Work Text:
stok·er
/ˈstōkər/
noun
a person who tends the furnace on a steamship or steam locomotive.
The meaning of the word had been drilled into Tim’s head by the end of primary school. Particularly by teachers, but occasionally by those rather annoying teachers' pets who wanted to show off their extensive vocabulary - well, for an 8 year old. A person who tends to the furnace. He’d always thought it was stupid when he was a kid. He was stuck with a word for a last name, and it wasn’t even a cool word. It was a guy in charge of keeping the fire alive. Now, the word had never felt more fitting.
He was tired. Tired. That wasn’t the right word. He wasn’t in need of a good sleep. In fact, sleeping seemed much harder nowadays. He was fed up. Exhausted. A bone-deep exhaustion with it all that felt oppressing. He felt like the weight of it bore down on him, seeping through his pores and into his bloodstream. Part of his brain whispered to him every morning. ‘Give up,’ It’d tell him. ‘What’s the point anymore? It’s not worth it.’ Part of Tim agreed with it - of course he would, his thoughts were his own. But he couldn’t. Not after everything.
Suicidal wasn’t a word he’d use to decribe himself. Tim was long past the days of idealizing methods to end it all. Back when Danny died, it felt like his only option. What did he have left, after all? That wasn’t true, he’d had things left if he looked hard enough. A handful of people who would have mourned him. But it was the guilt that tempted him the most. The inability to intervene as his brother was tortured. The image permanently burned into his brain that resurfaced on particularly bad days. The feeling of intense nausea, the dry-heaving that made his whole body shake with weakness and horror. The empty grave with his brother’s name engraved onto it. The empty spot next door, where he’d imagined his own matching headstone. It was only when he forced himself to get over it did the thoughts settle. He considered it selfish to want to die after that. Run away from his problems, from that damned circus. Leave Danny’s death a mystery to the world, for him to never get justice. It didn’t take long after that for the grief and depression to morph into anger and resentment. Those feelings were easier. Those feelings didn’t earn you half-hearted sympathies, or people’s ‘thoughts and prayers’. They kept people away.
He joined the Magnus Institute soon after that. He owed it to Danny to get to the bottom of what he saw. There was no better place to learn about the supernatural. That was what it had to have been. Something ghastly, beyond this world. Inhumane. Maybe he could consider joining the institute the beginning of the end. Tim wasn’t convinced he hadn’t been doomed from the start. Researching was where he met Jon. Not Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the blah blah blah. Jonathan Sims, the introverted researcher that went out to lunch with Tim on occasions. Jon, his friend. Things had changed since then. Neither of them were the same person anymore. There wasn’t time to feel bad about it, not with everything happening.
Until now. Now, he had time. For the first time since Prentiss’s siege, he felt like he had time. He’d felt some bittersweet irony to it all. Here he was, a prisoner on death row, experiencing free time. Tomorrow, they’d stop it all. The Unknowing. And God - if there was such a thing anymore - as his witness, Tim was going to see things through. All he was missing was his final meal.
Of course, he hadn’t eaten. Blame it on the nerves, or the lack of flavor in the food of the shitty bed-and-breakfast they’d been at. He wasn’t hungry. The plate of food he’d claimed he'd eat in his own room sat off by the untouched television, having long gone cold. He was partially sure that Basira was the only one who had eaten out of the lot of them. Only partially - he didn’t stay for the over the table conversations.
Instead, he stared at the popcorn ceiling, with discolored water stains and a rickety old fan that made his head spin. The creaking of the fixture was the only thing that filled the silence in his room, other than the occasional creaking, or light pitter-patter from the mice you’d expect to hear in an establishment of this level. The night was silent. It wasn’t right. The calmness of it all, the lack of some big meeting or something. Anything. It was too casual. Too casual for stopping a world-ending event the next day. Too casual for what Tim was going to do. It was eating him alive. Why? Why was he here, thinking about it all, about how awful it was. How awful it was that he wasn’t doing anything about it. He was sitting here - laying here, more accurately - doing nothing about it. Knowing what was happening the next day, what would happen to him. He wasn’t subtle about it. He wasn’t planning to make it out of there. Make it out of the Unknowing. Why would he want to? That was all he had left. Avenge Danny’s death, fuck over the circus and everything associated with it. Then he was done, wasn’t he? Done with it all. No more need for Timothy Stoker. He might as well burn out with the flame that’s kept him going for so long. Fade into nothingness, and become the fleeting memory of a man who once was. A man who’s anger devoured him. It seemed like a poetic end, almost.
But now, as he lay there, surrounded by the deafening, oppressive silence, he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to become that fleeting memory, good ones long taken over by the man he was now. He was still ready to die the next day, that much had not changed. But he needed something to be right. He needed something to happen. Tim was a bright flame that burned hotter than the rest, and he couldn’t let himself fade away so easily.
——
He was unsure of how he found himself outside of Jon’s room. It was far too late for any reasonable person to consider being awake, but neither of them were reasonable. He could have stared at that door for hours, for all knew. Maybe it was seconds that seemed to drag on for ages. It felt too hard to say a word, too hard to lift his hand and knock. Perhaps it was a bad idea. It was never too late to suck it up. Go back to his room, and die with the regret of staying silent. It seemed much easier at this point. He’d barely turned his back to the door when it clicked open, with what he might’ve considered comical timing.
“…Tim?”
He froze in place, his shoulders tensed. His stomach swirled with the pressure. The weight of the unsaid words pressed to the front of his mind, and he could feel his hands form into fists unintentionally. Violence, anger. It was easier to resort to those, to push him away one last time. One final middle finger to it all, right?
“What’re you doing out here?” Tim questioned, with a cool sharpness to his tone. “Should be sleeping. Big day tomorrow, right?”
“There’s, uh..” Jon paused, considering the uncertain outcomes of the conversation ahead of him. “A mouse, in- in my room.”
“Mine too.” Tim returned, shoulders falling. He couldn’t keep it up forever. The hatred was exhausting, but it was necessary. But not right now. Just for now. A defeated chuckle escaped him, as he turned around to face the shorter man. “A bit of a shithole, isn’t it?”
“It.. it works. We’re just- It’s close enough to the museum, and makes for easier transport, and-“
“We need to talk.”
“What?”
The statement clearly took Jon off guard. It half took Tim off guard as well. He’d barely processed that the words had left his mouth until his boss’s own reaction, unsure of the sudden spout of honesty. Jon continued.
“L..Look, Tim- I know, I should have… I should have told you- about the- the circus, and the Unknowing.. all of it. I just-“
“Christ, Jon. Cut it out.” Tim cut him off, staring past the man. He couldn’t bring himself to look the other man in the eye. “Not.. Not about that. Fuck you, for all of that. But not about that.” Not yet, he’d say, if he was a braver man.
“Do you want to… come in?” Jon asked in return, testing the waters of Tim Stoker’s temperament.
“Might as well.” He answered, with no remaining tells as to how he was feeling. Apathetic, maybe. Tired. He stepped into Jon’s equally shitty rental room.
It was similar to Tim’s. A single, shitty overhead fan and light. Small bathroom with a falling apart sink. The bed that threatened to collapse with too much use. The dresser, holding a TV with the guide and remote tucked nicely underneath. A chair, off to the side, with a small coffee table. The only difference was the tape recorder on the nightstand, and manilla folders lightly decorating the room. He wasn’t sure what he ever expected. With no added urgency, Jon swiped a folder into his hands and cleared a spot on the bed for Tim to sit. Jon chose the chair, which Tim found comical. It accentuated the ‘Archivist’ in him.
Tim opted to not sit down, despite the gesture. He was restless, digging his fingers into the palms of his hands repeatedly. He wasn’t sure what to talk about. He said he wanted to talk, and had no further plans from that. Spilling his guts sounded like a terrible idea, and it was the last thing Tim ever wanted to do. Especially to Jon. There’s no easy way to tell your friend - no, not friend. Boss. Coworker, stalker, associate. Tim doesn’t think they can be considered friends anymore, no matter how much he longs to be the way they once were. There was no easy way to tell somebody you don’t expect to see tomorrow’s sunset.
Tim found himself at an impasse. He’d submitted himself to it, of course. They needed to talk. Tim wanted to talk to Jon. Maybe it was stupid, or selfish. But deep down, he hoped he and Jon could have one last conversation. Maybe clear things up, or just reminisce on how utterly horrible things have been. But the ever difficult Tim Stoker couldn’t bring himself to fully acknowledge that. Thinking about it made things worse. He crossed his arms, letting out a sigh of discontentment.
“Doing some.. midnight reading, then?” Tim all but scoffed, mildly gesturing around the room. It didn’t matter that it was far past midnight, or that he wasn’t doing anything better.
“Just.. clearing some things up. For- For tomorrow.” Jon returned, lacking conviction. It earned a bitter laugh out of the taller of the two, as Tim turned to face the Archivist. The resentment won him over.
“Yeah? That’s it?” He started, eyes narrowing. “Or is it that you can’t leave all of this bullshit alone for five minutes? How hard is it to blow something up? Unless you’ve got a statement by a damn demolitions expert, I don’t believe you.”
Jon let out a dejected sigh. He didn’t want to fight with Tim. Nobody did, not anymore. Tim just couldn’t help but keep the flame burning.
“…Why are you here, Tim?” Tim’s face fell the moment the words registered, no longer full of the fight he’d had moments before. Replacing it was a look of uncomfortable honesty.
“I wanted to talk to you one last time. Clear things up. See you on my own terms- God damn it, Jon!” He snapped, fists balled.
“No- No, Tim! I-I didn’t.. I didn’t mean to-“
“Yeah, well, you did. Happy?”
They fell into a tense silence, Tim’s rapid breathing gradually slowing as he bit his tongue. Held back all the names he could call Jon, all the insults he could sling - none of which he knew he’d really mean. He let himself fall onto the spot of the bed cleared for him, choosing to avoid meeting Jon’s gaze. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, but Tim certainly wasn’t willing to be the first one to talk. They could sit here for hours if it was necessary. Tim would not budge first.
“… You said, um. One last time.” Jon finally piped up, breaking the silence. It was now upgraded to an uncomfortable conversation.
“Good for you, boss. You can hear.”
“Tim, you aren’t.. You- You shouldn’t plan to..” He trailed off, neither of them willing to say it out loud.
“And what if I am? Are you going to stop me?” Tim scoffed, crossing his arms. He could feel Jon’s eyes on him, but he was fixed on the outlet across the room from him. He was unrelenting in his refusal to look back.
“Would you let me?”
Tim had always been a fan of exaggerating, everybody who knew him knew that fact. It was not an exaggeration to say that you could hear a pin drop in that room.
“What, are you going to tell Elias on me?” Tim asked, rising to his feet once more. His voice grew louder by the second, a mixture of anger and hurt. He was similar to an injured animal, lashing out one last time. “Have him- Have him pull me out of the mission at the last second, is that it?-“
“Tim..”
“Send me back to the archives and do it all yourself, without my interference. And I should just, what? Obey? Play along? Act as if this isn’t everything I’ve been working for for the past four years! But no, it doesn’t matter what Tim wants. All for the greater good, right?! Because we all just-“
“Tim!” Jon called, effectively stopping Tim’s rant in it’s tracks. His heart was racing, breathing as if he’d just run a marathon. He could feel the threat of tears with the lump in his throat and the way his eyes clouded at the edges, staring daggers back at the other. “Christ, Tim.. I- I’m not sending you back, and I am not telling Elias. I just- This doesn’t have to be a.. a suicide mission!”
“For you.” Tim replied, in a much quieter voice than earlier as he sat back down. Despite the change in tone, his words were still just as firm. “It doesn’t have to be a suicide mission for you.”
He could feel the oppressive weight of Jon’s eyes on him, silently asking for him to go on. For some reason, one Tim wished he could blame on magical Archivist powers or something, he obliged. And as such, continued.
“This. This whole.. mission. Stopping the Unknowing. It’s the only reason why I’m here, right now. Because I can’t leave knowing those bastards are still at it.” He informed, with a newly gained honesty. One he chose. “My will’s written, affairs in order. I’m not like you, Jon. I don’t- I don’t have any loose ends to tie up, some huge archival duty to complete. This is it.”
He didn’t know when Jon had moved. He hadn’t heard the man get up, or make any indication of what he was up to, really. Maybe he didn’t know because he’d shut his eyes, effectively cutting off the risk of tears. He just felt the tentative, uncertain presence of somebody sitting down next to him. Neither of them acknowledged the small, but appreciated gesture.
It was silent again, like before. But not uncomfortable. Not this time. It was an understanding silence. A silence that didn’t itch at Tim’s insides. A silence he didn’t want to end, not yet. But he was a flickering flame, and his wick was running short. Maybe, he thought, sitting with Jon, this didn’t have to be it. He would be damned before he ever said that out loud.
“It’s shit, isn’t it?“ Tim broke the silence, letting his back fall onto the bed. It was just as uncomfortable as his own.
“..What is?” Jon returned, remaining seated normally. Still, his eyes kept a careful gaze on the other.
“All of it.” He concluded, with a bitter chuckle. Jon let out a small noise of unhappy agreement. He’d begun to chew on the inner flesh of his lip, grounding himself on the nauseating taste of copper . “Ending like this.”
Tim listened as Jon took a deep breath, but didn’t break his gaze from the ceiling. Maybe he was finally getting tired of Tim’s pessimistic bullshit, good riddance. They could end the convo here, and Tim would pretend it never happened. But it did, which might have been worse. He didn’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. He didn’t want to do a lot of things he did anyways. He was suddenly snapped out of his own thoughts by the feeling of Jon’s hand on his own. It was hesitant at first, a ghost of a touch, before quickly being committed to. Tim could feel the rough scarring of Jon’s palm on his knuckles, his fingers much colder than Tim’s own. When was the last time Tim had experienced physical comfort? Far too long ago, that's when. Before Prentiss. Before that.. Not-Sasha. But now, Jon’s hand was on his own, providing a warmth from his freezing digits.
“It.. It doesn’t have to end like this, Tim.”
Tim sighed, curling his fingers under his own palm into an almost-fist. “Doesn’t it?”
“No, we just-“ Jon let out a sigh, struggling to put the thoughts into words. All he knew was that he wanted- needed, even- for the other to make it through the next day. Call him selfish, but he didn’t want to let Tim die. “I need you to survive. I need- I need you to talk to me. Don’t run off and.. and be a martyr just to be one! I’m here, Tim. I.. I wasn’t, before- but I am now.”
Tim angled his head to look back at Jon, face unreadable. His mind was full of the things he wanted to say, but never could. He missed Sasha, and the way she so effortlessly knew how to help Tim on a whim. He missed the way her hand had felt in his own, her comforting eyes. He hated how he missed the eyes that weren’t hers. He missed his brother, more than anything. How he wanted to talk to Danny one last time, he wanted to apologize and hug him and hear his laugh just one more time. He missed how things were years ago, back in research. He missed Jon. He missed Jon, although tangible and sitting next to him, hand on his own, he missed the man. He missed watching shitty telly with him, walking eachother back to their flats. He missed when he would wait for Jon to go home before he decided so they could ride the tube together. He missed what they were, and he longed for what they could have been. He hated how these emotions bubbled inside of him, overtaking the flame and the anger that burned inside of him like a flood.
Tim hates crying. He hates the feeling of the lump in his throat, like a distant stormcloud. A threat of what was to come, and he couldn’t change the outcome. He hates how he tries to stop it. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth as hard as he can - a trick Danny told him once, which had never worked, but he still tried every time. He could feel the way his eyes filled with tears, trying desperately to hold off, to stop the vulnerability in its tracks. Then, like a dam breaking, it all washed over him with overwhelming weight. He pulled his hand away, covering his face as the tears finally spilled from his eyes. He held back the sobs that tried to slip out, pushing himself back up into a sitting position. He felt so weak. So helpless, so vulnerable. Jon was the last person he’d ever say he’d want to cry in front of, and yet, he couldn’t see himself showing this side to anybody else. Tentatively, Jon placed a hand on Tim’s back. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. Tim swallowed his pride and looked back over at Jon. His Jon. It angered him, deep down. Everything did. How the man staring back at him was still the same man he cared about. He’d changed, they both had. But he was still Jon, even after everything.
Tim broke. With a sudden burst of impulse, he grabbed Jon, and pulled him into a tight hug. He clutched onto the other like his life depended on it, wanting it to matter. Needing it to matter. He needed just this one thing, this one small comfort. To know Jon was real, and here, and his. Tomorrow, he’d be dead. He deserved one final night of being okay.
Except, he wasn’t okay, was he? He hadn’t been okay in too long. That was evident by the bone-crunching grip he had on Jon, his face buried in the other’s shoulder as he pretended not to be crying. He wasn’t okay, even when Jon returned the hug, not as desperately as Tim, but still with immense fervor. Neither of them were okay, and it only made him feel worse. He wishes things could have been different. He wishes they could have been better, that Jon and him could have been taking on the Stranger together. He wishes he wasn’t here, with three of his coworkers, and yet still so utterly alone. He wishes for a lot of things at that moment. He doesn’t, however, wish to be anywhere else right then. It’s the one thing he’s okay with. Amongst all of the shit, all of the hell that he’s been through, he’s still in Jon’s arms, and Jon in his own. They were still allowed to have this, even for just a fleeting moment.
“Tim-“
“Don’t.” He interrupted. He didn’t want to deal with whatever was plaguing Jon’s mind, nor did he want to deal with what was on his own. It was easier to pretend, for now. “Just.. Don’t. Let us have this.”
“I’m sorry,” Jon responded, voice just barely a whisper. His grasp around Tim tightened. Tim simply nodded in return, unwilling to face the feelings behind it all. He didn’t want to think about the tears that had just begun to slow, about the emotions that caused it all. He didn’t want to think about their relationship, how broken it was, but not beyond repair. He didn’t want to face the fact that him sacrificing himself would mean that they could never be what Tim wished they had been. It was too much. Too much for one night, too much for this night. And so, he didn’t. He didn’t touch that part of his sorrows.
He wasn’t sure how long they held each other. It could have been hours, or maybe it was just minutes. Tim only let go when he was sure it wasn’t obvious just how ruined he had been not long ago. He took a deep breath, giving one final pat to Jon’s shoulder.
“Big day tomorrow, Boss. We should get some rest.” He decided, easier to fake the normalcy once again.
“Right. You’ll be.. heading back to yours, then?” Jon asked, a hint of disappointment on the edges of his voice.
“Are you kicking me out?”
“No.”
“Then I’ve got no reason to head back to mine.” Tim concluded, as if it was a simple fact. He gathered the couple files on the opposite side of the bed and discarded them onto the nightstand, laying on top of the covers.
“Oh. Alright.” He returned, glancing from the chair, and then back to the side that Tim hadn’t taken. Ultimately, he decided the one he wanted to choose, and carefully settled in next to the other.
They fell into silence, both of them staring up at the ceiling, too much happening for either of them to actually fall asleep. Jon was the one who broke it, ultimately.
“Tim?” He asked, his voice hushed.
“Still here.”
“Don’t.. Don’t die. Please.” He knew it was a lot to ask from Tim. Both of them were aware of his plans for the Unknowing, and how set he had been on sticking with it. Still, Jon wanted to try. “I can’t- I need you, Tim. I need you here.”
Tim sighed, taking his time to respond. There was so many things he could have said, could have not said. Too many things. Ultimately, he glanced over towards Jon, taking the other’s hand in his own firmly.
“I’ll try. No promises.”
——
Six months later, Jon had never been more thankful to see Tim’s face when he woke up.