His chest heaves with the force of his sigh.

"Jon-" there's no annoyance there, just-- exasperation, and a soft kind of sadness. "It's not-- you're not holding me back, here, don't ever think that."

His hand stills, and he puts his mug down again. "I... I don't have anything back home, right now. That I want to stay for. Sasha's alive, yeah, but..."

He doesn't remember her. And he can't do that to himself. He refuses to. So he's quiet for a minute, mulling it over.

"...I don't have a life outside the Institute, you know?" He's not looking at Jon, just staring at a spot near the door. "That's not me being self-deprecating, I just... you three were the first meaningful- real connections I had since Danny died. Everyone else was research follow-up, or a one-night stand, or- just nothing. I didn't trust anyone. Then Not-Sasha happened, and I... couldn't."

He hums quietly. "I... mm. I trust people here, Jon. Genuinely. I won't be able to say that back home until the Fears are gone."

[epistemological]

He takes that in, he does, and he'll consider his words carefully. In the end, it's simplest just to say:

"Same. We'll- we'll figure it out. Hopefully with a minimum of mistakes but- eventually, we'll get there regardless."

[statementfuckingends]

"...yeah." And a bit of tension leaves his shoulders; he'd half expected Jon to fight him on that, despite himself. "So until then, I'm afraid you're stuck with me again. Shame, that," he adds, with an audible cheeky smirk.