Chapter 5: The Morning After
The morning light was a blunt instrument. It hammered through the thin gap in Jon’s curtains, landing directly on Tim’s closed eyelids. He groaned, the sound muffled by the warm, solid plane of Jon’s chest. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The wine, the lack of water, the emotional whiplash—all had coalesced into a single, unified ache.
And yet.
Beneath the physical misery was a layer of profound, impossible comfort. He was still curled into Jon’s side, Jon’s arm a heavy, grounding weight across his back. Their legs were tangled under the mountain of blankets. Jon’s breathing was deep and even, his stubble scratching lightly against Tim’s forehead.
Memory returned in a sickening, glorious rush. The gallery. The pho. The photograph on the nightstand. The kiss.
Had it even happened? It felt like a dream, a synaptic misfire in the borderlands of sleep. But the phantom sensation lingered on his lips, dry and soft and devastatingly sweet.
As if summoned by his panic, a buzzing started. It wasn’t the sharp, intrusive ringtone he used for Eliza, Bart, and Nick. This was a persistent, judgmental vibration from the depths of his clutch purse, which sat on the floor where he’d left it. Bart. The name flashed in his mind like a warning light. He’d never answered last night’s text.
Jon’s arm tightened around him instinctively, a sleep-sluggish reflex. His breath hitched. He was awake.
The buzzing stopped. The silence it left was heavier.
“I should go,” Tim whispered, his voice cracked with sleep and dread. He didn’t move.
Jon’s hand slid up his back, coming to rest between his shoulder blades. His voice was gravel, rough with sleep and something else. “Stay.”
Just one word. It wasn’t a demand. It was an offer. A sanctuary, laid bare.
Tim’s throat closed. He screwed his eyes shut tighter, burrowing his face deeper into the worn cotton of Jon’s t-shirt. He could smell Jon, and himself, and the faint, safe scent of laundry soap. “Just… just a little longer,” he breathed.
Jon’s only answer was to squeeze him gently, his fingers pressing a silent promise into Tim’s spine. They lay there, suspended, as the sun climbed higher and the room warmed. Neither mentioned the kiss. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was full, vibrating with everything they couldn’t yet say.
Eventually, the practicalities of the world intruded. Bladders, headaches, jobs. They untangled themselves with a careful, mutual awkwardness. Tim pulled on yesterday’s white dress, which felt crumpled and grimy against his skin. Jon, flustered, thrust the oversized grey jumper at him again. “It’s cold out,” he muttered, avoiding Tim’s eyes.
In the kitchen, Jon moved with a focused, penitent energy. He made strong tea, his hands steady as they measured leaves. He attempted toast, successfully burning two slices to a uniform charcoal black, just the way Tim used to like it years ago. The scent of scorched bread and cinnamon filled the small space, a nostalgic anchor.
They ate standing at the counter, shoulders almost touching. Tim picked at the carbonised edges, the bitter crunch a counterpoint to the sweet, milky tea.
“Jon,” Tim started, staring into his mug.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I just… thank you. For last night. For… this.” He gestured vaguely at the toast, the jumper, the entirety of Jon’s quiet, book-lined universe.
Jon wiped crumbs from his fingers with meticulous care. “My door is always open for you, Tim. Always. You know that, yes?”
Tim nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He did know. That was the terrifying, beautiful part.
They arrived at the Magnus Institute late, dishevelled, and blinking like moles in the fluorescent lobby lights. Jon’s hair was a spectacular grey-flecked tornado. Tim’s white dress was visibly creased, and Jon’s large grey jumper hung off one shoulder, swamping his frame. They both moved with the deliberate care of the profoundly hungover.
The Archives bustled with its usual morning energy. Martin was humming over the kettle, and Sasha was already deep in a statement, her brow furrowed.
The moment they shuffled in, the atmosphere shifted.
Sasha looked up first. Her eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. Martin followed her gaze. His concerned expression morphed into one of delighted comprehension.
“Well, well,” Sasha said, her voice a melodic tease. “The dynamic duo. Rough night researching… urban wine festivals?”
Martin coughed, failing to hide a grin. “Jon, your hair looks like it’s trying to escape your head. And Tim, is that a new archival fashion statement? I love the ‘just-rolled-out-of-someone’s-bed-and-into-a-pile-of-laundry’ chic.”
Tim felt the heat explode across his face, a fierce, prickling tide from his chest to his hairline. He must look like a candy cane, he thought wildly, a blotchy red and white mess.
Jon drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height, attempting his Head Archivist glare. It was severely undermined by a prominent crease from a pillowcase running across his cheek. “That is quite enough. We had a late night reviewing supplemental materials. I will not have my staff engaging in frivolous speculation. Any more of this and I will… I will mandate a refresher on workplace conduct.”
He sounded, even to himself, utterly ridiculous. He spun on his heel and fled to his office, shutting the door with a firm but unconvincing click.
Martin and Sasha looked at each other, then at Tim, their grins irrepressible. They weren’t stupid. They’d seen the way Jon’s eyes tracked Tim for years, the way Tim’s laughter died when he talked about home. They saw the love, plain and simple, and the morning’s dishevelled evidence was just a confirmation.
“So,” Sasha said, swivelling in her chair, her voice gentler now. “Late night reviewing supplemental materials, huh?”
“Leave it, Sash,” Tim mumbled, slumping into his desk chair. It felt alien after the cocoon of Jon’s bed.
“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Martin said softly, placing a mug of tea on Tim’s desk. “You seemed… stressed, lately.”
Tim wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic. The kindness was almost worse than the teasing. “I’m fine. Just… stayed over. Talked. That’s it.”
Sasha leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Tim, we’re not judging. We just… we see you two. You know that, right?”
The implication hung in the air. Tim’s blush, which had begun to recede, flooded back. He straightened up, his expression hardening. “I didn’t sleep with him.” The words came out sharper than he intended. “It’s not… it’s not like that. And even if it was, I’m not a cheater.”
The laughter vanished from their faces instantly. Martin looked stricken. Sasha’s eyes filled with immediate remorse.
“Oh, Tim, no,” Sasha said, her voice low and earnest. “God, no. That’s not what we meant at all. That was an awful, insensitive thing to imply. We’re sorry.”
“Really sorry,” Martin echoed. “We were just being stupid. We know you. We know Jon. We’re just… we’re happy you have each other. However that looks.”
The fight drained out of Tim as quickly as it had come. He saw their genuine concern, their embarrassment. They were his friends. They were Jon’s friends. They were, in their clumsy way, cheering from the sidelines. “It’s okay,” he muttered. “Just… drop it, yeah?”
“Dropped,” Sasha said, miming tossing something over her shoulder. “Gone. Forgotten. I have a truly baffling statement about sentient moss that needs my full attention.”
They returned to their work, the air cleared but still charged with unspoken understanding. Tim tried to focus on his computer screen, but the words blurred. His body was here, in the familiar, dusty archive, but his nerves were still back in Jon’s bed, thrumming with the memory of safety and that fleeting, spectral kiss.
In his office, Jon stared blankly at a personnel report, his fingers pressed to his own lips. The ghost of Tim’s sleepy sigh warmed his skin.
Out in the bullpen, Tim’s phone, buried in his clutch under the desk, began to vibrate again. He didn’t need to look to know it was Bart. The world, in all its demanding, complicated glory, was calling him back. He took a shaky sip of tea, the taste of cinnamon and char lingering on his tongue, and tried to remember how to breathe.