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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]

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.

[epistemological]

"As if you aren't just as trapped," he says with a low chuckle. Now he'll reach over and start trying to drink his now-cool tea.

"I'm probably going to fall asleep on you as it is."

[statementfuckingends]

Tim nudges Jon's cup closer so he doesn't have to lean as far, before he picks his own up again.

"I wouldn't say I'm opposed to a nap, honestly," he says warmly. "God knows I've missed out on so much beauty sleep."

[epistemological]

"As if you need 'beauty sleep'," he says with a huff as he finishes the cold tea and puts aside the cup.

"I always sleep an ungodly amount while tolling."

[statementfuckingends]

"Someone whose only reliable method of being killed involved indirect brain damage, needs a load of sleep every time they die?" He huffs, tilting his head against Jon's in a half-hearted shrug. "No correlation whatsoever, if you ask me."

[epistemological]

"I didn't even have my powers at the time. Bloody inconvenient fluctuations." He nudges him slightly and makes a wordless sound of mock emotional exhaustion from Tim being 'tiresome'.

He breathes out and some of his fatigue, as well as the path of his thoughts, shows a moment later.as they loop around.

"I think you'll like him when you meet him. I'm- I am going to find him eventually."

[statementfuckingends]

Tim snickers silently, and wraps tighter around Jon's shoulders, keeping his head rested on him.

"Looking forward to it. I'll help you with that too, obviously."

[epistemological]

"I'll just have to get used to the flirting," he says fondly. Because he knows the both of them will. Possibly even more extravagantly to make him fussy.

It's a lovely thought.

"I've never looked ahead before. And... wanted what was there. Never... saw a future. Just... goals I had to accomplish. Things I hadn't done. It's... weird."

[statementfuckingends]

If Tim gets the chance to make Jon fuss for his own amusement, then there's something very right going on with the world.

"Welcome to a regular adulthood, I suppose," Tim hums wryly.

[epistemological]

"But I'm so much more used to being an emotionally crippled man child moving from crisis to crisis," he murmurs before letting out a short huff.

"Next, I'll have to give up avocado toast."

[statementfuckingends]

"Only if you plan on buying a house somewhere. And I think that might be getting ahead of ourselves."

[epistemological]

"I'm going to live in my... thing. Whatever it is I travel around in."

A pause before-

"I should figure that out."

[statementfuckingends]

"That one we can do," he says, lifting a hand to start running his fingers through Jon's hair again, "later. Future goals, in the good way. Something to look forward to."

[epistemological]

Jon might as well be a puppet with his strings cut, the way he just closes his eyes and droops against Tim.

"Speaking of... goals," and it's clear he's having trouble focusing but in a nice, dreamy sort of way. The rubbing helps his head. "How are things with you and, um, Daniel? My Daniel."

Yes, technically he's got a claim on both of them, but Tim ought to know what he means.

[statementfuckingends]

There's a faint huff from Tim as he smiles, feeling his own face warm at the last memory of Daniel from Mayfair.

"He left me a flower when I was in the Infirmary, before everything," he admits softly, and there's an indescribable warmth to his tone. "And all his notes on it, that he took all through the time on Flotilla. Never did get to thank him properly for it."

[epistemological]

"When you were in the-" that makes him pause and look up at Tim at that, his eyes focusing again as he ignores the nice things and of course set on the unpleasant.

"What were you doing in the infirmary? What happened?"

[statementfuckingends]

Jon you're going to give him whiplash. It certainly gets Tim to give him a baffled look.

"What d'you mean what-" and he frowns in open confusion. "Wait, do you honestly not know?"

[epistemological]

He tries to look cross, winces because his headache feels like he's been stabbed in the ear, but focuses again firmly.

"Tim, I spent the last few days of our voyage here dying every few hours. I didn't know which way was up, let alone anything else. So what am I missing?" And then, because he's annoyed he doesn't know, "And why aren't you just telling me?"

[statementfuckingends]

He pushes himself up a little so he can sit up a bit straighter, because this is suddenly not a cuddles conversation.

"Because I got killed, Jon." Might as well just come out with it. "Someone crept up on me in the spa and knocked me out. And I had enough people worrying about me when it happened a month ago."

But now he can turn it back on Jon, too: "Wait, you spent days dying?!"

[epistemological]

The announcement of Tim's murder gets a response, a look on his face that matches and accompanies the feeling on the air that would make the air crackle on a tape recorder. But he presses his lips together and settles himself because he's not angry at Tim. He's angry at someone else, and he needs to deal with this conversation before he wobbles his way out the door to hunt down the offending party.

So. The question.

He swallows.

"I'm a corpse without... what I am, Tim. I died the same as you did in that explosion. So with the ship's power fluctuating and my power fluctuating... any time my powers disappeared, I fell over. Scared the living hell out of Trevor while I was trying to apologize to him, in fact."

[statementfuckingends]

It says a lot about where Tim and Jon are at now, that Tim manages not to flinch when those powers suddenly crackle like the barometric drop before a storm. But he doesn't quite relax until Jon settles into explaining.

"...shit." He knew Jon died, but he hadn't quite realise just how thoroughly he meant it. It was easy to take for granted and ignore when Jon was still up and about.

[epistemological]

"Yes. 'Shit'," he agrees with a wry sort of expression, "now I've told mine, you tell yours: 'someone'? Are you telling me you don't know who did it?"