[PSL] time travel, time travel

[curriculum_fictae]

[ Martin had always known that Lukas would kill him in the end. If not along the way, then surely at the end, once he'd gotten what he wanted out of Martin, whatever that turned out to be. When the Lonely rose up to swallow him, he'd accepted his impending death with ... what?

What did he have left, really? Numbness, mostly. A hallucination of Jon in the Lonely, looking for him, but - but that was impossible, ridiculous. His mind playing cruel tricks. He settled himself down in the frigid surf, knees drawn up close to his chest, unshed tears frozen to his cheeks and lashes.

And then. A door. A door that shouldn't exist, that couldn't exist. That he shouldn't take at all. The Lonely was terrible, yes, but it was quiet, and it was peaceful. Martin was aligned enough with it by now to very nearly enjoy it, in a strange and terrible way. The Spiral would be infinitely worse than this quiet beach.

But ... it was hope, too. In a strange way. Hope enough that Martin found himself turning the door handle and stepping through, leaving the false comfort of the Lonely behind him.

The transition was unpleasant. Long. But Martin couldn't remember it after; he only remembered stumbling out through the door of a supply closet somewhere deep in the Archives, blinking up at the dim bulbs that pretended to be sufficient. What time was it? Had he escaped? Where were Lukas and Elias now?

And where was Jon? ]

Comments

[eyediot]

I hadn't considered it until you mentioned it. Now I definitely know this will end badly for me.

[But he's up, he's up. And honestly, the couch does look good.]

[kayakking]

[And the arm around his shoulder helps keep him steady. Or steers him. One or the other.]

The bathroom's down the hall. Lightswitch on the outside. Please admire how well I draw dicks in the morning.

[He amiably lies as he just, gently, tips Jon towards the couch.]

[eyediot]

Tim--oof.

[Down he goes, onto that couch. Really, it's a no brainer, he's not moving. At least he's not getting up. He'll move to take his glasses off but glare blurry eyed at Tim.]

Do. Not. Draw. Dicks. On. Me.

[kayakking]

[The vague blur that is Tim Stoker in Jon's vision shifts away. There's the sound of a door opening, then a plastic lid coming off. It's not too long until an armful of warm and pleasingly heavy blankets are dropped on Jon with that same hideous cheer.]

No one appreciates an artist while they're alive. Live dangerously, I say.

[eyediot]

Tell it to Van Gogh.

[It's muffled under the blankets before he starts trying to get at least one straightened out. And a terrible thought occurs to him.

He looks up at Tim with the utmost serious, demanding look on his face.]

Do not draw on my glasses either.

[kayakking]

[He just grins, absurdly fond in this moment.

BUT INSTEAD OF REASSURANCES:]

Night, Jon.

[eyediot]

[IT'S A SHAME HE CAN'T SEE IT. Just one big blur leaving him.

And he'll hope for the best.]

[kayakking]

[The morning comes between one blink and the next really. There's little changed in the room. At some point, the overhead lights had gone off, and the rest of the table cleared, but not much had happened to disturb Jon's sleep. The glasses are on the coffee table and, to best inspection, without SUSPICIOUS drawings.

The soft sizzle of breakfast, and the smell of pancakes may reach him. Though how it presents to him this morning is up to his own constitution.

Tim's in the kitchen, naturally, in warm flannel and fuzzy slippers to buffer from the cold tile.]

Eh, look who's crawled up.

[eyediot]

[His hair's a bloody mess, and his clothes are nowhere near the state he'd ever want anyone else to see them in. There is quite the hangover - good thing there wasn't work today.]

I hate that you were right. That couch is unfairly comfortable.

[kayakking]

Right? I sleep on it more often than my bed some weeks.

Feeling up to food?

[He does, at least, have good timing, as the sacrificial first pancake of disaster has been flipped onto the large plate by the stove.]

[eyediot]

It might do some good.

[He sighs heavily, sliding his glasses on as he sits. This is definitely more Jon Sims and less The Head Archivist sitting in Tim's kitchen. Has anyone seen this? Besides Algric, probably, but even then Jon doesn't come out of his room until he's Presentable. No, this is a rare sight.]

Where'd you even find that thing? It belongs in a museum. London's Most Comfortable Sofa.

[kayakking]

[It really is. It... wasn't bad. Tuft of hair all off in wild directions and everything, rumpled wasn't a bad look for Jon Sims. He pours out the next run of batter into the pan.]

Uni. I wish I had a better story for coming into a windfall like that. But had an old boyfriend who actually called it uncomfortable. Bought it for 20 and hauling it myself. Best thing I got out of that whole relationship.

Shows that some people just have no idea what they've got.

[eyediot]

[Jon's already starting to finger-comb it all down. He doesn't have a mirror but he at least has an idea of where all his hair belongs.]

Suppose so. Or that some simply have no taste.

[kayakking]

[Tim's kitchen is organized in a mystifying manner, if Jon looks at any one thing. But in use it may start to make sense. Everything seems to come easily from the next, with an odd economy. The most used plates are already there, the spatulas that go with the butterknife that goes with---

Two fluffy pancakes, lightly browned, are set on a plate, nudged in front of Jon with warmed butter and proper syrup.]

Right? We are, in fact, the proper and perfect arbiters of taste. If only more of the world would get in line...

Though points for him at least making the best dating choice he could have.

[eyediot]

[He sort of sees the order, how it's all meant to work in practice. But his head is pounding so it's hard to really put conscious two-and-two together.]

Mm. Guess he really only had downhill to go at that point.

[kayakking]

Complements? From Jonathan Sims! Be still my heart.

Keep it up and I'll feed you all the time.

[He laughs and sets his own down across and flips off the range.]

I'd offer my classic berries but let me tell you how much my head is not in a place to whip cream this morning. Plain it is.

[eyediot]

Don't push it.

[He does start to cut into his pancakes.]

I, um. Thank you. [Munch munch.]

[kayakking]

[He settles, taking a few bites of his own before responding.]

Think nothing of it. Nice to have something a bit mundane, anyway.

[eyediot]

[HE thinks on that while he chews his over.]

Yes... Yes, it is.

[kayakking]

[For a little bit, that is what it is. Just the sounds of breakfast, the clatter of plates, the clink of a glass lifted or set, the scrape of a chair and creak of reshifting. Just the pleasant, warm noises of company.

It's almost a shame to break into it, really, when he does. But it's worth doing.]

Feeling any better?

[eyediot]

[It's nice. Just... eating with good company and not being expected anything.]

I-- Yes. A bit.

[kayakking]

Good. Just... keep your head and be honest. It'll work out.

[He says with the misleading confidence of someone who can actually communicate emotions WITHOUT being pissed and pissed off into it.]

[eyediot]

... You know he's going to freak out, right.

[kayakking]

Absolutely implode. The man's going to go supercritical and hit the stratosphere.

At the same time.

[He says between bites, gesturing with a syrupy bit of pancake.]

Really, the only thing I regret is I'm not going to be there the way it would if you'd stumbled over it in the office.

[eyediot]

It-- it's not some kind of daily show for you to watch and speculate on!

[THESE ARE YOUR REAL WORLD PEERS, TIM.]