that one time travel psl

[eyediot]

sad bad end s5 jon and tim on a monster road trip



[Algric had given the trio a fair warning of what was happening. Not the specific details of what he was coming from, but he was from a little further along Algric's timeline, and came through Hilltop Road. Never pleasant, but he's here now. IT took a few days of settling, readjusting, and putting some firm self-imposed boundaries on himself before Jon felt comfortable enough to see the others.

After a few minutes of surprise and staring, Jon ends up sitting alone with Tim for a few minutes; the others having some things to take care of themselves. He sits there, fiddling a bit with his fingers, trying not to be self conscious. He can't do anything about the myriad of different, newer scars, nor about his black sclera or so many other things about himself now.

But god... Tim. Alive and not shouting at him right this second. How novel.]

Tim... I.. [Where does he even start.]

Comments

[kayakking]

[For Tim the world has already melted into confetti. Something moved something about him. He was somewhat aware that he was being held, but the idea of his boundaries, the idea of an other, much less who or what it could be flitted away nearly every time he got his head around it.

But there was something clear, right where Jonah's hands clutch him. He sees those black-sclera eyes and Jonah.

Nikola. His brother. What was a- did he have a brother-

Focus.]

Danny.

[He says it out loud. Once, voice uncertain, and then again, cracking with intensity, nearly drowned by the now screaming music. The world swirls and creaks around them.

The thing that was and wasn't Nikola turns in a way that defies movement. It is both in the center of the dance, and leering down at them. The pressure of unreality washing over the two of them- (he clutches Jon. It's Jon and he is Tim, and he needs to focus.)

Nikola's voice pipes up with its whistling, pitchy soprano-]

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[There's too much static hissing in his ears. The roar of his own blood pressure, the snap of a boiling, burning hatred, as he sees the bloody, monstrous face of the clown it really was (and wasn't.)

He couldn't make sense of the words, no. But he didn't care either.

The agony of fire defines his fingers for just long enough to understand they were there. That they can press down.






Click.]

[eyediot]

[He'd gone through this once before.

Jonathan Sims had... died before. In this very explosion. He can almost feel like... Is this what astral projection felt like? No, not quite. Disassociation, maybe. That feeling of being away from himself, not completely conscious of his movements, but aware enough he can still feel.

He can feel the blazing heat scorch him. Can feel how the sound blows out his eardrums, leaving them ringing and empty at once. All the pressure of the explosion pressing outward, away from them before the vacuum brings the smoke and the heat back to them. The small pocket of open space where he and Tim can still stand with large, oversized pieces of debris falling around and supporting above them. It would be picturesque, a perfectly shot frame, if it were a film or visual narrative.

Even as he feels himself coming back, his skin is on fire. He's trying to still hold to Tim's shirt. The heat is almost unbearable.]

Tim-- I-it... It's over.

[Even as his flesh burns, he can feel it healing rapidly after. Over and over, an agonizing song on repeat. But he's not going to let go of Tim.]

[kayakking]

[Tim's arms are limp at his side, except for the thumb pressed to the detonator. It's so firm, so deeply forcing the button home the digit is bone white and a little distorted.

The pain, the burning eats at Jonah's skin. The hurt in it is consumptive. But it's not as if it takes and gives nothing. No, there's plenty to eat in turn.

As the thought echoes in Tim's mind, that it's over. The sound comes back in other words. Hot, destructive and senseless like a brushfire. "It's over and nothings changed." "It's over and nothing's better." "It's over and did they even hurt for what they did?" "It's over and you still failed him."

Each pass sends a thud of fire from his limbs down the veins, aiming for the heart at the center of him.

He hasn't accepted yet, but it's very close.]

[eyediot]

[He can see it. The thin veins of fire and anguish under Tim's skin. He can see what's happening. And what Tim has to decide.

Is this what would have happened to his own Tim if he'd survived?

He swallows - hot and ashy and there's no moisture left in him in all this. But he moves to hold Tim's face, then change his mind and hug him tight.]

You're not alone here, Tim. I'm not leaving you alone this time.

[He'd failed his Tim after Prentiss. He wouldn't fail this one.]

[kayakking]

[It's an anathema to the sneering derision circling his mind. The boiling hate and hurt wanting to pour out of him through any and every means available. To the siren whispering how good it would feel just to let go. Fuck it all. Fuck ALL of them.

The skin under Jonah's grip is disquietingly soft, maliable. He sways at the embrace but still seems to look at nothing but the hunk of ceiling and air conditioning unit creating a shelter.

It was warm??? though. It was- not searing, not hot. Warm? It was ... strange enough to pull his attention.

And the words slowly filter through. There's no magic that cuts through the siren song, no compulsion that sways the decision. Just something that makes his heart clench, and his breath catch.

It comes back out as a raw, open sob.]

I'm-

[It catches- and he focuses down on Jon, through the pain.]

[eyediot]

[The man holding him is covered from head to toe in ash and soot from the explosion and bits of the museum still burning. The fire against him is softening a bit, he thinks.]

It's all right.

[He...chances shifting. Enough to carefully, gently tug Tim's face down to press into Jonah's shoulder. To give him something real, and maybe. A little privacy.]

I'm not going anywhere.

[kayakking]

[His face presses there (the heat is intense, scalding along the tendons of the neck.) and the next sob is more distinct as Tim's arms lift slowly, shakily. They wind around Jonah as if unsure.

And then clutch to him. Tim's weight pulls Jonah down with him as he sinks. In the utter darkness of this small island of safety, the first few tears steam, evaporating immediately.



The next, as the heat subsides to merely uncomfortable, begin to wet Jon's shoulder.]

[eyediot]

All right... .A-all right.

[He lets the weight pull him down. Shifts his legs so he can hold Tim close; the heat doesn't bother him, he's gone through so, so much worse than a little heat. And his skin is handling it fine, the dermis healing itself and reforming the other layers on top just as easily. The intensity of it is fading anyway.

When he feels the wet on his shoulder is when he begins to relax. Stroking his back, his hair on the back of his head. Anything to keep a contact there for him.]

[kayakking]

[Tim's fingers twist fistfuls of Jonah's shirt as fine tremors shake his frame. He's merely very warm against Jonah, someone, still a little human, at least, gulps air in the small pocket amidst the devastation of the Wax Museum.]

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry.

[It's to Jonah and it's not.]

[eyediot]

[Jonah lets him. It wasn't a favorite shirt anyway, who cares if they come away with burned hand prints all over. Jonah holds him a little tighter, letying Tim have it out.]

Nothing to apologize for. You're all right, Tim.

[It's going to be some time before he can move himself. He really probably should have tried to get something from Breekon and Hope. Staying here until Tim comes back down is fine.]

[kayakking]

[Burned handprints and some of the earliest ones pinched with hardened wax.

There's no more words for a long while, Tim slumping a little forehead so that he's just a forehead resting on the uncomfortable bone of Jonah's shoulder. He hardly notices or cares. Just the hands on him, the breathing of another person in the absolute dark.

His breathing evens, the ugly sniff here and there vanishing as he slowly, slowly unclenches his fist from around the pain.

The detonator clatters somewhere to the ground at their feet.]

Thank you... [It's quiet, almost hoarse. His fingers loosening, but he hardly moves other than that.] Thank you for this.

[eyediot]

[As long as Tim needs, Jonah is happy to rest. He's... tired, more than he'll let on.]

Of course, Tim. [He keeps his own voice quiet, a whisper, so he doesn't disturb anything here. There's so much wrapped up in what's left of the rubble of this place. The outward building may be destroyed, but it was still the Stranger's place of power. They're still treading where they shouldn't.]

Anything you need.

[kayakking]

[Outside, things that cling to the shapes they've managed to scrape back into reality shudder away from this place, to find the strange places just outside of comforting normalcy.

But for everything slithering and limping away in tatters, there were also new things, coming back to their lives a little strange. A new generation that could trace the moment their lives changed to stopping to gawk at an evening fire.]

I'm. I'm okay.

[It's almost not a lie.]

... Where are we?

[eyediot]

[Even just this much information is a grinder in his head. Too much information, too much Knowledge, and not enough energy for it. He has nothing left, not to keep Knowledge out nor to keep Compulsions in.]

It's, erm. Th-the museum still. It's... We stopped it.

[kayakking]

[Jon can't see Tim reach out, but he can hear the soft sound of skin on drywall, insulation and metal as he finds the nearest wall. (Knows it, too. Where he is, as if lit up in some way.)]

.. So now what? We wait for a rescue?

[There's a fumbling and... his phone is in absolute shards. The shockwave. It should have pulped the organs of a normal human.]

Damn. Must have fallen on it.

[eyediot]

Who knows how long a rescue will take out here. And I'm not much into the idea of being questioned about what happened or why we were here.

[Aside from his obvious not wanting to deal with the police, there's also the matter of oh, right, he shouldn't exist in this time line.

He sighs, resting his head against Tim for a brief moment. Just to get his breath. Or three.]

What I saw when it all fell, at. At least one of these pieces shouldn't be so load bearing.

[kayakking]

All right. Give me a minute. ... Then just, tell me where to push.

[Tim's hand comes up and- well, it's clumsy. Sort of a poke at Jonah's cheek, then a slide over the ridge above his eye, over the coarse hair of his brow. An odd, instinctive seeking in the dark, finding a face, an expression.]

[eyediot]

Oop- well [God. He scrunches his nose, closes his eyes at all this.]

Not my face, for starters.

[He shifts, taking hold of one of Tim's elbows to carefully start moving it. One last push. Just... Enough to get them out. It's an easier motion once he can see, keeping one hand to Tim's elbow, the other (the scarred one, burned in another, more spiteful fire that took joy in his pain) taking Tim's hand to place it where it needs to be. Over the drywall of a larger solid piece, to where a beam bridged to another piece of ceiling... And places the hand firmly on a piece of wall about two inches shorter than Tim.]

There.

[kayakking]

Here. Okay.

[Tim pulls off of Jon and carefully sets his other hand against the chunk, braces his shoulders and pushes. There's a soft grinding noise above and a little below, and dust begins to filter down between them.

With a heavy heave, the flicker of fire casts a faint glow through a crack that opens. The curl of smoke and chemical ash fills the air of the space.]

Almost.

[He gives it another hard, heavy push and something gives.]

[eyediot]

[Tim moves, and Jon feels the hard ashen ground against his cheek. Avatar or not, he still has lungs. The groan of exhaustion and soreness he lets out gives way to coughing with the new smoke. When Tim gets the piece out of the way, a few smaller chunks fall from the shifting; Jon curls in on himself on his side before turning his head toward the open space and the light of the fires. Almost like a lethargic cat on its back trying to look behind him.]

You've got it, Tim. Almost.

[kayakking]

[The air scorches his lungs (and it feels right. The sting of ash was just seasoning to the air. He puts his head down, squares his feet, and backlit by the roaring fire filtering through the hole, the last heave is echoed by a thud outside of the small enclosure. Enough to get though, though Jonah will probably need a-

His train of thought derails looking back at the crumpled form of the Archivist.]

Jonah!

[The man's eyes glowed weakly, flickering in the heat mirage. Tim carefully gathers the other man up.]

[eyediot]

[Between the dust the fallen piece of wall just kicked up to the new, fresh wave of smoke, it's a wonder Jonah can even make sense of Tim kneeling to gather him up.]

I-i'm fine - [Nevermind the coughing and wheezing.]

Just- just got to get out of h-here and. And we're golden.

[Nevermind he can't see anything. His eyes are burning, in a painful way nothing else he's experienced has been. Stinging and trying so hard to water, but there's no moisture left in him. He clings to Tim; he led them in, so it goes it's only fair Tim leads them out.]

[kayakking]

That doesn't look- You know what?

[He's pulled tight to Tim's chest. He can hear more of the debris hit the ground and the roaring of fire is even wilder now. Tim's hold is tight and protective, but does little to actually help. Control isn't in the Desolation's toolbox. Never is, never was, never will be.

The best he can do is what he does. Speed. He puts his shoulder to the fire exit, not feeling the cherry red metal as anything but good.

The cold, clean night air, when it hits Jonah's face, is likely a shock to the system.]

[eyediot]

[The Archivist lets it be known that it is a shock to the system.

There's a gasping, coughing half-dead bundle of limbs in Tim's arms. But even once in the clean air, his eyes still burn with an ache. It was too much with too little. He pushed too far, this isn't his timeline, this isn't the Eye's apocalypse, this is enemy territory and he's dying -

Jonah tightens his grip on Tim's shirt trying to get just one solid breath in. One solid breath out that doesn't end in half-bottled coughs that make it harder to breathe even longer.]

I-i can't.. See, you'll have to. To get us home.

[Whose home? It doesn't matter. They all practically live together at this point.]

[kayakking]

Are you kidding? How about a hospital?

[He's moving, though. He can feel the shudder of the lungs, the mucus inside drying and crackling, sizzling around the tar scars and stains. The one who got so far, survived so much, dying of such a senseless afterthought.. He swallows hard.

Moving fast. There's a corner to a main thoroughfare a block away. He can hail a cab from there.]

Definitely a hospital.