Daniel Jacobi

Jacobi makes the same face. "Ugh, Jon! I wasn't going there, and I was perfectly happy thinking of him as a nice little Ken doll, but then you had to go and ruin it."

Ew, Jon.

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"Yes, well, I had to have an exhaustive conversation with at least one person on why you absolutely shouldn't, not to mention him and his little friend deciding to violate the single request I've ever made of this space, namely not to fuck in it."

He shakes his head.

"Then I've had to explain to Mr. Givens, his warden, why or why not he should consider giving the man back the bones of what was clearly his ex- it's just- ugh."

More headshaking.

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"Wow. That's - a lot."

And he takes a moment to really digest all of that, then latches onto the least offensive part of it.

"Bones, Jon? What the fuck? Did he also ask for a bracelet of their hair? Maybe a really hideous locket so that when he dies, he comes back as a tragic Victorian ghost in a nightgown?"

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Absolutely flat as a board:

"...he kept them. in his office. and read me the last letter the man ever wrote to him from a Lonely domain."

It was fucked. up.

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"Ew."

He shakes his head. "Jon, if I ever get that pathetic, please kill me."

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"I refuse on the principle that you will never be that pathetic. Or victorian."

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Jacobi straightens up and adopts a terrible accent. It's very Dick Van Dyke à la Mary Poppins.

"Who me? Am I not posh enough for you? I can be very Victorian! Yes. Let's drink tea and be very tragic and hang around graveyards."

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"Christ, that's awful," he says, but he's laughing by the end. "Never do that again. Please."

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He continues.

"What? This is what I hear when you talk!" he teases, picking up a pencil to twirl between his fingers.

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"That's not- no. No, I don't talk anything like that- that's- that's some sort of bastard child cockney wishes it could forget and something I can't even imagine."

He shakes his head firmly.

"My grandmother would rise from her grave if I spoke like that."

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He can't keep it up. Whatever he wanted to say next dissolves into laughter as he leans back in the chair. "Alright, fine. I've had to change my voice on calls before. But rest assured, I've never done that."

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"Well, I'm certainly glad I'm the only one to be scarred by that horror, then," and he's definitely teasing.

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"No honey, that's reserved for you," he smiles and leans forward, tapping his desk. "So, I'll see you tomorrow? We'll play a bit."

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"Yes, dear," he says in a fond, mock-beleagured tone as he waves him off cheerfully. That's... done. He's glad it's done. But he doesn't want to think about it. He can't let himself think about it.

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He gives him a mock-flirty wave as he disappears past the door and back to the library.

And he has a new set of information about Elias and - well, Jon. Information that he tells himself is only for Elias. That it has nothing to do with Jon. That works. For a while.

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Tim doesn't revive during the apocalypse. It's hard to say if it's can't or won't, but the burned corpse stays exactly where it is, unalive and unmoving under Jon's coat.

It takes until the end of the day after everything goes back to normal, nearly the evening, for the silence to be broken by a breathless groan and the coat shifts, sliding off whole and unmarred skin with a whimper of pain from the man beneath it. It's too much it's too much everything hurts to touch and it's-- this isn't- where...?

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Jacobi is there, has been there and might be a lot drunk. So when the coat moves, he doesn't think much of it. He just idly reaches up to settle it back on him from where he's been sitting beside the bed.

And then -

"Oh shit," he mumbles and turns, pulling the jacket down. "Tim?"

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Tim flinches - the scraping on his skin is like knives, the lights all too bright - and everything aches but he still brings a hand up to cover his eyes.

"...Jacobi?" His voice is hoarse, gravelly and quiet and very clearly reluctant, as he forces his hand up again to actually look.

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Jacobi sits up on his knees and covers him with a blanket, shuffling to turn off the light so he can sit beside him again.

"Jesus, Tim," he mutters, hands shaking and smelling like cheap vodka. "Don't move."

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In the time between getting to the light switch and back, Tim's managed to push off most of the blanket. His clothes are a tattered mess of bloodstained and burns, held together by threadbare strands so pointless he might as well be naked.

"Don't." It's a mumble, as he rolls to be face-down in the pillow. "Hurts t'touch."

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He sighs. "Yeah," he tells him, folding the blanket to put it aside. "Yeah, I want to gnaw my own arms off."

And he wasn't nearly as badly burned.

"I'm glad you're back," he says softly, propping himself up with one bandaged arm on the bed.

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He feels the shitty little bed shift under Jacobi's weight, and turns his head just enough to look at him. There's nothing but exhaustion on his face, but he's so, so glad just to see Jacobi. That his friend's alright.

"...y'smell like shit."

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"I started drinking without you," he mutters. "And I haven't - taken a shower."

He shrugs.

"Don't give me shit for it. I could have blown the ship apart. I thought about it. My warden's down. I could do whatever I wanted."

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"But you didn't." That gets the ghost of a smile on his face, even through the haze. "Good job."

He grunts as he shifts again, but he manages to hold one hand out, asking silently for the bottle. He needs something to numb the pain.

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