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Jon didn't really know why he was doing this.
Maybe he was trying to show Tim that he appreciated his concern, even if it was manifesting in one of the strangest displays of care he had ever seen such an emotion show itself.
After all, maybe it made sense that the man was nagging him about this, considering he never mentioned anything related to having a life outside of work (because he didn't actually have one, but Tim didn't have to know that).
It wasn't like he had anything really to compare it to - his time in university was a bit of a blur, all neatly packed away into boxes labelled 'memories that haunt you late at night' and firmly shoved into the darkest recesses of his mind, so he couldn't remember if any of his friends at the time had shown concern in similar ways.
Well, they hadn't had to, considering that he was dating Georgie at the time, but that was besides the point.
The point was that his colleague (co-worker? Friend? He wasn't sure what they were, but Tim seemed to think they were close enough to do things like this) had seen fit to set him up on a blind date, and Jon was trying very hard to trust that the man wasn't trying to make a fool out of him by setting this whole thing up so he could laugh at him about it tomorrow.
Because Tim wouldn't do that.
He was nice, in the same way a boisterous puppy was nice; loud and sometimes frustrating, but impossibly sincere with everything he did.
So, if he was setting him up on a blind date, it was because he genuinely wanted Jon to have a life that didn't just revolve around work and 'dodging sleep like the plague', as he had so aptly put it when questioned further on the matter.
How he could possibly discern what Jon looked for in a partner was something he hadn't elaborated on, and honestly he was too scared to ask about it - he would find out soon enough, anyway.
Or…well, he should, if his date actually showed up on time.
He checked his watch for the fourth time in two minutes, trying not to let his irritation show on his face (he had often been told by his grandmother that he wore his emotions clear as day, and he didn't want to give a bad first impression to his date if they actually did show up) as he did a sweep of the park he had been told to go to by Tim, who had coordinated this whole thing for the sake of 'the surprise!'
A lot of good that did him now, when he had no way to contact this individual to see whether they had decided to just bin off the whole thing and leave him standing there like a fool.
He had even bought flowers, which only cemented this pathetic image of a man stood up by someone he hadn't even met.
Like he was so distasteful that people didn't even have to meet with him to know that he wasn't worth their time.
At least it wasn't too cold, he supposed.
That would be the final nail in the coffin for him; a sad man, shivering and alone while he clutched flowers to his chest and looked around helplessly for someone that would never come and meet him.
No, it was warm, a nice summer's evening with only the slightest breeze - weather that was practically unheard of in Britain.
Perfect weather for a first date.
Even if he wasn't going to be going on a date, he could still commend his friend for his somehow impeccable planning skills; the idea that this had all been arranged by Tim, a man he had watched fold an important document into a paper plane to throw at him and then desperately try and smooth it out when Jon drily informed him that their supervisor was about to pass by, was both impressive and entirely in character for him.
He truly couldn't think of anything that made more sense to him than Tim being able to plan a perfect date and yet still get his homonyms mixed up.
After checking his watch yet again, he sighed deeply and decided that he was done with standing around like a fool waiting for a stranger - even if he wasn't being stood up, he didn't appreciate the insinuation that he should be willing to wait around for half an hour for someone he didn't know.
However, just as he shifted to turn towards the exit, his phone vibrated out of the blue.
He fished it out of his skirt (because of course his skirt had pockets, all good skirts had pockets) as he moved, raising his brow at the series of text messages from an unknown number.
???: Hey!! hope this is the right number- tim gave me it
???: Didnt tell me ur name though - said it wld 'ruin the surprise' or something
???: Just typical of him
???: Anyway im soso sorry that im late
???: My cats gone missing
Any bitter thoughts that had passed through his mind at being stood up flew out of the window at the idea of a cat-based emergency; there were few things that could get to him quite like a cat in any sort of danger.
Shuffling around the flowers to rest in the crook of his elbow so he could use both of his hands to respond, he hesitated for a moment - what if it was a lie?
An excuse so they didn't have to meet him?
But then his concern for the cat outweighed his suspicion; if it really was a lie, he was sure he could find out from Tim tomorrow.
You: It's alright, your cat matters more than a blind date.
Then he paused, chewing on his lip slightly as he typed out the next message, not wanting to be rude but not wanting to just leave this person in a stressful situation when he could offer assistance, but the next message came through before he could send it.
???: This is so stupid and really presumptuous of me but would u be able to help me find her maybe
???: Id ask my friends but i dont actually have any
???: Which is really sad to admit but also im a bit desperate
???: And also u kno tim so u have to be chill
You: I was about to offer.
???: Oh thank god thank you so much
???: Ill send u my address and we can figure it out when u get here
And then he found himself hurriedly walking down the street towards an address that, according to his phone, wasn't too far away from the park at all, considering what the hell he was doing.
He was, above all, someone who cared deeply about cats, and he was sure that anyone Tim was willing to set him up on a date with was safe enough to help find a missing fur baby (no he would not refer to them as that to anyone, but his mind was a safe place).
(On this topic, anyway.)
The streets he found himself in were quiet, jarring compared to the busy roads he had just been rushing down, and he didn't pass anyone else as he walked under the sickly yellow street lamps that lit up the otherwise dark night.
He hadn't even realised that the sun had fully set until this point, and the slightest bit of hesitation started to rise up in his chest as he considered the situation he found himself in.
Jonathan Sims wouldn't consider himself an overly reckless man, especially not when it came to things such as stranger danger, but he was objectively being a little…impulsive by going to help a person he had never before met, didn't even know the name of, under the impression that there was a cat in severe need of assistance.
His pace slowed as he considered this, paper wrapping of the flowers still tucked into his arms crinkling as he pulled his phone out of his pocket again, clicking off his conversation with this individual to instead open up his messages with Tim.
You: Does this mystery individual you've set me up with have a cat?
You: They've asked me to come to this address to help them find one.
It didn't hurt to ask, surely?
Of course, it would be unlikely for him to get a response on a Friday night - this was labelled as 'Fuck It Friday' by the man, and he spent it getting as drunk as possible in as many places as possible - and there was only so much he could drag his feet as a sudden sense of foreboding passed over him because he really was being rather stupid, wasn't he?
He hadn't seen anyone, hadn't even heard anything moving as he walked down the streets, and yet he kept on moving.
He told himself that it was because he had been through the panic of losing a cat before, when The Admiral decided to take a wander around the apartment building he had lived in with Georgie, but subconsciously it was more that he didn't think he could stop walking towards this address.
There was a tugging deep down in his chest, a string pulling him along, and he was helpless to do anything but answer it, even as he rationalised it consciously.
Eventually, he found himself standing in front of a door in this quiet little place, staring at the old wood and wondering why it looked so familiar to him.
There seemed to be some sort of painting displayed upon it, simplistic and yet interconnected in some way, but it was hard to tell with the paint peeling away in certain places, as though it had been used a lot.
Honestly, the fact that this individual managed to afford a house in Chelsea was somehow raising more red flags to him than anything else had in this situation, which said…something about his priorities, that was for certain.
Despite this, all he could think about was a sopping wet cat lost in this strange place, and his heart broke a little.
If he went missing, he had sent Tim the address he had been guided to, so he supposed that was…something.
Before he could contemplate it any further, he raised his hand and knocked thrice upon the old wood, still thinking more about the cat than he was about his own safety.
Just as he had done this, his phone vibrated rather aggressively and continuously and he looked down to see what messages he had received while something shifted around inside, creaking floorboards indicating something moving towards the door.
Timothy Stoker: NO???
Timothy Stoker: JON IDIDNT GIBE TEHIM UR NUMBR
Timothy Stoker: JON DONT GOTHRE
Timothy Stoker: IF U DIE BC OF TJIS IM GNNA BESO USPET
Timothy Stoker: OMG PLS DONT ACTULLY BE DEAD
He stared down at the messages, not quite comprehending what he was reading as the door slowly creaked open in front of him, and he looked up rather numbly to see who had answered the door.
Or, what had answered, to be more precise.
His phone started ringing, but it clattered to the floor as his hand went slack around it because-
Fuck.
There were eyes down at him, all focused down on him and gleaming maliciously as blood dripped down from pincers and thick, spindly legs hung down on either side of a huge, hairy frame, bulbous abdomen distended with what could only be its previous meals.
A strange sound came from it - a laugh, perhaps, or a question, or maybe he was just looking for any signs of communication so he could try and process what was happening after shoving down this particular childhood memory as far back as it could go in his mind and rationalising it all until he had almost managed to convince himself it was just a silly nightmare that had far too much of an effect on him.
Almost.
The vibrating on the floor stopped for only a moment before starting right back up again, but it sounded rather distant to Jon's ears as he stared emptily at the horror that he had somehow found himself in front of.
"Oh…" He murmured weakly, not really thinking about what he was saying as his brain yelled at him to run, or maybe to beg for forgiveness, or maybe just scream. "…This isn't Bournemouth.."
It was a silly thing to latch onto, and he was vaguely aware of that, but he hadn't seen 'A Guest For Mr. Spider' since he had abandoned it on the street in front of that fated house where a boy had just died.
So, logically, Mr. Spider should be in Bournemouth.
And yet, here it was, staring down at him expectantly as though waiting for him to offer something, just like all of its other victims in the storybook.
There was a loud crinkling sound that broke through his haze of fear, and a small burst desperate, hysterical laughter slipped past his lips as he realised that he still had the flowers he had bought for the date in a death grip, stems pressed tightly against his chest and petals brushing against his skin.
Mr Spider didn't eat fucking flowers.
That may have been his last coherent thought he had as those spindly arms were reaching out for him, and then he barely had a chance to gasp before he was being dragged in and the door slammed shut, leaving him in utter darkness with the monster from his childhood.
Everything was silent for a moment, all of his panic leaving him unable to so much as breathe as he crushed the flowers even closer to him.
Then something went taut around his arm and he was being tugged even further forwards like a puppet on a string, trying to brace himself for the pain that was surely about to occur.
Instead, things (he knew what they were, of course he did, but he couldn't willingly come to terms with that or he would break) started crawling up his legs and down his arms and sliding through his hair, beginning to neatly wrap him up in his own personal coffin.
In a moment of utter stupidity, he lashed out, finally dropping the flowers and-
Well, something crunched and the scream that had locked itself in his throat was ripped out of him, lost around the clacking chittering that sounded far too much like laughter.
~*~
Jon stumbled through the streets, not really able to discern where he was through the pounding headache that was occupying most of his thoughts, the rest of them filled up with questioning why everything hurt so much.
He was sure nothing had hurt even remotely as badly as it all did now when he stepped out of his flat that morning, and his hands were stained with some sort of liquid as he hobbled along, trying to find anything that looked familiar in the haze of confusion and distant panic that controlled his every movement.
The people he passed didn't really give him a second glance, following the unspoken rule that if you didn't know someone, they weren't your problem.
It was probably for the best, because he was certain he would be mortified about being seen like this if he could feel anything that wasn't a faint flicker of anxiety in the moment.
It was dark, he knew that, and there wasn't really any cars passing by, which implied that it was very late at night and…that was about all he could figure out.
There was a muffled sound behind him, but there were a lot of muffled sounds everywhere right now, so he was content to just ignore it because he had more important things to deal with that weren't related to what was going on behind him at all - he was pretty sure that there a cat he was supposed to be looking for, after all.
Then something was touching him and he reacted without thinking, turning with such violence that he actually went stumbling off to the side, only avoiding crashing to the floor by those same hands (hands, not thin legs with sharp bristling hairs that pulled and tore and hurt-) as he squinted up at a blurry face, trying to make out any discernible features.
It took a moment before he realised that this person was talking to him, brows furrowed in what he guessed was concern considering how much of a wreck he likely looked, all while his vision cleared up enough to make out a rather familiar looking face.
"--n- Jon? Hey, hey it's okay, it's me- it's Tim, yeah? You're going to be okay, it's going- it's going to be okay." His words were likely supposed to be comforting, but their effects were lessened by the fact that he sounded extremely panicked, very clearly on the verge of tears as he supported Jon's weight against his side.
Jon blinked up at him slowly, trying to find the words to explain the situation - Tim would help him find the cat, he liked cats too - but paused at the sight of blood smeared across the other man's arms and shirt, worry sparking in his chest.
"You're bleeding," he pointed out, the words falling from his lips in a sort of slurred garble that only half made sense even to his own ears, but Tim seemed to understand well enough to offer a bark of laughter that had him flinching at the suddenness of it all.
"No, Jon, you're bleeding. A lot. I don't even know where from! But it's fine. It's fine! There's- there's an ambulance on the way, and you're going to be alright. Should we sit down? I need to sit down, and I'm pretty sure you can't stand on your own. So. Yeah. We'll sit down on the pavement, and I'll message Sasha to tell her she can stop looking, and you just…don't bleed out. Are you listening? You're not going to bleed out and die right now, right?"
It was easy to let the man's anxious rambling wash over him like a comforting blanket, content to just let him continue speaking as he was eased down onto the floor beside him.
Maybe the cat would come for them if they stayed still - that was what The Admiral had done, waiting until Jon was hunched up on the floor in the midst of a panic attack until he came sauntering over and placed himself very neatly into his lap like he had been there the whole time.
So he looked down while Tim continued to talk, trying to make his skirt look appealing for a cat to sit down on (when had it gotten ripped? Why was it so stained?) before eventually giving up and just leaning into the other's side, letting his eyes slide shut.
Not for long, though, because then something was being pushed against his side, a choked cry of pain escaping him as he was jolted back into consciousness by the bastard he had thought was his friend, but was apparently out to make him feel so much worse than he already did. "-sorry, sorry- but like you are bleeding very much and I am trying to keep your blood in your body, because we agreed that you wouldn't be dying!"
He had agreed to no such thing, but when he told Tim that, it once again came out garbled and incoherent, which was enough to have the man's grasp on him tightening the slightest bit as he leaned in closer, obviously trying to get a good look at his face. "Fucking hell, please don't die, I really don't know what I'm going to do if you die. Who am I supposed to bully at work if you die? Sasha can see everything coming, and her retorts aren't half as good as yours. Don't tell her I said that though, because she'd kill me."
Jon laughed despite the situation, a delirious sort of laugh that shook his whole body, because Sasha really wouldn't appreciate her retorts being compared to his - she said that he was unparalleled in it, but he thought that hers were particularly creative.
"Oh yeah, go ahead, laugh at my fear. You are a cruel, cruel man, Jonathan Sims." Tim was trying to sound dramatically offended, a tone he was very familiar with, but he just sounded more relieved over the fact that Jon was still conscious. "Here's another reason you can't die - you're the only guy I've met who can drink me under the table. I don't even remember what happened the last time we went drinking!"
The idea that nobody else could outdrink Tim was even more amusing to him, although he couldn't really pick apart why right now.
"Also, we still need to get you a cat, remember? I said that I was going to get you one the second I figure out when your birthday is, AKA when Sasha figures it out because I am hopeless when it comes to guessing this stuff. Hey, what kind of cat do you want?….Jon? Hey, wait Jon, nonono don't close your eyes, please stay awake-"
The man's words started fading out, replaced by a high pitched ringing in his ears as he slumped further into him, the time it took to pull his eyelids open getting longer every time they closed even as Tim tried to shake him awake.
Something started flashing nearby, bright and painful and enough to have him squeezing his eyes tightly shut, no matter what his friend was doing beside him.
Everything went blissfully dark for a while after that.
~*~
When Jon next came to, it was to the sound of a consistent, irritating beeping that couldn't be his alarm, because it didn't stop when he blindly raised his hand to press at the clock on his bedside table - also, there wasn't a clock or a bedside table, and he couldn't really move his arm from where it laid at his side, all of which compounded the idea that something that wasn't quite right.
He finally cracked one of his eyes open, squinting blearily at the harsh light he was met with and trying to figure out exactly how he had ended up in a hospital.
There was a flurry of movement beside him, and he was being pushed back down into bed before he could even begin to sit up, which was…probably for the best, because everything in his body ached and screamed at him to never move again.
It hurt to breathe, goddamn it, how did he even consider that he could sit up in this state?
"Why do people always try and sit up when they figure out they're in hospital? Surely everyone's learned from the countless times it's happened in media that you don't sit up until you're told you can." Ah, he recognised that voice - what exactly was Sasha doing at his bedside?
Not that he wasn't pleased (and a little touched) to have her there, of course, it just didn't make sense for her to be sitting there because why would anyone be sitting at his bedside while he was in the hospital?
She continued on, unaware of his thought process. "Although, maybe it's an instinctual thing. It's not like you'd know either way, I'm like almost certain that you don't have a TV in your flat. I'm rambling because I'm scared that you're not going to remember who I am, by the way - you hit your head very hard and that can cause amnesia, you know."
"I know who you are," he replied, his voice coming out painfully croaky, but it was worth it to watch Sasha's shoulders slump in relief before she moved to pour him a cup of water from a jug that he hadn't even noticed on the table next to him, "and I do have a TV."
The last part was grumbled under his breath as he reached out with the hand not hooked up to something or other to take the cup that she was about to hand him, but then she eyed him up critically and fumbled for the remote hanging from his bed and pressed a button on it until he was sort-of sitting up, nodding to herself as she finally handed over the cup.
It was yet another sign of care that he didn't quite know what to do with, so he just pretended that it was completely normal and focused on taking slow sips of his water - surprisingly difficult when he realised just how dry his throat was. "What…what happened?"
He didn't really need to ask, not with the memories of his impromptu meeting with Mr. Spider scarred into his brain, but he knew that there wasn't really any point trying to explain it without sounding insane, so he had to avoid talking about it at all because he was utterly terrible at lying, and anyone who knew would him would be able to tell right away if he even bothered attempting to lie.
Sasha sighed softly, pulling a face as she sat back down in the chair that had evidently been dragged over from the wall, fingers tapping irregularly upon the metal of the arm rest in a likely subconscious display of nervousness. "We were hoping you'd know, honestly. You messaged Tim about a random address and then went completely silent, so he told me to call the police while went to the address you had sent him, and he found you stumbling around a few streets away absolutely drenched in your own blood, muttering something or other about a cat!"
Well, he could imagine how distressing that must have been for Tim, but he was certain that it would be much more distressing if he started rambling about a giant spider that either ate him or at least gave a pretty good attempt at it, so… "I'm afraid the last thing I remember clearly is standing in front of a door…"
"No real surprise there. Apparently you were really out of it when Tim found you." She replied, before fixing him with a very stern glare. "What the fuck were you thinking?! You didn't even wait for Tim to reply before you went gallivanting off to a random location! You almost died!"
While he could completely see Sasha's perspective on the situation, he abhorred the description of his (at the time) reasonable reaction to a perceived situation as 'gallivanting,' which he made very clear with a wrinkle of his nose. "In my defence, it seemed…semi-reasonable at the time. It's not like I give my number out to anyone, and the individual messaging me knew about both Tim and the date. Also…well…they said their cat was missing…"
He said the last part quietly, but it was obvious that she had heard it with how her expression changed from empathetic understanding to something…that looked vaguely similar to how she reacted when Tim did something she found annoying and funny all in one.
Exasperated fondness, perhaps.
It was strange, not an expression he was used to having turned upon him, and it left him a little off-kilter as she sighed out a, "you went to a completely unknown address because you thought there was a cat in danger?"
"…Amongst other things."
A huff of laughter escaped her, the remaining tension leaking out of her shoulders while he went back to quietly drinking his water, a comfortable silence settling over them for a few moments.
Of course, such things could never last, and it was soon broken by a clattering as the door was flung open, Tim striding into the room and carrying two quite-full plastic bag. "Listen, Sash, I couldn't find anything that would satiate your freakish desire for a cheese and onion pasty so-"
Whatever he had been about to say was cut off when he realised that Jon was awake, staring at him blankly for a second before abandoning the bags into a protesting Sasha's lap and practically skidding to the other side of the hospital bed. "Oh my god, Jon! You're not dead! Thank fuck - I was so scared that you were going to die and that it would be all my fault because I was too busy getting wasted to check my phone when you needed me to and-"
"Tim." Miraculously, just that alone was enough to shut him up, but it did leave Jon with a man looking at him like he was about to pass away at any moment. "I'm not dead. Evidently. There's no point wasting time on hypotheticals."
He wasn't…very good at comforting people but, in his defence, he still didn't really know what was going on, and he was in hospital, so he felt like he had a free pass to be a bit more blunt than he usually was.
Besides, it did seem to calm the man down somewhat, a relieved smile appearing on his face as he clasped Jon's hand within his own and squeezed lightly. "Yeah, yeah. I suppose I shouldn't be too worried if you're able to be so snarky after just waking up. How are you feeling? Have the doctors been yet? How long have you been awake?"
Jon allowed himself to be bombarded with questions for Tim's sake, but he did flash Sasha what he hoped was an expression that perfectly conveyed his appreciative but pained feelings around being interrogated while in this state.
Thankfully, she seemed to get the hint, obnoxiously clearing her throat to draw the man's attention back to her and replying for him that, "no, he hasn't seen a doctor. Why don't you go grab a nurse instead of clutching at his arm like he's about to fall apart?"
They both looked down at the same time, neither of them having noticed that Tim did indeed have Jon's arm trapped in a white-knuckled grasp, one that was swiftly released so that he could hurry off to grab someone as Sasha had suggested, leaving the other two alone to share a look of that same fond exasperation that everyone seemed to gain after enough time spent with him.
The days that followed were all a bit of a blur, a mixture of pain meds and general exhaustion making it hard to recall upon later inspection; tests, examinations, different scans and then a statement given to the police, serious talks about how long-lasting his injuries would be (apparently he had broken one of his hips, and walking around the streets with it had made it all the worse, to the point where the damage may be permanent, which had been…something to try and process).
Even as he tried to repress what had caused all of this, his nights were plagued with blood and screams and the sickening feeling of hundreds of little legs crawling over his flesh, all while he was broken down by the creature he had attempted to pretend had never existed, presumably to become its next meal.
He truly thought that he was safe from Mr. Spider without the Leitner that was connected to it, and the idea that he had somehow been lured in by it through his phone had him feeling like nothing was truly safe - something he hadn't had to deal with since the first encounter with the beast at eight years old, the thought that nobody would understand what he had been through, and he didn't want to be written off as a lunatic once again.
So, he just didn't talk about it, and tried to focus on anything else, not wanting to think about it - even as the 'why's and the 'how's and the 'what-if's haunted him every time he was alone.
Not that he was alone as often as he thought he would be, what with Tim and Sasha often in his room the second visiting hours opened, finding different ways to keep him entertained while breaking up the monotony that came with waiting for the health professionals to decide that he was well enough to leave.
It was undoubtedly strange to have people so very invested in making sure he was alright despite what he had previously seen to be a rather distant friendship, but it was also extremely heartwarming in a way that he couldn't really unpack for fear of what uncomfortable truths he'd have to come to terms with if he opened up that particular box.
It was on one of these visits that he was playing Uno with Sasha (he had been adamant that he had never seen the game before in his life, and yet completely decimated both of his friends in most rounds that they played) while they waited for Tim to get back from his snack run, and the man himself came barging into the room looking particularly delighted by something.
A sense of foreboding overtook Jon, and he narrowed his eyes at the other man when he realised that the delighted expression was turned onto him specifically, and that there was a gift bag held in his hands. "….What is that."
"Yeah, that doesn't look like snacks," Sasha huffed, reaching out to grab the much more normal plastic bag while the other man loomed over him almost threateningly as he held out the gift bag to him. "And I thought Jon said we weren't allowed to get him any gifts."
"I did say that." He didn't see the point of receiving gifts for getting himself put into hospital, and he had made that incredibly clear to the two of them when he realised that they were trying to plan to get him something.
"I didn't get you anything! Put down your pitchforks!" Tim dropped the bag into his lap when he realised that Jon wasn't going to take it willingly, sitting down beside Sasha and stealing the crisps she had just pulled out without even looking at her. "Martin got it for you." He said this like it was supposed to mean something, wiggling his brows suggestively and gesturing for him to look in the bag.
Jon elected to keep staring at him suspiciously for a few more moments before he finally looked down at the bag and tentatively pulled at the ribbon to open it up to reveal its contents. "Is that name supposed to mean anything to me?" He asked, blindly reaching in and bringing out…a book?
Multiple books, all well-loved with tabs sticking out from all different pages - a sticky note rested on top of the first book he had grabbed, reading 'these are some of my favourites! I'd love to hear your thoughts about them :)'.
Now, he didn't read books that didn't interest him, just as a rule, but being asked to read something someone obviously cared about with express purpose of giving his personal opinion was something he hadn't experienced since university, and he carefully placed all of the books beside his lap for later perusal as he took a more careful look into the bag.
"Uh, yes?? He was the one I set you up on the blind date with? He works in the library. Anyway, I told him about the whole situation because he thought that he had been stood up, and next day he's handing me this bag and asking me to give it to you!"
It was like a care package, filled with different things this Martin assumed he'd like with little notes explaining why - 'Tim said you liked weighted things and cats, so I hope this is alright :)' for the stuffed cat plushie, 'apparently you..actually like your job?? So what better for research than an encyclopaedia to keep you occupied?' for said encyclopaedia, even just a 'Tim mentioned that you these, I hope he wasn't lying!! :)' for a few boxes of chocolate that he had been particularly fond of when Sasha brought them into work.
It was so thoughtful; this Martin had, for some reason, listened to everything Tim had told him about Jon and had used all of that information to guide him into making possibly the most extensive care package he had ever been given.
For what was basically a stranger.
He didn't know what was showing on his face, but it was enough to have his two friends sharing some sort of look between them before Tim decided that he couldn't leave Jon alone and asked, "weeeelll? Do you like it?"
He cleared his throat slightly, trying to hide the warmth crawling up his face by angling his head away as though looking at the books he had been lent - there weren't any that he had read before, which was a nice surprise, and he didn't quite know what to do with it all. "It's very…thoughtful." He muttered, trying to figure out how he was supposed to react in this situation.
"Mhm," Tim replied, stretching out the sound as a Cheshire grin rose to his face and his head tilted, "so….would you say that if you had gone on a date with him, you'd be pleased?"
"Leave the poor man alone! He's probably experiencing more emotions than he knows what to do with right now." Sasha chimed in, practically the Tweedle Dee to Tim's Tweedle Dum. "Anyway, he totally owes Martin a date, considering that they didn't even go on one in the first place."
"That's not how dates work," he sighed out instead of voicing the fact that he would be rather amenable to seeing Martin once he recovered from his attack.