Chapter Text
Jon had never, in his life, liked fluorescent lights. Maybe it had stemmed from years spent hunched over in garishly lit lecture halls, one of his uncountable issues with his vision, or an arbitrary, irrational dislike that Martin would try very hard not to snicker at him for when he voiced it. Whatever the reason, there was just something about them that gave him a headache, and it always irked him to be subjected to the frustrating, constant drone they filled a room with. His office in the Institute had two lamps, one on his desk and a floor lamp in the corner, all to avoid having to turn on the ceiling lights with their gleaming, bright light beating down on him as he worked.
When he woke up, gradually tugged into foggy awareness from a heavy haze that had weighed down on him, pressing him into the ground beneath him and stifling all his hurried thoughts, he found himself staring up into one. A white bar of light flooding his vision and sending a dull, distantly painful throb through his skull. He shut his eyes against it, pressing them closed, but the damage had been done. His head was pounding with the afterimage, the glow of it searing through his eyelids, and the dull hum had already filled his ears. He wished he had woken up face down.
Through the unpleasant sensation, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was wrong, something beyond the numb pulsing in his skull that mattered more than his current discomfort. His head felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton, thick and heavy and losing all his thoughts in the tangles of it, slow and impossible to think through. All that was able to filter through it was that there was a fluorescent light above him, he didn’t like it, and he… he needed something. Someone.
Someone with him, who would notice when his head was tangled and lagging behind, who would cover his eyes and shade the from the light with a warm, wide hand if he asked for it, hold him close enough that Jon would forget about the headache, whose even, comforting breaths would drown out the sound of the light.
Martin. He needed Martin.
He needed to call out to wherever he was, scrape together the presence of mind to know where he might have gone, clear his dry throat enough to ask if he was near, assure Jon they were both safe.
But he was too heavy to move, speak, or open his eyes again. He didn’t want to look around to check, as he knew the only thing he would see was the painful, angry glow of the lights. At least he knew one of the things he had forgotten, pinpointed what had felt so hollow about the situation, but… he was still missing something. There was something his mind had skipped over, and he knew he’d need to go retrace his steps and search for it. He just didn’t–
“Excuse me, sir, do you need help?”
Jon took a moment to process the words, suppressing his brief disappointment that it wasn’t Martin. The voice was somewhat feminine, clear and sharp— far from the way Jon knew his own reply would sound. He didn’t… recognise the voice at all, though, which meant it was a stranger. At least a stranger might still be able to help him. Not as much as Martin, but he still needed help, didn’t he?
“ Sir.”
“...Hmn?” Jon pressed his eyes shut tighter against anything throb of pain. It seemed to have seeped down from just a headache, catching on the cricks in his shoulders, drawn like a magnet to somewhere on his chest. What was it? He had already lost the stranger’s question, too busy fighting his disappointment and trying to figure out if he might have known, but forgotten the person close to him. But nobody he knew called him sir.
“You’re bleeding out.”
Jon blinked his eyes open, the words tugging at something, some memory that was newer, the other thing he was missing. Like how he had forgotten that he was meant to have Martin there, a big, empty gap in that carved a hole in his chest like a–
“Oh.”
Right. The knife. He blinked again, the white gleam floating with figures he did recognise, drawing back feelings he had momentarily let slip from his grasp. The overwhelming warmth of Martin’s wide arms around him, holding him close, secure but trembling as he blade sliced through his shirt, puncturing his skin, his flesh, his heart–
“S’the… knife still there?” Jon slurred, wishing the words didn’t feel like they were dripping from his lips like molasses, struggling to articulate even his thoughts, let alone speech.
“Not that I can see. Hold on, I’m going to call an ambulance.”
Jon heard the rustling of clothing, the stranger digging out a phone, and for a moment, he let her. That… was that right, he was fairly sure. He was bleeding out, after all. He had been… killed? Nearly killed. He wasn’t dead. And probably needed an ambulance, but the logic hitched and caught again, like fabric snagging on a nail.
“I… wait.”
There was a pause, and Jon blinked muzzily, still trying to circle back and process the implication of the knife being gone. No, that didn’t matter right this moment. The knife would still be gone in a few minutes, the woman was on the phone now. He wasn’t sure… an ambulance would help him, dizzy from blood loss as he felt. He didn’t know if he’d survive or not, at all, where Martin had gone, who the stranger was, but he could feel the pull of… some kind of sight– the Eye, but weaker, quieter. Some kind of connection he grasped at for information with what little energy he had remaining. It was seeping in slowly, drop by drop into his mind as blood wept from the stab wound in his chest just the same.
“Sorry?”
“...No… thanks.” Jon swallowed against his dry throat, clawing for another useful memory. “I’m alright. First aid kit is, um… s’fine.”
“Are you sure ?”
“Mm.”
Granted, Jon wasn’t entirely sure that a first aid kid could save him, but he was still an avatar in a world where the Eye still existed, he could sense it somewhere beyond the fluorescent light still beaming down on him. The blood seeping from his chest hadn’t stopped, but he must have been staring up at the ceiling for a good few minutes now, and– well. Martin, unlike most other things he did, had not been gentle with the knife. Not like the arm pulled around Jon’s shoulders to hold him, not like the kiss he had pressed to Jon’s lips just before, as if to bury it there. He had stabbed Jon deeply, directly through his heart.
Jon would not have been breathing, let alone conscious, if there hadn’t been something to interfere with that. Another entity nudging the wound closed, stringing back together muscle and sinew, keeping him tethered to life just a little bit longer. Jon knew just how far from human he had grown over the years, but there was very little that was not supernatural that could have kept him breathing this long.
He just needed to keep his gaze aligned with the Eye’s, cling to the strongest source until his heart was mended and could beat on its own.
“A-Also… where am I?” Jon croaked blindly to the light above him, trying to breathe around the wound. It was starting to burn, and he was growing more aware of the feeling of the skin around his chest stretching taut around the pulled-velcro gash of flesh that felt as if it were breathing on a tempo of its own. Even breathing felt like it was hurting more than it was helping— each burning breath seared cold along in the inside of his lungs in violent and ragged rhythm.
It was tearing at his focus, driving his attention away from what he knew might have been his only chance to get help, communicate with someone. From what he could judge from the slight distance of her voice, the woman had already begun to leave to get a first aid kit, but her words settled in his mind all the same.
“The Magnus Institute, London.”
They felt like they sank into place like missing jigsaw pieces, right where they belonged. It was difficult to imagine her saying anywhere else, not when the Institute was the only place Jon had the presence of mind to hope for. That, or maybe Scotland. But the Institute had people he knew, a layout he was familiar with, and more significantly, it was right under the watch of the Eye. If the place he woke up at all mattered to whether he lived or not, it would be here that’d keep him breathing.
“Now, I’m going to go find the first aid kit, don’t go anywhere.”
“Right,” Jon mumbled, fading footsteps filling his mind as he heard his brief company leave the room. He kept his eyes open, fighting through the pain and trying desperately to sift through what little he knew.
It felt as if it would be infinitely easier, simpler, to let himself slip away again, surrender his tattered state of mind to unconsciousness, especially now that he knew he’d probably be fine. He could still regenerate at least to some degree, and with the help of a bit of disinfectant and bandages, he would recover.
It would be better, though, if he could make use of the patience of the stranger and ask them more questions– preferably concerning if there had been any other people who had spontaneously appeared on the floor of the archives, and if they happened to be a large friendly man in a blue sweater and holding a massive bloodied knife.
He felt his eyelids sinking shut and forced them open again, reminding himself that there was a chance that Martin was here, looking for him, and he wouldn’t want to find Jon unconscious. Jon had already put him through… so much. The very least he could do was keep his eyes open, stay awake enough to smile at him when they found each other again. God, he hoped Martin was here.
“Are you still awake?”
Not Martin. The stranger. Jon gave a weak grunt of acknowledgement, trying to ignore the pain it sent blooming through his chest, scraping at his lungs.
“Oh, good, then I-” Her voice drifted closer, then abruptly fell quiet, and Jon did his best to tilt his head against the carpet, unfocused gaze trying to find where the stranger was in the room. He was met only with a vague, blur of colour– dark skin, a pastel green blouse, a sheen over her face that Jon could only assume was a pair of glasses. Not someone he recognised.
“Hm?”
The woman approached him, sinking to her knees at Jon’s side with a rustle of her skirt, fingers finding the hem of Jon’s shirt. He bit back a hiss of pain as she gently pulled it away from the wound, blood sticking and matting into the fibres.
“Looks like the bleeding is already slowing down. Must have been shallower than it looked.”
Jon exhaled, relieved at both the confirmation that the Eye was making an effort to repair the wound and the quick, easy way the stranger had accepted it. The click of an opened first aid kit rang through his mind and he nodded wearily in response, letting the stranger carefully dab at the wound with the disinfectant.
It stung, branches of pain firing out across his chest in sharp, piercing brambles, and he gasped shakily. He barely had the energy to lurch weakly against it as it was, and when the woman moved to clamp a firm hand over his shoulder, keeping him secure, he certainly didn’t have the strength to break out of the hold. She moved like she’d done it a thousand times before, not the slightest tremor in her movements.
Jon was exceedingly grateful for it, as he didn’t really know how he would have handled someone seeing his bleeding almost-corpse and panicking. He wasn’t the best at reassuring people in the first place, and he had a feeling that slowly turning ashen and dying wouldn’t do him any favours.
“If-” Jon winced at another bite of pain from the disinfectant, “-if anyone else sort of- ah- appears here, like I did… I’d like… to see them. Even if they’re- I don’t know, holding a- a knife. Or something. And have blood on them.”
He could practically feel the stare he received in return burying into him, the woman’s hands against his skin slowing for a moment. “The person who stabbed you might be here too?”
She leaned forward slightly with the question, and Jon could feel the intrigue simmering beneath the surface of her voice, a burning curiosity at the idea of learning the context, who was responsible for this bloodied wreck on the floor of the Institute.
“Should be,” Jon wheezed. “But we’re- we’re- close. He was- s-s’posed to stab me,” he got out through rough chokes around half-successful breaths. God, it hurt. “I’d like to s-see him too.”
“...Right,” the woman breathed, starting to unwrap a roll of bandages. “Once you’re stable, I’ll go looking for him. Ask around a bit.”
“…Thank you.”
Jon didn’t stop to question why she hadn’t been worried that Martin might try to stab her, as he was too grateful to her for ensuring that he wouldn’t die, as well as promising to go look for Martin once she was done. And not making a big fuss over it. That was all he needed– for both him and Martin to be alive, no sirens or panic necessary.
“And… one more thing,” Jon continued, trying to ignore how much it hurt to talk. He could feel himself on the verge of passing out again, just needing one more piece of information.
“Yes?”
“Does- does anyone named… Jonathan Sims work here?”
A brief pause, the woman’s hands stilling on the bandage. Then–
“Yes, for years– in fact, as of a few months ago, he’s our Head Archivist. Why, are you two related?”
Jon shut his eyes, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath. That was one mystery solved, at the very least.
“...Somewhat.”
He didn’t wait for the woman’s answer to let his head sink back down against the carpet with a dull thud, and not even the occasional spikes of pain from his chest piercing across his torso with every slight movement could keep him from the heavy, soft wave of unconsciousness that dragged him away.
“And so I told him that, of course, I said ‘you’re bleeding out,’ because he hadn’t seemed to realise it yet, and he asked me if–”
“Sorry, how exactly did you tell him?” Tim asked, pressing back the laughter in his voice for the sake of the very full mug of tea he was holding. “You’re making it sound like it was a kind of, ‘excuse me, pardon, you’re bleeding out on our very nice archive carpet and the janitors are sick of scrubbing out stains, could you perhaps take this outside’?”
“Of course not, I wasn’t rude about it,” Sasha scoffed, rolling her eyes, but there was an amusement lacing her tone that Tim didn’t miss. “I was being informative, just stating facts. He seemed a bit off-put for a moment, and then he asked me if the knife was still there.”
“The knife? ”
Sasha shrugged, jostling the first aid kit tucked under her arm. “Never got around to asking for more context. He did say he was ‘close’ with the person who stabbed him, and to invite them right in if they appeared and asked to see him.”
“Oh my god. I need to meet this man.”
“He’s an enigma, I’m telling you!” Sasha replied, dropping her voice slightly as the two of them turned into the hall toward document storage and evidently grew closer to where she had ended up dragging their visitor. “He’s got Jon’s face, wanted to talk to the man who shanked him, and is absolutely covered with scars.”
“I assure you, if you didn’t fill this thing right to the brim I would be walking much faster to see him,” Tim huffed, staring down at the reflection of the fluorescent lights rippling on the surface of the mug. “Martin never fills them this much.”
“It’s space efficient. Based on what he looked like when I last saw him, he really needs to keep his blood sugar up– I put plenty of honey in it. It might not taste the best, I think I oversteeped it as well, but I think he’s got bigger problems than what his tea tastes like.”
“I’m sure,” Tim snorted, glancing up from the mug of tea. “What are you betting on for who he is? Relative of Jon? Random statement giver cursed to look like him? My money’s on him from an alternate universe, where he’s much more interesting, and he’s here to tell our Jon that no, sweater vests do not count as fashion and he is, in fact, the most ridiculous man alive.”
Sasha stifled her laughter with a free hand over her mouth. “Fine, I bet that he’s Jon’s long lost twin, considering he asked about him by name, and he will absolutely not be expecting to find our resident straight-laced academic who is too busy recording to see him.”
“Deal.”
“Deal.”
“And if he’s dead when we walk in there?”
Sasha grimaced. “Then we both lose. Come on, do walk a bit faster.”
“Is he awake?” Tim whispered over Sasha’s shoulder at the door of the small, dimly lit storage room, used mainly for the fact that it had a couch. He could hear her hold her breath and did the same, listening for a third set– and, though faint, there was a quiet, rough inhale from the couch inside.
Sasha’s posture loosened and she stepped inside, fingers slipping off the door handle. “Alive, at least,” she said, her steps cautious and slow as she began to approach the figure propped up slightly against the arm of the couch. Tim shut the door behind him with his free hand, taking the opportunity to set the mug of tea down on the desk by the door.
It was hard to see any of the stranger’s features, from where he was standing, but immediately the shape was familiar, roughly the same height and build to pretty closely resemble their coworker. Only he was rail thin, even more so than Jon, which was saying quite a bit. Jon frequently forgot meals, survived most days off of tea and only occasionally joined the others for lunch or drinks. That was just how he had always been, but to see someone who looked so similar, only practically skeletal, sent a pang of concern through Tim’s chest.
He drew nearer, slowing to a stop beside Sasha as he stared down at the man’s face… and had to silence a gasp.
The stranger’s face was an absolute map of scars. Tim took a small step closer to stare at them, gaze tracing the sprays of light, freckle-like scars in bands over his face, the thin, inch-long marks around his eyes, and the long, pink stripe along his throat. His skin was ashen from blood loss, greying hair in loose, blood-matted strands over his face.
The stress lines and bags under the stranger’s eyes were ones that he shared with Jon, but they were deeper, more visible, shadows hanging from the marks on his face like cobwebs.
And beneath all of it, if Tim only focused on the shape of the features, it was unnervingly familiar. If he ignored the fact that the face was weathered, worn down, and littered with brutal scars, he looked almost exactly like Jon.
“...Bloody hell,” Tim breathed, taking a step back again. It was surreal, to be staring at a stranger who looked exactly like his boss, but who he couldn’t ever imagine himself confusing him with. Not when one of them was very uptight and unable to take himself seriously to the point of being endearing, and the other looked as if he’d been put in a washing machine full of rocks.
“Yep. I was cleaning up the wound, he has even more scars on his chest. At least five.”
“He’s like… Jon’s older brother, who’s had more hours of sleep to miss and even fewer self-preservation instincts,” Tim whispered, doing his best not to wake the stranger as Sasha set down the first aid kit on the low table by the couch.
He could see the bandages sticking out from beneath the man’s shirt, neatly wound over where he had apparently been stabbed. Right over his heart. And yet he was definitely alive, chest rising and falling beneath the coat Sasha had draped over him. It was bloodstained.
“Oh, come on,” she whispered back. “Maybe it was just bad luck.”
She moved to reach for his arm, finding his wrist and setting her thumb over his pulse, and the man didn’t stir- he looked wholly knocked out.
“... Really bad luck,” Tim conceded.
Sasha bit back a snicker, letting go of the man’s wrist and turning back to the first aid kit she had set down and digging out a bottle she had shoved onto the stack of gauze pads.
“His pulse is fine, ‘bit slow. Brought paracetamol for when he wakes up.”
“What, the medication for ‘short-term, minor pain’?” Tim repeated, squinting over her shoulder at the label on the bottle. “Sasha, he was stabbed.”
“Lightly. And I could probably get my hands on morphine if I tried hard enough, Tim, but I’m not trained in administering it. He’ll have to do with this for now.” Her head snapped up, the dim light glinting on her glasses as she suddenly moved to stare at the couch. The man had shifted slightly beneath his coat, brow furrowing weakly.
So much for him being entirely knocked out. Apparently the rattle of a plastic bottle was enough to wake him up again.
“Speak of the devil,” Sasha breathed. “Grab the tea.”
Tim walked back to the desk in the corner and carefully picked up the mug again, glad to find that it hadn’t cooled down much from when Sasha had made it. He bit his tongue, watching as Sasha took a tentative step toward the man.
“Sir?”
Sir? Tim mouthed at her, and she glanced over her shoulder at him.
What else do I call him?, she mouthed back.
Tim rolled his eyes.
“Mmph.”
One of the man’s eyes cracked open, but it was groggy, lingering vaguely on the ceiling above him for a moment as he shifted again. He lifted a trembling, uncoordinated hand from beneath his coat, tentatively moving to touch the bandages padding his chest. He winced slightly, eyelids flickering, then clumsily drew his hand back beneath his coat. His eyes shut.
Sasha cleared her throat. “I didn’t have any luck finding anyone else here, I’m sorry.”
There was a long, tense pause, and for a moment, Tim suddenly felt a pang of irrational concern for Sasha– it clearly was bad news to the man, considering how enthusiastic he had apparently been about meeting his attacker, but it wasn’t like he could do anything if he did get upset. Still, the silence was slightly unnerving.
Then, the man nodded weakly against the pillows Sasha had propped behind his head, and his frame seemed to shrink with acceptance, shoulders loosening.
“Alright,” the man breathed over cracked lips, eyes still closed. His voice was hoarse and low, weighed down with a level of exhaustion he rarely even heard from Jon– even though with that one word, there was an immediate similarity in their voices. The odd, probably faked accent was masked slightly by the rasp of his voice, but it was still audible.
Sasha glanced back at Tim, raising an eyebrow. See?
Then she looked back to the visitor, shoulders set back.
“There’s tea here for you as well, sir, and some painkillers.”
The man hummed, mumbling something that sounded vaguely affirmative. His eyes heavily opened again as he moved to prop himself up further, slender hands with discoloured nails fumbling to find the edge of the couch. Sasha’s hand twitched, clearly wanting to step forward and help him, but it didn’t take him too long. Considering he had been bleeding out just a few hours ago, any ability to sit up on his own was impressive.
Tim walked over to the couch, still carefully balancing the mug of tea, and the man blinked muzzily, like he had just realised there was someone else in the room.
“Just a warning, it’s about ninety percent honey, something about blood sugar. She’s the expert,” Tim walked up to him with a nod in Sasha’s direction, moving to hand it over to him.
His hands were slow, cautious as he took the mug, and as he lowered it into his lap Tim realised the man was staring at him. Not like he had been staring at the ceiling, foggily and barely there, no– his eyes had widened to reveal green irises much brighter than Jon’s, gaze fixed on Tim with the most… open, shocked expression he had ever seen.
Tim paused, another lighthearted, hopefully uplifting remark dying on his tongue. He suddenly felt pinned in place by the man’s eyes, which had flooded with something like- guilt? Sadness, relief, emotions Tim didn’t dare put a name to. The shock in his eyes hadn’t yet faded, hands wrapped around the mug of tea in his lap that he barely seemed to realise he had taken.
And then his expression softened, none of the tense disappointment from when Sasha had first spoken to him remaining. Some of the stress lines had faded from his face, even. His eyes crinkled gently at the corners as he stared at Tim with the deepest, most profound sadness he had ever seen. The ripples slowly died on the surface of the mug, held still, and the man spoke, quiet, gentle.
“...Tim.”
Tim didn’t know how to react, caught completely off-guard. Nobody in his life had ever looked at him like that before, not that he could remember, and that wasn’t even trying to process the fact that the stranger knew hisname. He felt oddly like he was meeting a relative at a family reunion who he supposedly met when he was five, and now felt obligated to greet enthusiastically, as if he at all remembered their face. It was like that– except he was not at all related to this man, and instead of being a stranger at some barbeque or reception, it was a bloodstained mess of skin and bone who had passed out on the floor of the archives.
He felt his gaze dart over to Sasha for some kind of help or further information, at least to convey that he had no idea who the man was, but she stared back at him with just as much confusion.
So he offered a quizzical tilt of his head, a slightly confused smile, and replied, “Yeah, hey, that’s me.”
He had no idea if the stranger would actually reply or just continue subjecting him to that horribly melancholic, distant smile, but thankfully, Sasha cut in for him.
“You know him?” she pressed, stepping forward with intense interest.
The man looked over to her, silently searching her face for a moment, then understanding settled over his expression. “A- and you’re… Sasha, aren’t you?”
He was still speaking quietly, hoarsely, but with a bloom of hope in his voice. The lack of certainty served to disarm Tim slightly, as it was made clearer that they were of no obligation to act like they had met him before. Still– he wouldn’t know their names as a result of normal grogginess, delirious from pain.
Tim leaned an elbow on Sasha’s shoulder, grinning and looking over at her. “Yep, this is our Sasha. What, did someone give you a description of us? Tell you to look out for the handsome one in the Hawaiian shirt and ask for the sharpest archival assistant around?”
Sasha nudged him with her elbow with an exasperated scoff, the intense look dropping from her face for a moment in favour of a fond, poorly hidden smile.
Tim looked back at the stranger for an answer, hopefully a confirmation that someone else had referred them to him, that he didn’t just know them by name for another, more off-putting reason. But he didn’t say anything. He was still staring at them, and was smiling so, so sadly.
He quickly bit back the expression and dug the heel of his hand into his eye, exhaling a tired half-laugh. “No- no, I just didn’t recognise…” he shook his head. “It’s alright. Thank you for the tea.”
Tim could only look back at Sasha with some blend of amazement and complete disbelief, still getting over the man’s resemblance to the archivist sitting in his office. It was alien hearing the familiar voice sounding so sincere, genuinely grateful as he lifted Sasha’s too-sweet, oversteeped tea to his lips, not seeming to have an issue with the taste at all.
Tim had to actively contain all of his questions, who had stabbed him, why he stared at a cup of tea like he had been stranded in the desert for weeks, why he looked so much like Jon, how the hell he had gotten there– and could tell that Sasha definitely was doing the same. She pressed her lips together as she handed him the bottle of painkillers, straightening her skirt before sitting down on the low table in front of him.
“I did try to tell Jon to come see you, since you asked for him earlier, but he’s recording something at the moment and didn’t want to be interrupted. I’ll talk to him later.”
The man hummed into his tea, lowering it only to swallow a few of the painkillers, and a burn scar wrapping the whole underside of his right hand was now visible, tendrils of warped skin reaching over to the back of his hand.
Tim caught Sasha’s knee bouncing slightly, curiosity chipping at her patience as the man quietly finished the drink Tim had brought him. He looked– so tired, no sense of just how strange and almost- exciting it was for him to have woken up in a place like this. He didn’t even seem particularly upset that he had wound up there, a bit stunned by it at most. Like it was just something he was going to have to deal with, in very sharp contrast to the man he so closely resembled. Jon would never hesitate to protest against something that bothered him, always making his distaste known.
A moment later, Sasha’s patience apparently dwindled, breaking the silence the stranger didn’t look to feel any obligation to fill.
“Could you give us your name?” she asked. “And, well, I was calling you sir earlier before, but I’m not sure if that’s…”
She trailed off as the man nodded wearily, setting his tea down on the armrest beside him.
“Right, yes, I suppose I should… address that.” He took a deep breath, the inhale still catching on the damage to his chest. He sat up slightly, the clean bandages straining over mottled, ashy skin. “Jonathan Sims. He/him will do.”
“ Told you! He- Sorry, what?”
Tim lowered the hand he had pointed accusingly at the man, thoughts stumbling to an abrupt halt. Another smile was twitching on the man’s lips as he stared down at the scarred hands he had clasped together in his lap. As if he hadn’t just admitted to having the exact same name as their boss, someone who was, at that moment, in the same building. They both stared at him, waiting for some kind of confirmation, a ‘but I go by Jonathan, I’m Jon’s brother’ or something or the kind that would let it make sense– and after a moment, he shifted, prying his hands apart to twist the ring on his middle finger.
“I’ve… yet to figure out where a-and when, exactly, I am, I’ve yet to fully recover from this,” he reached up to touch his bloodied shirt, over his heart, “–but yes. That’s me. From what I… can only guess is a different time and place.”
Tim stared over at Sasha in disbelief and caught the gleam of pure, stunned awe burning in her eyes, taking in every detail the man– Jonathan? –had to offer. He swallowed, looking back up at them with eyes more piercing than that of the archivist in his office, frowning gently.
“Speaking of which, do you think I could ask you a few questions? Just to- to get a sense of where I ended up, if everything’s… the same.”
Sasha glanced over at Tim for confirmation, who fought to move past the fact that they had the same name – and took a moment to consider it. He didn’t seem to know too much more than they did, didn’t seem to have any malicious intentions, or really any intentions at all. From what Tim could figure out, he had just appeared there, and would carry on based on what they told them. And– he had smiled at them, seemed glad to see them, and didn’t at all look to be in a state to be doing anyone harm.
Tim shrugged, scratching the side of his face. “Sure, I mean, don’t see the harm.”
The man nodded, muttering something under his breath thoughtfully as his gaze drifted to scan the shelves of documents on the walls. “...Right. For confirmation, I’m- I’m in the Magnus Institute, London, in document storage, correct?”
Sasha nodded slowly, almost suspiciously, and Tim could only guess that she hadn’t told him what room she would be bringing him to before he passed out.
“Is the head of the Institute Elias Bouchard?”
“Yeah, but he’s in his office all day,” Tim answered. “Good luck getting ahold of him,”
The man’s jaw tightened slightly, and the nod that followed was curt and stiff. He spoke again before Tim could ask what terrible, bitter grudge he held against some boring, slightly obnoxious, but fairly harmless bureaucrat, but Tim figured he’d be able to dig the answer out of him later– he didn’t seem like he had anywhere else to go to besides the Institute, and had been fairly open to questioning so far.
“Your boss is currently Jonathan Sims, head archivist, looks and sounds a lot like me, more of a prick?” he asked, and Tim was unable to keep himself from sputtering out a laugh.
“I- yeah, fairly accurate, he’s not that bad, just sometimes a bit–”
“Dense?”
“...Yeah, that’s- that’s the word for it.”
“And you know that because you’re him? ” Sasha cut in, leaning forward. “You, Jonathan Sims, have been here before, in– another timeline, or dimension, or universe of some definition, and experienced that independently?”
The new Jon rubbed his eyes, then shrugged. “Yes, something like that.”
There was a pause, both of them expectantly waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. He just let his hand fall back into his lap, foggy gaze sitting on the carpet in front of him for a few long, hazy seconds, like he hadn’t fully woken up yet. Then he blinked heavily, shoulders setting back.
“...Sorry, I’m… very tired, er- next question–” he tapped his finger against his knee thoughtfully, brow furrowing gently at the floor before he lifted his head again, the same sharp, permeating gaze fixing on–
“Tim.”
“Yep?”
“You…” He trailed off, still frowning slightly, as if he wasn’t sure how to phrase his next thought, gaze instead idly mapping Tim’s face. Tim slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, feeling only a bit uncomfortable to be stared at so intensely by someone who he had never met, but apparently knew him closely.
The man began to speak again, but shut his mouth, starting over. “...For a reason I should not know about,” he started carefully, “...you are afraid of the circus. Correct?”
Tim’s throat suddenly tightened.
In a split second, he became overly aware of Sasha’s gaze, too, lifting to him, and despite his effort to keep his inhale steady, his breath caught in his chest. That was, for sure, not something anybody should have known about. The man had said it tentatively, each word deliberate and cautious, with every implication that he knew more details, things he’d only ever told Sasha.
Even then, the conversations he’d had with her about Danny were either brief, tense, or held while he was four drinks in. Most of the time he avoided the subject like the plague, and while he couldn't say he regretted what he had told her, he was never keen to add any more detail. He didn’t often trust himself to talk about it, but he trusted her to know.
The man sitting on the couch in front of him was not someone he trusted to know. The man in his office who the stranger was a warped reflection of was also not someone he trusted to know, even though he considered him a friend. And yet the eyes boring into him in the dim light of document storage held understanding, a glint of sympathy, and Tim suddenly felt violated, in a way he hadn’t thought possible. Like some dark corner of his mind had been abruptly torn open, thick with cobwebs and scampering, clawed creatures darting out of sight.
He felt cold, and realised that the blood had probably drained from his face, feeling too trapped, caught, to even begin thinking of a response.
Sasha’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, words softer than they had been a moment ago, but pointed. “I think that’s all you need to hear. Next question, please, Mr. Sims.”
The man blinked, the intense stare dying out on his face, and he cleared his throat apologetically. “Right- I- I would ask for the date, but it’s been a while since time has meant much to me. Er- Sasha, have you ever encountered something on your way to work?”
Sasha looked at him quizzically, thankfully having swiftly moved on from the previous question, giving Tim a moment to breathe. “What sort of something?” she frowned, folding her arms.
“As in, a- a monster. Someone who looked or acted in ways you couldn’t explain, who you ran into a coffee shop, or something like that?”
“...No,” Sasha replied slowly. “Do I? In your timeline?”
“Yes, but it-” he shifted the coat sitting on his lap, grimacing. “Isn’t all that pleasant for you. Easy to prevent, really, just don’t go talking to any monsters in coffee shops. Don’t take their deals, everything he could tell you I can give in twice as much detail,” he promised, as if ‘avoid monsters,’ was something he needed to make a bargain over.
Still, it wasn’t completely impossible to imagine Sasha meeting some entity on her way to work and engaging with it intentionally, then getting hurt because of it. It sounded like the kind of thing they’d joke over, Sasha’s occasional tendency to act like a horror movie protagonist in the face of something possibly supernatural– not something that would actually ever hurt her.
Jon didn’t wait for Sasha’s response before starting to get to his feet, moving to tuck his coat beneath his arm. He swayed slightly as he did so, face somehow losing even more colour as he winced and shut his eyes. His clothes hung off him heavily, like they were dragging him down, and it only served to make him look more worn-down, spectrelike and tattered in frame. He looked like a man who should not have been standing.
“I’ll get more information from… well, your Jon,” he said hoarsely. “Let him know I’m here, hopefully actually convince him of some of what happened.” He glanced between them, a glimmer of that soft, sad hope returning to his eyes. “Thank you for your help, both of you.”
“Oh- yeah, no problem-” Tim replied, trying to keep his voice even. His throat still felt dry. “Did- did you want anything to eat? You still don’t look… great.”
The different Jon only shook his head, a stray strand of grey hair slipping in front of his face. “No, thanks, I don’t eat anymore. But I appreciate the offer.”
Then, without elaborating another word further, the man turned around and picked up the empty mug of tea he had set on the armrest and walked past them, opening the door. He stopped in the doorway for a moment to brace his hand against the frame, drawing in a slow, rattling breath, then stepped into the hall and the door clicked shut behind him.
Tim found himself staring blankly at the door in the silence of the room, still trying to get his thoughts to filter through the shock of the entire conversation. It felt like some exceedingly strange dream he would slowly drift back into awareness from, sticking in his mind for a few hours as he walked to the tube, left as only a weird, distorted memory he could laugh with Sasha over and forget about. Relegated to idle chatter and jokes, the occasional bringing up of “that one dream Tim had once where Jon from the future showed up covered in blood and warned Sasha against monsters in coffee shops, called his past self a prick, and left.”
It had all the classic dream continuity errors, how damn quickly he had healed from something as brutal as a stab wound, how he hadn’t immediately recognized Sasha when he woke up, as well as all the vague unanswered questions– why he had spoken Elias’ name like it stung on his tongue to say, his admission to not eating food in the same tone someone might explain they were vegetarian.
“...There is no way he’s real.”
“An alternate timeline,” Sasha breathed incredulously, clearly having lost her thoughts down a slightly different route as Tim. “That’s incredible, he didn’t even seem like he had a reason to lie about it, and he– he knows our names, and our futures. That’s…” she trailed off in awe, blinking and turning her head back to Tim. “It’s agreed that we’ll be talking to him over lunch, right? I am not passing up the opportunity to ask him more about where he came from.”
“Oh, absolutely. Not fair in the slightest that he shows up in our Institute and expects us to just let him ask all the questions,” Tim scoffed, moving to sit down on the table next to her, feeling a grin creep back onto his face. “And I win our bet, don’t I? Also Jon, from another dimension, lots more interesting, and blatantly called his past self ‘a bit of a prick’?” Tim listed, counting them off on his fingers. “Sounds like everything I predicted.”
Sasha rolled her eyes. “We didn’t bet anything.”
“Come on, it’s not about the money, Sash. It’s about the principle.”
“...Fine. But only after we confirm his thoughts on sweater vests.”