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There’s no sugarcoating it: Jon is prone to motion sickness. Embarrassing as that may be, he’s come to accept it as just another bullet point in a long list of unfortunate aspects of his life.
He’s learned to cope with it well enough over the years. He avoids boats, long car rides, aeroplanes— and when circumstances necessitate any of these types of travel, he’s usually able to keep his symptoms manageable as long as he takes anti-nausea medication preemptively.
He is very much aware of his predisposition to motion sickness and is almost always able to avoid or at least mitigate situations that might trigger it. He’s learned his lesson on several memorable occasions, and he’s certainly not keen on revisiting any of those experiences.
That being said, Jon does not get motion sickness on the tube.
He takes the tube to and from work every day and he’s never once suffered anything more than mild discomfort from the motion of the carriage. He’s not exactly sure why the tube doesn’t affect him the way other vehicles tend to— possibly due to the fact that it’s a fairly short trip, and he’s easily able to make sure he’s facing the same direction the train is traveling— but the fact remains that he’s never had any issues with motion sickness on the tube.
Until today, apparently.
Jon isn’t sure why he agrees to go along when Tim asks if he’d like to accompany him to Hackney to speak with Lee Kipple in hopes of confirming some of the particulars mentioned by Jennifer Ling in statement 0131103.
Perhaps it’s because it’s a Friday afternoon when Tim brings the matter up, and Jon has finally managed to finish organizing and digitizing the entire box of statements that Elias had informed him at the beginning of the week were to be considered priority.
Perhaps it’s the fact that Jon is slightly wary of Tim now and would like the chance to confirm that he’s actually doing follow-up and not something more nefarious. They’re going to be in public the whole trip over, so it’s not as if Tim will be any danger to Jon even if he does have any… latent ill intentions. (Which he doesn’t; Jon’s sure he doesn’t).
Or maybe its the fact that a small part of Jon, buried deep beneath layers of imposter syndrome and false professionalism, misses the trips he and Tim used to take for statement follow-ups back in Research. They had been friends then. Things had been so different.
Jon tries to remember a time when there wasn’t a heavy cloud of dread hanging over him, fear weighing him down with every step like leaden shackles. Maybe it would be nice to be able to pretend, just for an hour or two, that things were okay. That things were normal.
Whatever the reason, Jon agrees to go with Tim. And a little over an hour later, they’re standing together on the platform waiting for the tube to arrive.
Standing for longer than a few minutes puts an uncomfortable amount of pressure on Jon’s injured leg, and he finds himself gritting his teeth a bit and shifting the majority of his weight to his good side. He’d taken some of his prescribed painkillers before leaving the office today. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually taken them since his injury, but he had figured that since they’d no doubt be doing some amount of walking this afternoon, he’d better be prepared.
He wonders how long it’ll take for them to kick in. Hopefully by the time they’re off the tube he’ll be granted enough relief to make walking to their destination seem somewhat less daunting.
He’s stirred from his thoughts by the thundering of the train as it pulls into the station.
Jon counts himself lucky that there several empty seats in the carriage. He and Tim sit side by side at the end of a row.
The silence that settles over them is companionable, or would have been if Tim hadn’t been intent upon immediately breaking it.
Tim is a talker. Jon is generally okay with this, as long as it’s not interfering with his ability to get work done. Right now, on the tube, it’s not as if either of them have anything else they should be doing.
Still, Jon feels uneasy. Things have been strained between he and Tim ever since Prentiss. Jon has tried not to be obvious in his newfound distrust of his assistants, but he thinks it’s likely Tim has picked up on it anyway. He’s perceptive, and he’s known Jon for a long time. He’s almost definitely noticed the changes in his behavior.
He hasn’t mentioned anything, though, and Jon’s glad of that. He’s not sure what he would say if Tim were to bring it up. ‘Nothing personal, it’s just that I can’t rule you out as a possible suspect in Gertrude’s murder and I’m somewhat concerned that my life might be at risk when I’m in your presence?’ Probably not. Jon just hopes Tim won’t broach the subject.
And he doesn’t, not exactly. Instead, he begins, “So.” A pause. “How have you been doing since…” Tim makes a worm-like wiggling motion with his finger. “You know?”
Jon tries not to cringe. He doesn’t really want to talk about this.
“Alright,” he answers shortly. “You?”
“Yeah, I’ve been okay,” Tim shrugs. “It’s been… weird, I guess. Haven’t been having as many worm-themed nightmares in the last few weeks though. That’s gotta be a good sign, right?”
Jon shudders involuntarily at the direct mention of worms. He’s had plenty of his own nightmares since the attack.
“Yes, I’m sure it is,” he agrees, trying to sound empathetic rather than uncomfortable. “Things have been… strange, I suppose, since. Different.”
Tim nods, looking thoughtful.
“See it’s weird, ‘cause when I’m outside the Institute, or in any other part of it than the Archives really, it feels like the whole thing was just— a really vivid dream or something. But when I’m down in the Archives, it feels more… real. I mean, I guess that’s probably because most of the worm stuff happened in the Archives, but… I don’t know. I know they’re gone and everything, and Prentiss is dead, it’s just— there’s something about the Archives now. It feels different than before. You know what I mean?”
Jon does know what he means. He feels constantly on edge whenever he’s in the Archives nowadays, even in the relative safety of his own office. Despite the fact that there’s no obvious threat against them, there’s a strong undercurrent of dread that seems to flow through the basement rooms of the Institute.
“Mm, yes. I suppose I do,” Jon says.
His eyes fall to the patterned fabric of his seat. It’s a dark blue, covered with little squiggles of pink and grey. The shapes remind Jon unpleasantly of worms. He looks away.
“I don’t think there’s much to do but try to carry out our duties as normal,” Jon says finally, absently spinning the ring on his center finger. “As we get through more of the mess that purports to be a filing system, hopefully we’ll glean a bit more useful information on…” He pauses, considering his wording. “On things like Prentiss— if there are any other such things, that is.”
Tim hums in discontented agreement. “You’re right, I guess. Just wish the atmosphere wasn’t so tense now, you know? It’s like everyone’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Christ, Jon hopes there isn’t another shoe— filled with worms or something even worse.
“Yes, well,” Jon sighs, unsure how to respond.
Tim is right, of course. The tension that haunts the Archives now is nearly palpable. Jon just doesn’t know what to do about it. And frankly, creating a more positive work environment isn’t particularly high on his list of priorities right now.
“I suppose we’ll have to take comfort in Martin’s continued insistence on bringing everyone tea three times a day. At the very least, that hasn’t changed. Not that I’d mind if he started using some of the time he dedicates to making tea on getting actual work done,” Jon adds under his breath.
“Aw, come on, boss, you’re too hard on him.” Tim elbows Jon lightly. “He’s just trying to be nice. Besides, you like his tea. In fact, if I’m remembering correctly, didn’t you once refer to it as ‘surprisingly palatable?’ High praise that, coming from you.”
Jon elbows him back.
The carriage rumbles through several more stops as Jon and Tim converse.
After they drop the subject of Prentiss, the conversation comes easier. They discuss whether the Hawaiian shirt Tim’s wearing today technically violates the Institute dress code (probably), whether Elias’ hair color is natural or he dyes it to look more distinguished (Tim says he definitely dyes it, Jon isn’t convinced), and whether it’s a good idea to take someone kayaking on a first date (probably not, unless they’ve specifically expressed an interest in kayaking).
For a while, Jon can almost forget about the lurking dangers that surround them, and imagine that they’re back in Research and everything is fine. It’s nice, for a while. Distracting.
Maybe that’s why Jon doesn’t notice immediately when he begins to feel sick.
Maybe it’s due to the fact that since the Prentiss incident, he’s been existing in a state of constant low-level anxious nausea. Or maybe it’s because he’s just never been great at focusing on and interpreting his body’s signals.
Whatever the reason, it’s not until the train bounces unpleasantly over an uneven section of track that Jon becomes aware of the thick, slimy sensation of queasiness that has settled over him sometime in the past ten minutes.
Jon is almost able to dismiss it as his normal brand of stress-related nausea until the carriage judders again and his stomach swoops suddenly, causing pinpricks of cold sweat to begin to break across his brow.
No.
Indignation floods Jon nearly as strongly as the queasiness had a moment ago.
He doesn’t get motion sickness on the tube. He doesn’t. He never has.
Jon sets his jaw and crosses his arms, gaze focused firmly on the wall opposite him.
He’s certainly not going to start today.
For a while, willpower seems to win out.
Jon’s a bit uncomfortable, sure, but as long as he stays as still as possible and doesn’t let himself think about it, it’s fine. He’s fine.
He tries closing his eyes at one point, but quickly abandons that idea when it makes the disorientation worse.
Instead, he focuses on keeping his breathing level, his mind blank, and his body still.
And it’s working. It’s working. It’s working right up until Tim prods his shoulder and startles him out of his state of deliberate calm.
“Hey boss, you doing okay?” Tim frowns at him from the adjacent seat. “You got all quiet all of a sudden. And you’re looking a bit… off.”
“Fine,” Jon reassures, clipped. “I’m fine.”
There’s concern clearly written across Tim’s face as he regards him, and for a wild moment Jon wonders if it’s feigned, somehow a front for something more sinister. He’s struck with a sudden, horrible thought.
Could Tim have poisoned him?
He doesn’t really think that Tim would do that— but that would explain why he’s feeling so ill all of a sudden… but no, that doesn’t make sense. He hasn’t eaten or drank anything today other than the water he’d brought to work himself. Oh, and the pain medication. But he’s had that with him in his messenger bag all day and he knows no one would’ve had a chance to tamper with it.
He’s being paranoid, overthinking it. Tim’s his friend. His concern is very likely genuine.
“You sure you’re okay?” Tim asks doubtfully, brows still furrowed. Well, that’s probably fair— Jon’s never been a particularly convincing liar. Still, he doesn’t want Tim pressing the issue.
Tim does anyway.
“Are you in any pain?” he questions, eyes scanning Jon up and down.
An easy out.
“Mm,” Jon murmurs. “A bit. I took some medicine for it before we left. Should kick in soon enough.”
It’s a bit of an effort to string that many words together while trying so hard to fight off the rising queasiness, but Jon hopes it will be enough to keep Tim from asking any more questions. He really can’t spare any focus from the task at hand at the moment.
“Oh, right,” Tim hums, seeming mollified. “Well, I’m glad you took something for it at least.”
He still sounds a little concerned, but he doesn’t press any further, which is good enough for Jon.
The minutes drag by. They’re still probably fifteen minutes from their stop, by Jon’s estimation— although he’s admittedly not entirely certain about how accurate that is. It’s been difficult to keep track of time.
The carriage seems to jerk and shudder over the tracks far more than Jon remembers it ever having done previously.
Jon’s sweating. He feels unbearably warm in the claustrophobic, fluorescent-lit carriage.
He could take his jacket off, but he’s not sure he could handle the amount of movement it would take to achieve that. He’s fairly sure that sitting still is the only thing that’s keeping the situation from spiraling out of his control.
Control. He needs to control his breathing. If he can control his breathing, he can manage the nausea. Slow, deliberate. In, out.
His hands are trembling now. There’s nothing he can do about that. Hopefully it won’t be too noticeable with the way his arms are crossed. He really doesn’t want to have to answer any more of Tim’s questions. He’s not entirely sure he could at the moment.
Just fifteen more minutes. Less, maybe.
Jon resists the urge to squirm in discomfort as a particularly bad wave of nausea breaks over him. For a few terrible moments it doesn’t recede and Jon can barely breathe. He feels so sick. He clenches his jaw and presses his lips firmly together.
He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.
The nausea recedes to a slightly more bearable level and Jon is finally able to breathe again. Shallowly, but it’s certainly better than nothing.
Okay. He can do this. Not long now. He just has to last the rest of the tube ride. He can do that. He’ll be out of this hellish carriage soon. He’ll be fine.
The train pulls into the next station and stutters jerkily to a halt. A moment later, the momentum generated as it speeds up again whilst leaving the station makes Jon slide slightly in his seat and nearly pushes him sideways into Tim.
Jon struggles to steady himself. He can practically feel the meager contents of his stomach sloshing dangerously inside him.
The whole carriage smells like sweat and plastic and oil, a miasma of cloying, disgusting scents so strong that Jon swears he can nearly taste them.
He swallows a mouthful of bitter saliva and tries to stay calm, tries to breathe.
The carriage judders again and another overwhelming wave of dizzying nausea washes over Jon. It doesn’t recede. As he tries desperately to breathe through it, he feels a horribly familiar tingling sensation at the base of his jaw, and— oh, Christ, that’s— fuck—
He’s only ever experienced that particular sensation immediately before being sick— a final warning before the inevitable happens.
Jon starts to panic.
He’s going to throw up. He cannot throw up here.
There’s people around, and there’s nowhere to— he can’t very well get off the tube while they’re between stops, but he’s— he’s not going to be able to— he’s pretty sure their stop is next, but how far away is it? His sense of time is completely shot. He doesn’t even think he can— fuck, fuck—
His thoughts fragment as bile burns up the back of his throat and seeps hot and acrid over his tongue. He frantically slaps a hand over his mouth, swallowing convulsively, and gives in to the urge to hunch forward over his knees.
He hasn’t tied his hair back today and it falls loosely over his face as he ducks his head and squeezes his eyes shut, grappling for the last shreds of his self-control.
“Jon?” Tim’s hand lands on his shoulder, heavy and warm and oppressive. “What’s happening?”
Jon’s face floods with heat and he’s not sure if it’s due to the nausea or the absolute humiliation of being perceived in this state.
Tim has leaned down to be level with Jon, eyes wide and searching.
Jon probably should’ve been honest with him when he’d asked if he was okay earlier. They could’ve gotten off the train, taken a breather, walked the rest of the way maybe. Anything would’ve been better than this. But Jon had brushed off his concern and stubbornly pretended like everything was fine. He’s paying the price for that now. Stupid, stupid.
Over the rush of blood in his ears Jon can vaguely hear Tim saying his name again.
Jon wants him to stop talking. He wants to get out of this goddamned shaking sardine tin. More than any of these things, he wants not to throw up in public on the fucking tube.
It’s not as if telling Tim what’s happening can possibly make matters any worse.
“I’m—,” Jon’s voice is little more than a croak behind his hand. He has to stop to swallow more bitter spit before he can continue. “I— I think I’m going to throw up.” He swallows again, presses his palm more firmly over his lips.
”Oh.” Tim keeps his voice blessedly quiet enough not to draw the attention of other passengers, but he sounds shocked, which Jon can’t really blame him for.
He should definitely have warned him while it was still an ‘I’m not feeling well’ situation and not a ‘I’m very much about to be sick’ situation.
“O-oh. Shit. Okay. Okay.” Tim pauses for a moment, clearly trying to think. Jon imagines his eyes darting around the carriage and coming to the same conclusions Jon had earlier.
Tim sounds forcedly calm when he speaks again, but with an audible undercurrent of anxiety lacing his words.
“We’ve gotta be nearly at our stop. Five minutes or less. You think you can hang on ‘til then?”
His hand is still on Jon’s shoulder, thumb rubbing little circles into the fabric of his jacket in a way Jon might find calming if he currently had the mental faculties to process anything other than the fact that he’s about to vomit.
“I… don’t know,” Jon answers through his fingers, miserable.
His abdominal muscles feel tight and tensed, like a rubber band about to snap. He’s shaking all over now, beads of sweat dripping disgustingly down his face. The nausea’s formed a hard, burning lump in his throat that he can’t for the life of him swallow down.
“Okay, that’s okay,” Tim reassures, voice soft, and if he weren’t so far gone Jon would probably pick up on the fact that Tim looks nearly as panicked as Jon feels, despite the calmness of his tone. “Just try and breathe.”
Jon does. It’s all he can do.
“Hey, I have something that might help?” Tim goes rummaging in his pocket for something. Jon doesn’t try to raise his head to see what he’s looking for. A moment later Tim’s hand comes into Jon’s field of view. He’s holding a red-and-white peppermint. Jon can smell it even through the plastic wrapper.
“You don’t have to put it in your mouth if you don’t want to. Even just the smell might help?”
Jon definitely isn’t going to put it in his mouth, because that would require opening his mouth, which he knows would be a spectacularly bad idea at the moment.
He shakily takes it from Tim anyway, and the smell actually… kind of does help. It distracts him from the disgusting odors of the carriage, cutting through the other scents with a sharp sort of freshness that isn’t exactly pleasant, but also doesn’t make Jon want to gag— which is kind of an impressive feat at the moment.
Staring at the striped candy in his trembling hand, Jon tries to focus on anything other than the way that his shoulders try to hitch reflexively and his throat tries to spasm every few seconds. If he relaxes even a fraction of the death-grip of control he has over himself, that’ll be it.
The train continues to trundle along unbothered.
Tim’s hand is still on his shoulder, but Jon is trying so hard to block out every bodily sensation that he’s nearly forgotten about it until Tim tightens his grip slightly.
“This is our stop, Jon. Just a few more seconds, okay? Then we’ll be out of here.”
He squeezes Jon’s shoulder in what is probably supposed to be a comforting gesture as the carriage starts to roll haltingly to a jerky stop.
The brakes screech piercingly. Jon gags a little against his palm. The peppermint he’d been holding in his other hand slips from his fingers onto the floor.
Then the train is stationary, and there’s a pneumatic swish as the doors slide open.
The relief of the fact that this tube ride from hell is finally over is overshadowed by the fact that Jon has no idea how he’s going to be able to stand up without losing the last tenuous strands of control he has over his stomach. He’s sickeningly sure that if he moves even a centimeter it’ll be enough to tip him over the edge.
He looks up at Tim with wide eyes, panic probably visible in his gaze.
Tim immediately seems to understand the issue.
“Right. Er— I’m going to help you get up, okay? I’ll be careful.”
Tim’s grip shifts so that his arm is looped around Jon’s shoulders and suddenly he’s hefted them both to standing.
The world tips sickeningly.
Black spots begin crowding the edges of Jon’s vision. He involuntarily leans into Tim, who is currently the only thing keeping him upright.
Christ, Jon thinks hysterically, if he throws up on Tim he’s going to have to resign from his position as head archivist out of sheer humiliation.
“Okay, here we go.” Tim has by some miracle managed to shuffle them to the door of the carriage. “Try and hold your breath for a second, okay? Just a little bit further.”
Jon does as asked, and Tim maneuvers them through the tube doors, over the lip of the step and onto the platform. Jon tries to be of help, but his mouth is full of thick saliva that he can’t swallow down and his abdominal muscles keep twitching with barely-held-back dry heaves.
Then the tingling sensation behind his jaw returns abruptly and Jon knows that’s it.
There’s nothing he can do. It’s just going to happen.
Jon tries to pull away from Tim. The platform around him blurs and spins. It’s hard to see with the way dark spots are filling up his vision.
Tim doesn’t release his grip on Jon’s shoulder.
Fuck.
“Tim, I’m— !” Jon just manages to turn his head away from Tim as he hiccups.
A mouthful’s worth of burning liquid splashes up his throat and spills through his fingers. The sensation is enough to fully push Jon over the edge.
“Here, lean forward. Okay, okay. There you go.”
Jon vaguely registers Tim’s voice, his presence in his swimming peripheral vision. There’s a hand between his shoulders gently pushing him to lean forward. His fingers close around a lip of cold metal.
A rubbish bin. One of the large metal ones that are common in tube stations.
Jon leans heavily on it as his vision fizzles out almost completely. He vaguely registers a hand gathering his hair away from his face. He squeezes his eyes shut as his shoulder hitch hard, and then he’s throwing up.
It hurts, but it’s over quickly. Probably a benefit of the fact that Jon hasn’t actually eaten anything today. He hangs over the bin panting for a few moments, struggling to catch his breath.
A string of saliva dangles from his lips and the feeling of it causes him to heave again, but there’s definitely nothing left in his stomach at this point, so nothing comes up.
Jon goes to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand before realizing that his hand is still wet and disconcertingly sticky. Eugh. Right.
Something shifts in his periphery, and Jon sees Tim pulling something out of the pocket of his coat.
“Here.”
He’s holding out a tissue. Jon takes it gratefully and uses it to wipe his mouth and clean his hand off to the best of his ability.
“We’ll find the loo in a minute so you can actually wash your hands and stuff, but just… try and catch your breath for a few seconds, alright?”
Tim’s hand rests between Jon’s shoulder blades again, warm and solid.
Jon shivers, chilled now that the sweat is drying cool on his face. He drags a sleeve across his forehead and takes even breaths through his nose.
Slowly, the dizziness begins to abate. The nausea, Jon realizes, is almost entirely gone. Had it really been motion sickness, then? Jon hasn’t had motion sickness that severe for years, and he definitely hasn’t had motion sickness like that on the tube— ever.
As the adrenaline drains away Jon becomes more aware of his body and notices that his leg is aching.
He shifts some of his weight off of it. Could the pain have contributed to the nausea? He doesn’t think so— it hurts, yes, but it doesn’t hurt nearly bad enough for that. He’s certainly been in worse pain before without it having made him feel ill.
Satisfied at least that his sense of balance has more or less returned to him, Jon pushes away from the bin and runs his non-sticky hand through his hair.
“I’m… I’m okay now, I think,” he says hoarsely. His throat hurts. “I’m, ah— I’m feeling better. Sorry,” he adds.
Shame makes his face go warm, the words an unpleasant reminder of not only the fact that all of that had just happened but also that Tim had been there to witness the entire thing.
“Good,” Tim sighs, relief clear in his voice. “Nothing to be sorry for. Let’s find the loo so you can get cleaned up.”
They begin to make their way through the semi-crowded tube station. As they walk, Jon thinks he sees a few people cast glances his way. He tries very hard not to make eye contact with any of them.
Embarrassment squirms in his chest.
“God, Jon,” Tim comments as he and Jon head towards the sign indicating the loo. “If you weren’t feeling well you should’ve said— I’d never have pressured you to come along if I knew you were ill.”
Jon recognizes Tim’s tone as the one he specifically reserves for scolding Jon about not taking good enough care of himself. He can’t help the note of defensiveness in his voice when he speaks.
“I’m not ill. I felt fine earlier today.” Jon chews on his lower lip, doesn’t look at Tim. “I honestly don’t know what happened.”
He decides it’s probably best not to bring up the possibility of motion sickness having been the cause. He’s still skeptical about that, and it’s embarrassing enough that he’s not exactly keen on Tim knowing about it.
Tim squints at him like he’s trying to deduce whether Jon’s telling the truth or not.
Apparently he deems his answer honest enough, because after a moment’s thought he replies with, “Hm. How are you feeling now? Still nauseated at all, or…?”
“I feel almost completely fine,” Jon answers flatly. “As soon as I— well. I, ah, pretty much felt fine right afterwards. So it’s probably not a bug or anything like that.”
Jon isn’t sure whether he’s saying this to reassure Tim or himself, but he honestly does feel mostly fine now. A little shaky, still, and he’d definitely like to wash his hands and his face and rinse his mouth, but he doesn’t feel unwell in the way that would usually indicate an illness that’s planning to stick around.
“Hm,” Tim says again, considering. “Eat anything weird today? Could’ve been something food related.”
As if that wouldn’t have already occurred to Jon had that been the case.
“No, I haven’t—,” Jon cuts himself off, not wanting to incite another lecture on self-care from Tim by admitting that he hasn’t eaten anything all day.
Tim narrows his eyes at him anyways, and Jon knows the damage is already as good as done.
“I haven’t really had a chance to eat anything yet today. I would have, just—,” Jon’s really not in the mood for Tim’s speech right now. “There was a lot to do and it slipped my mind.”
Tim takes a breath like he’s preparing to lay into him, but Jon cuts him off.
“Before you start your lecture about how I need to take better care of myself, I know. And I have been, really. This isn’t the norm. It’s just been a particularly busy workday.”
Jon tries to use a tone that brokers no argument. That hardly ever seems to work on Tim, though it always shuts Martin right up.
Predictably, it does not have the desired effect.
“Seriously, Jon,” Tim groans, pushing the door to the loo open for him. “It’s half six. And you’re telling me you haven’t eaten anything today. I think I have the right to lecture you a little.”
He lets Jon go in first and then follows, turning to wash his own hands as Jon does the same.
“I’ve had water,” Jon says defensively. “I don’t think neglecting to eat for a few hours is going to be the death of me, Tim.”
Tim is drying his hands with a paper towel.“A few hours? By which you mean all day?”He scoffs, and irritation flares in Jon.
This is exactly the kind of conversation he’d been hoping to avoid.
“So you’ve nothing but water today. Water and—,” Tim breaks off, realization dawning. Jon looks up from washing his face, questioning.
“What?”
Tim puts a hand to his own face in a gesture of clear exasperation.
“Jon,” he says slowly, fixing him with an unimpressed look. “You haven’t eaten anything today. You’ve had nothing but water. That, and the prescription medication that says on the box to never take on an empty stomach.“
Jon is silent for a second.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Tim agrees.
Jon is suddenly much too fascinated with paper towel he’s holding to look Tim in the eye. He can feel his face heating again.
“I suppose that… does explain some things,” he admits.
“Sure does,” Tim comments, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms.
“So, did you just… forget? Or did you not read the box warnings? Or like, listen to the doctor when they were giving you the prescription…?”
Jon doesn’t reply.
He’s not actually sure. He’s definitely heard that painkillers can cause nausea if taken on an empty stomach. He’s not sure if he ever read the box instructions for the medication he was prescribed. He doesn’t have a clear memory of anything that was said to him by the doctor.
“Because they gave me the same meds, Jon,” Tim continues pointedly, “and I know they told me specifically not to take them without food unless I just wanted to throw them up immediately afterwards.”
Tim pinches the bridge of his nose.
“The er— the whole conversation with the doctor is kind of a blur,” Jon admits.
In actuality, the entire week following the Prentiss attack is little more than a haze of confusion and pain in his mind. He doesn’t remember much of that week, which might be a blessing, he supposes.
Or, well— a blessing besides this bit.
“I, ah… I’ll admit I should’ve paid more attentions to the box warnings, though,” Jon says, subdued. “And I think I have thoroughly learned my lesson in that regard.”
“Right, yeah. I guess you have.” Tim’s voice softens, the exasperation bleeding out of his tone. “Just— I worry about you, Jon. You’re so focused on work you sometimes forget to look after yourself. I know you’re under a lot of pressure, with the promotion and everything, but you’re not doing anyone any favors by neglecting yourself.”
“I know, Tim,” Jon concedes. “But I am taking care of myself. This was just a one-off, an unfortunate bit of negligence on my part. I’m sorry for putting you in an… unpleasant situation. It was very much not my intent.”
Tim’s mouth quirks. “Pretty sure it was a lot more unpleasant for you, boss.” He chuckles. “Look, I’ve seen plenty of worse things. Takes more than a little puke to scare me.”
Jon feels his face flush again.
“Right, just—,” he exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry. For— for all of that. It was a stupid mistake to make.”
“Yeah, maybe. But it happens. I’m not upset with you, Jon,” Tim assures. “I was just— I was worried, you know?”
Tim shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “You’re feeling okay now, though?”
“Yes,” Jon nods. “I’m perfectly fine now.”
He glances at his reflection in the mirror and makes an effort to push a few strands of wayward curls out of his face. His reflection is still a bit ashen with spots of color high on his cheeks, but he looks mostly normal.
“If a bit embarrassed, I suppose,” he admits, turning away from the mirror.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” Tim claps a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Happens to the best of us. I mean, who hasn’t been sick in a tube station rubbish bin at least once, right?” he grins.
Jon isn’t entirely sure whether this is sarcasm or not. That doesn’t seem like something that would be a universal experience.
“Well, I hadn’t,” Jon comments, brows furrowed. “…previously.”
Tim holds the door of the loo open for him. “Really? Not even in Uni?”
“No?” Jon responds as Tim follows him out into the tube station. “Is that… a common thing?”
“Kind of,” Tim shrugs. “I definitely did it a few times back in my Uni days. You know, you go a bit too hard at a booze-up, try to ride the tube home pissed out of your mind, and voila— tube station rubbish bin vom.”
Jon cringes a bit.
“Oh,” he says, unsure how to respond to that. “Right. Well.”
Tim chuckles again. “Look, all I’m saying is that you don’t need to be embarrassed. Stuff happens. It’s fine. I promise I have just as much respect for you now as I did this morning, boss.”
That’s… comforting?
“Ah, thank you, Tim, that’s… thanks,” Jon manages. He’d very much like to change subject now. “You have the address of the place we’re meeting Mr. Kippler, correct?”
“Oh, yeah.” Tim digs his phone out of his pocket. “Little cafe on Beechwood street. Probably about a five minute walk from here. You sure you’re up for it though? I don’t mind going alone, or we could reschedule. I don’t think Mr. Kippler would be fussed.”
“No, no,” Jon waves a hand dismissively. “I feel fine. Anyways, we’ve already made the trip. Might as well see if he has anything useful to offer.”
“Might as well,” Tim agrees. “But only on the condition that you promise to tell me if you start feeling even the slightest bit off. And you actually eat something at the cafe.” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “And we’re taking a cab back.”
“Very well,” Jon assents with a sigh. “I’m sure we can expense the cab fare, given that this is a work-related venture after all.”
“Great,” Tim replies with a grin. “What are the chances we can get Elias to pay for the latte I’m planning to order at the cafe? That’s a work expense too, right? Or is that pushing it?”
Jon snorts. “I’ll see what I can do.”