Lex Parsimoniae (5/6)

[myths_by_kynx]

Previous

The rest of the afternoon passes slow and quiet. Feels like the minutes drag by when he's in the middle of them, but the hours disappear. Tim barely speaks unless Jared asks him a direct question and it's completely necessary to answer, which fucks with his earlier plan. He gives up asking questions and dropping hints after a few futile attempts. Tim speaks just enough that Jared can't accuse him of the silent treatment. Barely.

He toys with the idea of coming on to Tim, wouldn't take much, sitting beside him...hand on his thigh, might not take a whole lot more than that. He dismisses it for the second time, it'd probably, maybe work, but he can't deal with the aftermath. Can't stand to mess with Tim's head like that, not to mention he'll be messing with his own just as badly, and for what; one or two more answers and a fantastic orgasm? Not worth it. Very much not worth it. He shivers slightly thinking back, considering the somewhat adverse circumstances, the sex was incredible and he really hopes it'll be worth it sometime soon. If he closes his eyes he can still feel Tim's lips on his neck and it was too good not to want more, too good to waste on a head-fuck.

Dinner time sneaks up on him and he's no closer to working shit out, food might help, maybe. Jared clears his throat before he speaks, "You hungry?"

"I could eat...you look like shit, stay where you are, I'll fix something." Tim doesn't wait for an answer, probably just as well, he'd be waiting for a damn long time because Jared has no idea what to say. Yes or no seem equally inappropriate as a response.

He watches Tim go, has half a thought that it could be like this all the time, him curled up in a chair writing, Tim making dinner...they'd take turns obviously, he wouldn't expect Tim to cook all the time. Fucking...why the hell does it have to be so fucked up that he wouldn't believe it unless he was part of it? Why can't he have this all the time and it be normal? Seems wrong to sit and do nothing while Tim's in the kitchen, banging cupboard doors...at least Jared knows he's where he said he was going to be, doing what he said he was going to do, although he's not sure how much actual food is being prepared amongst the clattering. He picks up one of his notepads and a pen, although it's more to have something in his hands, rather than a sudden flash of inspiration.

Tim's gone long enough that Jared manages to distract himself from thinking about sex and every other fucking thing that's winding him up. There's about forty-seven reasons he can't have nice things and he's half-heartedly making a list when Tim shoves a plate near enough in front of his nose. Noodles and...something, he must've been glaring at the plate, trying to figure it out because Tim actually speaks first this time.

"I do know how to cook for you, nothing on the, 'oh hell to the fuck no' list has touched that plate, s'safe."

Jared believes him, he's picky enough and loud enough about it that Tim would have to be mentally deficient to be unaware of his preferences. He's pretty sure Tim hasn't cooked him anything bar a bag of popcorn in the past, but whatever. He barely remembers putting the food in his mouth, let alone tasting it, but he mumbles a thank-you and manages an almost smile.

Tim washes the dishes after they've eaten, and goes out for a smoke, or two by how long it takes him. He comes back inside just before Jared gives in to the worry about what could have happened to him, and makes them both coffee. Jared hasn't written anything else; he's filled the margin with abstract doodles that he's kinda fond of, so maybe it's not a complete loss.

He's staring at a blank page nearly an hour later. Nothing is coming―not lyrics, not video concepts, not even a fucking grocery list―and trying to write...anything is making him sleepier than he should be, tapping his pen on the page more than he's writing with it. There's far too much on his mind to focus it into lyrics, or pick a starting point to try and make sense of what's in his head. Tim is lying on the sofa, staring blankly at the TV. It's surreal as hell, with everything going on, everything that's already happened, for them to be sitting, doing nothing. Almost normal except for the glaring backdrop where it's so completely not.

Jared studies Tim from beneath his lashes, and maybe he's concentrating too hard on the wrong thing. Trying to create, when all he wants to do is figure this out, have half a clue what's going on and how Tim is connected to it. Frowns down at the notepad and lets that thought settle, bites his bottom lip before scribbling, 'Followed/watched for months' at the top of the next clean page.

He draws a box around the sentence and thickens the lines by going over it again as he thinks about where to go from there. Does he even want to look this hard...fuck, of course he does. He slants the notepad to the side, writes underneath it; 'At night', then 'Unseen/Unheard', 'Followed home', 'On bus', and 'Guy?', and connects each of them back to the main box. It takes him a second or two looking and thinking before he adds 'Knocked out' and joins it to the main box. Sticks his tongue out the corner of his mouth and carefully goes over the lines.

"'Nother drink?"

Jared hums a yes, but doesn't look up from the page as he tries to make sense of his home-made diagram. He waits until Tim is in the kitchen before he writes 'Tim' at the bottom of the page and draws a box around that.

'Hiding something' is the first connection to 'Tim', followed by; 'Fault?' then 'Clothes outside' and 'Likes?'. He tentatively draws a line from 'Hiding something' to the 'Followed/watched for months' box and frowns at the page some more, not sure what he's seeing, if there's anything to see at all. It makes it easier to think about as he lays the pieces out in front of him, but none of it gives him any answers. All he knows for sure is that he doesn't have a fucking clue how it's all related, if it even is related, but it's all he's got and if he has to do nothing much longer he'll crack up.

He tilts the book on his knees, covers it with his arm as Tim walks back into the room, steaming mug in each hand. A small, barely audible, sound of discomfort as Tim stretches to hand Jared one of the mugs, and as soon as he's able, he's adding 'Dog bite' to his diagram. It's probably nothing. He can't see how it could be something, but why hide it? Unless Tim's a secretive bastard in general―easy to believe right now―but it doesn't...fit. He has to have faith that the Tim he knows isn't something he made up all on his own, has to have faith in Tim and doesn't want to think about the other side of that.

Sighs as he taps his pen against the paper, scrapes a hand over his face to try and wake up some. He's missing more than one piece of the puzzle, the lines and clues are all there, but he can't piece it together. A bit like a jigsaw puzzle with all the straight edge bits missing, and no picture reference to know what he's working towards.

Tim's given him next to nothing by way of explanation. Jared doesn't class the half-assed admission earlier as an explanation. For a start, it leaves him with more questions than answers. Tim is making him coffee, a steady supply of it, even if it's doing sweet fuck all to keep him awake. He thinks it's maybe a peace offering, or Tim assumes Jared's busy writing lyrics. He regularly forgets to eat or drink when he's writing, so people―mostly Shannon, but Tomo and Tim caught on quick―shoving things in from of him isn't unusual in the slightest.

He sips his coffee as he notes down the dog bite, although...it doesn't seem like it connects to anything else on the page, but in fairness nothing has an obvious connection. It's too old to be relative, surely, but it's unexplained and Tim's not talking about it so it can't hurt to include it. He draws a line from that to Tim's name and tries to suppress the yawn that's threatening.

His eyes are getting heavy, keep half-shutting and he catches himself staring blankly at the page a little too often. It's a struggle to keep them open at all and he rubs them with the back of his hand in turn, blinks rapidly and has to wait for his vision to stop being fuzzy before he can refocus on his notepad. It's not a huge surprise, he hasn't slept in far too long and there's the possible-but-very-likely-concussion he's been fending off the worst of...yeah, he's lucky not to have passed out hours ago really. Reaches for the coffee, and gulps half of it, before frowning at the mug and...when the fuck did it go cold?

He swears it was steaming hot, Tim walking back from the kitchen with it only moments ago, or maybe he's been too immersed in his notepad to notice time passing. The latter happens a lot but...fuck, he not done enough for that much time to pass. Shakes his head a little to clear it and tries to remember where his caffeine pills are, because the coffee's doing shit to keep him awake.

A sound from Tim catches Jared's attention, fucked up rumbling bass-y sound that he's already associating with sex. Tim's staring out of the window, tense as fuck. Jared follows his line of sight, eyes take a second or two to focus, but he can't see what Tim's looking at. The too-familiar prickling at the back of his neck hits full on only a moment later, harder and faster than ever before.

In his head, Jared draws a line from Tim moving suddenly, to the feeling, his feeling, "You feel it too?"

His tongue feels thick and drowsy in his mouth and he wonders at that, so used to the feeling waking him up completely.

Tim nods but doesn't look back at Jared, he's preoccupied with the window.

"Have you always?" Still not waking up, mouth out of sync with his brain and dammit all to fuck, why the hell is he so tired now when he needs to be awake. S'not...he's been exhausted for months and it's never hit him in a way he can't control.

Tim turns when Jared asks but doesn't meet his eyes, and shakes his head, "Not like this."

Gulps the last of his coffee, hopes the caffeine kicks in soon and if Tim's been making him decaff or some shit it's just another reason to kick his ass. He needs to wake up, this is no time not to be fully awake and alert. Tim watches him lift the mug to his mouth and drain it. Fuck, even his arms feel like lead, like the mug weighs more than he knows it does, or maybe it's not his arm. His brain is taking three times too long to tell his body what he wants to do and it occurs to him that it's been building for a while.

He should care a lot more, knows he should. Doesn't feel right...feels...feels...familiar. He struggles to remember what it means, struggles to push back the fug insulating his brain so he can think. Doesn't know how long it takes, but he stares at Tim open-mouthed as realization slowly dawns, "You shit. You drugged me."

The mug falls from his hand, and Jared doesn't even try to catch it as the handle slides from his fingers in something like slow motion. He pushes out of the chair, needs to get away, get out. Need overrides logic because he knows it's too late for anything he does to counter-act the sleeping meds. His sleeping meds, he's too familiar with how they make him feel for it to be anything else.

Tim does nothing, says nothing as Jared struggles, and he keeps hold of his notebook as he stumbles towards the nearest bathroom. His legs won't work fast enough and it's so much effort to keep moving forward. All he wants to do is sink to the floor because standing, fucking walking, is too difficult. Uncoordinated, motor-function shot to shit, limbs heavy but not, and he knows exactly which pills Tim slipped in his drink. Another reason he refuses to take them, because this is what they do to him, knock him on his ass both literally and figuratively.

He falls to his knees in front of the toilet, fingers down his throat and gags through the contents of his stomach; coffee diluted with water, rank is not even close to an accurate description. It's way too late, he knows it is, the pills are in his system, knocking his feet from under him already. Tim is suddenly at his side, must have been following him but there's fuck all Jared can do about it.

Tim's grip on his wrist feels like iron. "C'mon, no. I'm sorry, I...I didn't know what else to do, used your prescription ones, wasn't...I didn't―"

"You fucking asshole. Coulda jus' said." His words slur together and he hates it, hates that he can't do anything about it. Didn't want the pills, never wants to take the fucking pills. He hates feeling like this, limbs reluctant and awkward like he's walking through water. If he relaxes maybe he'll float, but he doesn't want to float, doesn't want to relax.

"You wouldn't have listened, you weren't listening and I couldn't..." Tim pulls him closer and Jared can't resist, not only because it's easier than staying upright. He slumps against Tim's chest, head on his shoulder. Firm strokes on his back must be Tim's hand but it takes him a few seconds to join everything together. Why does Tim have to drug him before he's nice to him?

"Can't risk you. Need to keep you safe, inside, last night was too fucking close..." Tim isn't making any sense but it's hardly a revelation after the rest of the day.

He's right about one thing, Jared's not the stand-still-listen-and-do-what-he's-told-type. He won't stay inside if Tim's outside dealing with...whatever, whoever, not if he can help and not if he can't help, either. Tim is a fucking idiot for wanting to do whatever the fuck he's going to on his own.

Tim hauls Jared to his feet. He's too drained to do anything but go with it. Tim's arms around him, supporting most of his weight without much effort so maybe he is floating. His feet are on the floor, moving under Tim's guidance without any real thought or inclination. Stairs are...Jared thinks the stairs are more complicated than usual, but Tim's practically carrying him, so maybe they aren't complicated at all.

Tim stops when they reach the top, "Which is your room?"

He gestures vaguely in the direction and lets his arm fall before he remembers he doesn't want to tell Tim. Probably no point not telling him, Jared's in no state to put up a fight. He's going to feel like shit in the morning, worse than he does right now. His body isn't keeping up with the way Tim drags him along the hall, and he's mostly sure he left his brain halfway down the stairs.

It's a bit like a dream, and fuck, Tim must have given him over the full dose, because the half he takes when he absolutely has to doesn't fuck with his head this much. His legs turn to rubber long before they reach his room, and it feels like he sinks about three inches through the bed when Tim tips him onto it. Fuck, so good, maybe he can sleep for just a little bit...no. He tries to sit up but Tim pushes him back and holds him there, hand on his chest.

It doesn't matter how angry he is, how much he wants to stay awake, his body is switching off. He grabs Tim's shirt and pulls him down so they're face to face. Tim uses one hand to prop himself up and he has to have let it happen because it's a surprise how easy it is to get Tim where he wants him. Now he has Tim, Jared can't remember what he wants to do or say but they're breathing the same air, Jared taking in as much as his lungs will let him in an effort to keep his brain awake. Tim's just breathing, eyes wide, apologetic and he licks his lips as Jared watches.

"I really hate you right now," Jared mumbles. Needs to say it even if it's almost impossible to put any heat behind the words.

Tim closes his eyes and shakes through his next inhalation, eyes looking a little damp, and full of real pain unless Jared is hallucinating, which ok, is completely possible. It makes Jared hate him a little more because it's Tim's goddamn fault in the first place. Tim knew Jared wouldn't be happy about being drugged, but he did it anyway, so what the hell does he expect? Jared pushes back the wash of pity and guilt because he's right. Tim's wrong and that's as much thought as he can put into it.

"I know," Tim's breath is warm on Jared's lips. "I'm sorry."

He has to let go of Tim's shirt, fingers clumsy and far too lax to do what he wants them to. Tim stays where he is, free hand moving to Jared's hair and pushing it away from his face.

"Gonna hate you even more if you get killed doing something stupid."

Tim snorts a laugh, maybe not expecting that. Hell, Jared hadn't been expecting to say it and it came out of his mouth, but he knows he doesn't want Tim to die or get arrested or...whatever the fuck could happen and he's quite sure on that point. He could cry with frustration, unable to help or change it, unable to do fucking anything because the bastard drugged him to keep him out of the way. Tim smiles softly, thumb tracing the shadows under Jared's eyes, "Not gonna get killed."

Damp velvet smooth slide of Tim's lips across his own and Jared's eyelids flutter before he can stop them. Slides his hands up Tim's chest, not pushing or pulling, holding, fingers hooking loosely in the neckline of Tim's t-shirt. Mouth opens easily under Tim's without him deciding to, it kind of occurs to him that Tim being on top, kissing him, is a damn convenient way to keep him on his back.

Tim is kissing him so painfully slowly, softly, sweetly almost, guiding Jared's tongue into his mouth and he's positive he wouldn't be fighting this ever. He'd be enjoying it a hell of a lot more if he wasn't on drugs, and didn't half hate Tim for doing it to him.

Exhales slowly when their mouths part slightly, Tim's bottom lip resting on Jared's top one. Cups Tim's face, knowing the action is uncoordinated and he's not sure if he wants to push Tim away or pull him closer, "S'second time you kissed me."

"Yeah, I know." Tim's eyes are closed and he's not pulling away.

Takes a hell of a lot of effort to slide his hand to the back of Tim's neck, more than it ever should and it lets him know the drugs are still being absorbed. "Stay, don't go outside, stay and we can fix it tomorrow."

"Won't be here tomorrow to fix anything. Gotta be tonight," Tim leans his forehead against Jared's, "Then you'll be safe."

"Safe now, with you." Cocooned by Tim's weight he kinda feels it, and maybe he can make Tim see it if he keeps talking. He clings to consciousness with both hands, even if he can't quite keep a grip on Tim. As long as he's awake Tim won't leave. If only he can stay awake...losing fucking battle.

Tim's hands are in his hair, petting and stroking, making it so fucking hard to remember why he's angry with Tim outside of the drugs, why he's not kissing Tim. Whines slightly when Tim pulls away, it's enough to push back the drug induced sleep fug for a second or two, Jared tries to cling to Tim, keep him close. "Fuck me, stay and fuck me." Doesn't have anything else to offer, and hopes like hell Tim thinks sex is preferable to outside.

Tim laughs but it's not unkind, soft, and his fingers are on Jared's cheek, "Now you want me? Contrary bastard."

"Always want you." Someone on this bed is contrary and it's not Jared.

Tim's expression turns tender and Jared thinks for a moment he's won, "M'not leaving, not going anywhere yet, ok?" Tim stretches out next to Jared and pulls him closer. Petting as far as he can reach, down Jared's side and up his back, steady, rhythmical movements and Jared hates Tim trying to put him to sleep as much as he loves being touched. But it's not fair, nothing about Tim is fair.

Jared is pliant as Tim shifts them around, too out of it to put up a fight of any kind. His head rests on Tim's shoulder, arm over Tim's chest and something slides off of his stomach between them. Takes him a second or five to figure it out by which point Tim has the notebook. Makes a sound of negation as he reaches for it, doesn't quite remember why but he's sure that he doesn't want Tim to see.

Soothing sounds and gentle hands, Tim's lips against his forehead and he's too far gone to try. Too far gone and drifting further and further away in his head. Tim's shoulder is warm underneath his cheek, and the fucker must have doubled or tripled the recommended dose because this is so much more debilitating than any other time he's taken his sleeping pills.

It would be so easy to let go and sleep, use Tim as a pillow and maybe it'll be enough to keep Tim inside, in his bed. Tim moves, works his arm out from under Jared, shakes him almost awake again and he tries to grab Tim, keep him on the bed but Tim pulls away regardless.

He tries so hard to stay awake, but it's getting more and more impossible. Eyes falling shut every time he forces them open. Tim petting him, stroking his hair, back, waist, steady, even rise and fall of his chest, all doing nothing to help Jared stay awake. Wake up. He's not even sure if he is awake, feels too content to be anything but asleep, pretty dreams of Tim in his bed, holding him while he sleeps and that surely can't be real.

The bed dips and Jared's head rolls to the side with the movement. He wants to tell Tim to stay, tries to but the words don't get further than moving sluggishly through his mind. Tim says something, barely more than a murmur and there's soft touches to his lips, cheek, forehead; Tim's hands and mouth. He manages to force his eyes open as the door closes, and he tries to call out, wake up, go after Tim, sees it so clearly in his head that he's sure it's happening. It's only when he actually moves his arm a little that he realizes he hasn't moved or spoken at all.

Damn near impossible to do anything about the floating feeling now Tim's weight isn't holding him together. He has to do something. Fuck, can't just lie here, closer to passing out every minute. He pushes up slowly, fighting with everything he has against the way his body is shutting down on him, giving up. Isn't so much sitting up as it is struggling, wedges himself against the wall to keep upright, or as close to as he can get.

Paper crinkling makes him jolt, eyes open but lids heavy as he stares blankly at his notebook before he drags it closer. Sleeping isn't going to help Tim, it's not going to help him either, he needs to stay awake. Tim is going to get killed, and there's fuck all Jared can do about it if he falls asleep, but maybe...maybe ten minutes. Tim will be alright for ten minutes, has to be.

No.

Forces his eyes open a crack, and reaches for the window, edge of it barely three inches from his head. Fresh air, fresh cold air, he'll be alright then. He will. Has to make sure he's as uncomfortable as possible, it'll help him sleep less. Stubborn as he is, he can't hold on much longer, sleep is inevitable, all he can hope for is waking up before too long. The clutter of odds and ends on his windowsill, books and papers mostly, fall to the ground as he overstretches, understretches, doesn't fucking know.

With his fingertips resting on the edge, head against the wall, he has a half decent view of the yard. Blurry, fuzzy, swimming out of focus and he can't figure out if the yard is moving or he is. Does it matter?

There's a flash of pale-almost-white, startling enough to jerk him a little closer to awake, and it's...it's...Tim? Naked? Hallucination. Has to be. Fucked up in the head, tired, drugged and goddamn, he wants to lie down every time his head droops towards his chest, making him jerk back before he overbalances.

Should write it down. Might not be a hallucination, Tim naked in his yard. Shirtless, at least. Write it down before he forgets.

Somehow he manages to drag the notebook onto his lap and tries to unclasp the pen from the binders. Tries again and the movement feels far too familiar, repetitive, so maybe he's tried more times between the first and the last. He can't keep his eyes open long enough to read any of what's on the page, can barely find any free space and in the end he doesn't bother, scrawls over the top of what's already there.

Tim in his bed, holding him, kissing him, he wants that back, wants to go outside and make Tim do it again or it won't be real. It's not fair, he's waited so long and now...now Tim's gone.

He tries so, so hard to stay awake, but the notebook and pen fall from his fingers the next time his eyes close. Head lolls sideways between his shoulder and the wall, and maybe he slides down the wall a little further. It's not comfy, but he's too asleep to care.

* * *

Lunges forward. Bites down on nothing, bloodied teeth skimming fur.

Pain along his side.

Not finished yet. Kill. Wants to. Will do. This is his.

Blood on his fur, in his mouth, nose, clouding his vision and spurring him on. Growls with the promise of death.

Human scent on the air as he drags in a lungful of air. Burn in his hind legs. Fresher blood in his mouth, pulse on his tongue. Claws on his belly, ripping, shredding. Loses his grip trying to twist away but he's not done. Not finished. Not dead.

* * *

Consciousness creeps up on Jared slowly, sluggishly, like the thoughts going through his head, and it takes him a while to realize he's uncomfortable. Awareness is even slower to catch up with him, and he's got no idea how or why he's scrunched himself up against the wall in his sleep. It's too uncomfortable to sleep through, has to move and he's already going through with that by the time he realizes it's a bad idea.

His neck is stiff and pain lances up both sides, shoulders to head, when he turns around. Weight suddenly off the arm closest to the wall, blood rushes back and it tingles so much it hurts. Clenches his fingers into a fist and stretches them out to encourage blood to flow back, grimacing the whole time because the better his arm feels, the more he's aware of how much his back is fucking killing him. Achy and stiff like his neck from being curled up against the wall for who the fuck knows how long.

His head doesn't feel any better, fuzzy and dreamy, thoughts moving lazily. It feels like he should have a headache, there's a dull pounding in his head that he can't pinpoint, but a distinct lack of pain. How he feels after a migraine maybe, absence of pain noticeable for just that, like a gap and he's sure that if he thinks about it too much, he'll find the pain.

It takes him a while to pull himself together, just waiting and trying to make everything hurt less, kickstart his brain into thinking maybe. It's only when the last of the pins and needles go that he really registers that he's still fully dressed but he's not sure...why...and how...and...

Shakes his head and holy fuck, there's the pain, fills the gap of moments ago and it's almost overwhelming. Closes his eyes and holds his breath because it has to pass, nothing could hurt so much and not kill him, just fucking no. The immediacy of it passes, still hurts like fuck but he doesn't quite want to rip his head off to make it stop.

The room swims in front of his eyes as he sits up, blurring and spinning, righting itself a beat or two after he stills. Inhale, exhale. Repeat. Has to find and hold his balance before he tentatively shifts around to put his feet on the floor. Good so far, and he feels a dazed sort of satisfaction at that.

Jared puts a hand on the wall as he gets to his feet, and fucking ow, newer ache in his neck but he doesn't manage to do more than whine quietly. Feels out of sync, like there's a delay between him feeling and reacting, taking everything a while to pass through the cotton-wool insulating his brain. It's with that thought that he recognizes the feeling, woolly-headed drug hangover. Sleeping pills leave him feeling worse, more tired, than if he'd just given into the insomnia. The fuck was he thinking last night, he knows better than that. He's going to be worse than useless today which is why he almost never takes the bastard things. His bed is looking good right now, comfy, more so because he's not on it and he knows that sleeping off the worst of the after-effects is the best way to deal with them.

He sways a little, some part of him sure that he's forgotten something but thinking hurts and sleeping would be so much easier. Almost overbalances and smacks his hand against the wall in delayed, nearly redundant, reflex. Too hard. The small pain seeps into his mind a little after that, palm tingling, and the feeling that he's forgetting something strengthens with it.

It's not light enough to be morning, and after the initial worry that he's missed something, he can't see past the need for another few hours in bed, lying down and comfy warm this time. A mental shrug is easier than a physical one and works just as good, bed it is. He moves to push back the covers and overbalances. It's a slow topple forward, brain not working fast enough to stop it but kicking in just in time to twist around, so he lands on his side. It'll do, standing's difficult and Jared thinks lying is much better. Shifts around a little, bed mostly in order and not giving a flying fuck that he's still fully dressed, he's already slept in his clothes for fuck knows how long, passed out rather than asleep but same difference.

Jared pulls the cover up, wanting to curl up under it, take comfort in the warmth and weight of it. He jolts in surprise as something heavier falls against his stomach, and reaches for it automatically, fully intending to move it out of the way until he feels the metal binders of a notebook. Picks it up and his hand―whole arm in fact―feels kitten weak in contrast. Notebook shouldn't be this heavy but he puts it down to the sleeping pills.

As he finally manages to get the notebook high enough to look at, a fuzzy memory slowly starts to take shape. Yeah, he was writing in it before he passed out, and he turns it over curiously before staring at the line brainstorming on the page. Shivery-cold fingers of dread curl through his chest and squeeze hard, like they're trying to force his heart right out of his body.

Holy shit.

The previous night comes back to him like a dream sequence, images unfocused but right there in his mind's eye, along with the sickening, stomach-churning realization that it's all very, very real. Everything. Fucking all of it. The whole previous day, the conversations and confusion, Tim slipping him sleeping pills which completely explains why he feels like a fucking zombie. Tim must have tripled his dose with the force they hit and Jared's probably lucky he's awake at all today, if it is actually 'today' and not two days later. That kind of thinking hurts his head, so he stops.

Tim had said he was going to 'fix' things. On his own. Tim hiding things, and holy fucking hell, Tim. He needs to find out what happened, if Tim's ok, what he's missed because the asshole went and fucking drugged him.

Jared's not prepared for the dizzy-spin as he scrambles out of bed and to his feet. Sits down hard and silently begs it to go away now because it's not fair, he shouldn't have to feel like this, and he has to be up. Two more tries before he manages to stand and stay standing. One foot in front of the other, right, he can fucking do this, he has to do this.

The house is eerily quiet as he stumbles out of his room, along the hallway, checking each of the rooms as he goes. His feet scuff on the floor, the doors bang against the walls as he pushes too hard, almost falling into them but there's no other sounds than the ones he's making. Manages three stairs before he trips over his own feet and clings onto the railing as he takes two at a time just to stop himself from skidding all the way down. Haste or drug-induced clumsiness, he's not sure, but the result's the same. Quiet and...still, somehow. Yeah, the house feels still, empty, he can't feel anything, no prickling at the back of his neck, not being watched, nothing which isn't unusual in the daylight but it feels like there's more to it.

He scans the front room looking for Tim before calling out his name and listening for a response, any response, snoring, murmured talking in his sleep, but there's nothing, even the dawn chorus hasn't started yet. Jared slumps against the wall because if he doesn't, he's pretty sure he's going to fall. The notebook's still in his hand and he has no recollection of bringing it with him but his knuckles are white from holding onto it so tightly, so much so that he's surprised his fingers haven't started cramping yet.

It's not just his own writing on the page, he frowns as he tries to make sense of what's his, and what's been added. Tim's handwriting―and it's got to be Tim's―is different enough from his own that it should be easy; where his own words are pressed into the page, lines and letters gone over more than once, Tim's chickenscratch handwriting is fainter, ink lighter and not leaving much of an indent.

Tim's connected bits that Jared hadn't, drawn lines between things that Jared had thought unrelated. Given the last twenty-four hours, Jared isn't putting it past Tim to be fucking with him, dropping red-herrings all over his notes. But the closer he looks, the less likely that seems. Breathing shallow through worry if not quite fear, Jared follows the newer lines, finger tracing them to keep his mind focused.

Everything leads back to 'Tim'. Sometimes bypassing 'fault', sometimes not, but yeah, the lightly drawn arrows bring just about everything back to 'Tim'. He's added an 'S' to guy, plural...well, fuck...Jared shivers at the implications there but doesn't have the time to think on all of them. There's another line connecting 'Guys' to 'Home'. 'Travel Sick' has been added, linked back to 'Hiding Something', 'Tim', and fuck...Jared blinks at the final line; 'Dog' has been scratched out and replaced with 'Wolf'. Wolf Bite. Fuck...it...but...

It doesn't make any sense. Not right now especially when he's having trouble thinking in straight lines, never mind laterally. He doubts it'd make any more sense if he was functioning at one hundred percent and on three espressos. Tim's trying to tell him something, that much is obvious, although Jared wishes he hadn't chosen now to be a cryptic motherfucker.

Focus. He needs to focus, figure this out because Tim can't have bothered writing it down if it isn't important, if he doesn't want Jared to get it. Looking at the page, staring at it so hard that he's sure the image is tattooing itself on his retinas, isn't making it any clearer, he thinks he could probably stare at it all day and it still won't make any sense, or maybe his lethargic brain won't let him make sense of it.

There's no clue on the page about where Tim went last night, or what he was going to do, and that's enough to begin to stir the panic again. Or at least, the desire to panic because his body is fighting being awake full stop, let alone functional. He's missing something, he has to be, and whatever it is, isn't on the page.

Jared lets his gaze relax, still looking at the notepad but...not really seeing it, looking through it pretty much as he tries to piece together as much of the previous evening as he can. Writing in his notebook, coffee, tiredness, and then there are black spots, things he only half-remembers doing or saying; throwing up, Tim kissing him and huh, he hopes that wasn't the order those two things happened in, but it's so far from the issue right now and he certainly can't change it if it was.

The fuzzy memory of Tim kissing him is distracting, mostly because he doesn't want it to be fuzzy, but no, he has to concentrate. Has to remember what happened next because he's sure it's important. Kissing, Tim's weight against him, keeping him against the bed and no, it's after that, later. Doesn't remember Tim leaving. Doesn't feel like there's anything after Tim kissing him, but the harder he struggles to think about it, the clearer the words on the page in front of him. It's like an optical illusion, and he's only just now seeing the larger words, slanted, barely legible, scrawled across the page and over the rest of the picture.

The memory hits him like a sledgehammer, still dreamlike but suddenly it's right there; Tim, outlined by moonlight for just a second, darting at least half-naked across the yard. It can't be a dream, can't be. Not least because usually when Jared dreams about Tim naked, there's a whole lot more sex going on.

Bits and pieces slowly start to drop into place, it's all within his grasp but the puzzle is too huge, too ridiculous to be real, but he can't deny that the individual parts are leading him slowly but surely to one conclusion. Occam's razor, right? Simplest explanation is usually correct, except...there's some fuck off huge leaps in logic for it to be true.

It's half formed at best because he doesn't want to think it at all, isn't willing to take it all the way. Nips and bites the outskirts of his consciousness, ever-present as he pushes away from the wall to stumble-run-lurch from one room to the next in hopes that he's wrong. Someone's calling Tim's name and it takes Jared a second or two to realize it's him. Doesn't know if it's the after-effects of the sleeping pills or he's just panicking this much, but it doesn't much matter because he's not stopping, hoping against futile hope that Tim's crashed out in a corner somewhere.

There's no answer and Tim definitely isn't curled up anywhere, so either he's not in the house, or he's hiding...which makes even less sense than anything else. His stomach sinks when he reaches the kitchen and sees the strangely familiar pile of Tim's clothes, sneakers with a sock stuffed in each of them. Same clothes Tim was wearing yesterday, no doubt they're anything else.

He's close to hyperventilating as he takes in the rest of the kitchen, nothing else odd, nothing out of place except for the back door. Unlocked and slightly open, no more than an inch but it explains the sudden chill, the one that definitely isn't just because he's scared shitless of what's going on.

Takes three―maybe four or five―deep breaths, chest hollowing on each exhale, mind almost blank because he doesn't know what to think. Doesn't know what to do, either. Picking up Tim's clothes, folding them neatly on the kitchen table is about all he can manage, hands shaking so much that he drops the t-shirt at least four times. He's delaying the inevitable. Finding something normal to cling to, something familiar and within his control. Jared doesn't feel in control at all, more like he's strapped into a rollercoaster in the dark and he can't do anything except hang on for the ride.

Clothes haphazardly folded, Jared leans on the table, hands either side of the pile of clothes and just tries to...drag himself together. Find some perspective, maybe. He still feels like shit, but...forcing his mind blank is helping, he's coming back to himself in blinks and flickers, sanity and calm building on themselves until it's―he's―something resembling whole, if shaky and poorly constructed.

He can't put it off any longer, gotta look sometime and now is no worse than later. Isn't any better, either, but he knows he can twist reasons 'why not' around in his head so that he'll never look. Gotta be now. No time like the present, right?

Jared swallows around the lump in his throat, wishing and praying that the yard is exactly how it was three days ago, but he knows he's not lucky enough to be that crazy. It's still early, sun not fully risen, everything's in muted greyscape but it's light enough to see clearly. There's too much to take in or even begin to make sense of. It's an effort to really, truly believe what his eyes are showing him. The yard is even more torn up than before, hardly recognizable even to him, but it's what's lying in the middle of the devastation that trips up every logical thought he has.

He's hallucinating. He has to be. This shit doesn't happen to sane people.

Canine, is his first, second and third thought, even from this angle. It's lying in a heap close to what used to be the tree-line, but is now mostly just a tree. Silver-gray huge mass of fur, probably silver-gray from the little clean fur he can see between the patches that look matted and dark with what can only be blood. It's too big to be a dog, but...no. It can't be real. This can't be real.

His face is so close to the window by the time he's processed that what he's seeing is really there that his breath is fogging up the glass, obscuring his view. He uses his sleeve to wipe away the condensation, irrationally―or maybe not―surprised that it's still out there. He's still in complete disbelief but the thought―flimsy still, and not ready to be pulled into existing―is there and it's fucked up on levels that can't be measured by reality.

All of the thoughts he's trying to suppress suddenly slam into place when the pile of fur begins to move. Nothing overt at first, doesn't look like anything more than a shudder, but the pile of fur...shrinks, too slowly for him to see, but there's no mistaking what's happening after it starts. Feels like everything just stops as he stares. Not breathing. Can't feel his heartbeat or pulse. There's static-y white-noise in his ears and reality presses down on him like some kind of medieval torture device. This shit can't be real. It can't.

The fur recedes as he watches, but he can't for the life of him tell how, only that there's human skin now where there had been fur a moment before. It's changing shape, knows that although he can't pinpoint what's changing so much, muscles move―flexing and contracting maybe―until it's no longer a bundle of bloodied fur, it's a very, very naked, dirty and still bloodied Tim.

His chest hurts, and the white-noise in his ears takes on a beat, heart pounds heavily against his ribcage and echoes through him. Even when he does try to drag in a breath, it feels like the air's too thick, liquid almost. He wants to jerk away from the window but he's frozen to the spot with half his mind completely blown and the other half spinning so fast it's making him dizzy. He grips the counter top to the side for balance because his legs are threatening to turn to jello under him. Sliding to the floor, curling into a ball until Shannon gets home tomorrow morning sounds better and better by the second.

The white-noise is gone, replaced with the sound of his own voice cussing a bluestreak, words he's sure he's making up on the spot because there isn't a swear word in existence that covers the amount of holy fuck, Tim's a goddamn fucking werewolf he's experiencing. Every paranoid feeling he's endured has been given irrefutable if confusing form, or he's crazier than the March Hare on acid and has been for a fuck-ass long time. Someone should have noticed, they had to have...unless he has multiple personalities as well and he does know he's crazy but can't remember.

It's ridiculous. He's not crazy and that, right there, is the craziest thing fucking possible.

At the same time though, Tim being a werewolf, or wolf-man, or whatever the fuck the politically correct term is, makes...sense, almost. At least, it definitely explains why he hasn't been able to work out what's missing before now because...yeah, fucking werewolf. The fuck is he supposed to have worked that one out. And Jesus fucking Christ, Tim's a fucking werewolf. Tim's something that shouldn't even exist outside of horror movies and fiction, and who the fuck knows how accurate those are. Chances of him getting his throat ripped out...fuck, can't think of that.

Yeah, he's scared, but whether it's of Tim or for Tim he doesn't know. He's still mostly too numb to feel much of anything but shock. He's sure if it wasn't for the drug hangover, he'd be freaking out, rocking in the corner and talking to himself because this is threatening to break his brain despite how diluted the feeling has to be. Nothing he ever came up with is close to this, hasn't prepared for anything like this, fucking unsurprisingly because....fuck. Werewolf.

He's pretty sure there's no proper etiquette, or guides for how to react to finding your occasional not-quite-fuck-buddy and touring bassist naked in your yard, after watching him turn back to human from a fucking wolf. He really, really wishes there was, a how-to guide would be a big help right now.

Jared can't let go of the counter, not yet, he's in real danger of falling if he does, legs feeling less stable than melting rubber, and cracking his skull open on the counter corner or floor would be fuck all good to anyone. Breathing is easier now, more self preservation than the panic fading, but it helps, gets oxygen to his brain and that's gotta be a good thing.

Tim's still outside, hasn't moved since...since he became Tim again, and that's not a good sign. He could be dead for all Jared knows, certainly can't see him breathing. Could be dying while Jared's standing here quietly freaking out and that...no, he can't let that happen, can't let it go on now that the thought crosses his mind.

The door's within reach and he keeps one hand on the counter just in case as he pulls it open. Pushing away from the counter, standing on his own without anything to lean on or hold onto takes more out of him than he's comfortable admitting. It's draining and scary and he feels like a kid without a comfort blankie; alone and cold and vulnerable.

He treads carefully, but he's stumbling more than walking, uncaring as he leaves the door wide open behind him. Keeps his eyes on the ground mostly, mindful of the mess and how bad tripping will be, but sneaks glances at Tim, half hoping he starts moving on his own, regains consciousness, but he's fucking terrified of what's going to wake up in Tim's body if that does happen.

Even from just a glance, Tim looks worse the closer he gets. Face down on the ground, head turned away, one arm stretched out to the side like he's reaching for the house. It looks like the most uncomfortable position in the world all on its own, without the open wounds still bleeding out. As much as Jared doesn't want to get any closer, scared and unsure of what Tim is and could be, he doesn't want Tim to be dead, either.

Worry really kicks in about then, the possibility that Tim could actually be dead, and Jared won't ever get to see him smile, hear him laugh or play stupid nonsensical riffs on his bass just to be annoying, and the hundred other little things that Tim does, or says or just plain is. His stomach churns with panic and worry and who the fuck knows what else but none of it's good, because he doesn't want Tim to be dead. It'll about break him completely and no, does not want to follow that thought trail anywhere.

There's too much blood, Tim bleeding is obvious, back a mass of open wounds, arms scratched from shoulder to fingers and there's blood everywhere, fresh, too-bright red and darker, dryer patches and Jared prays to every god he can think of that some of it isn't Tim's. Doesn't care whose it is, just so long as it's not Tim's because there's too much of it to come from one person and still be alive.

Relief hits like a physical punch, nearly staggers him, when Tim's back rises minutely. Breathing, then. Thank fuck.

He's as close as he dares, something―likely himself―holding him back and making him not want to get any nearer. He should do something, but what, he doesn't know.

Tim lying right in front of him is making it difficult to believe what he saw earlier. Tim's...Tim-shaped, how he's meant to look but he hadn't been. Covered in fur, not human at-fucking-all, and so very insanely real that he doesn't think he'll ever completely scrape the image from his mind. Doubts that he'll ever be able to look at Tim in quite the same way, either, the memory will always be there exactly as it is now, nipping at his conscious mind and he won't ever be able to put it behind them or forget it completely.

He should be running as far and as fast as he can, until he collapses―although that probably isn't very far or fast in his current state―sleep until the inside of his head stops resembling a murky fish tank, and pretend none of this ever happened, but he can't help wanting to stay.

Can't even be happy about the fact that he's not lost his mind, every last one of his suspicions, every lost hour of sleep, they're all justified and he thinks he should feel better about that. He...doesn't want to deal with this, he shouldn't have to fucking deal with it, it's the worst kind of unfair. Tim...fuck, he's the first guy that Jared's let close in a long time, gotten under his skin so far that Jared hadn't realized he was there until missing him became almost a physical ache, and Tim's a goddamn werewolf. How is that fair?

Shannon always says he goes about things the hard way but this is beyond ridiculous and this...this is...shouldn't ever have to deal with this. It's not fair. It's not supposed to be fair, life isn't, he knows that but fucking werewolves aren't supposed to exist, shouldn't exist and he shouldn't have to deal with it. Not fair, not when Tim's so far under his skin that Jared will need to cut him out with a knife before he's even close to forgetting him.

On the heels of that thought is the knowledge that he doesn't want to forget Tim, doesn't want to cut him out of his life or from under his skin. It's Tim. He knows Tim; well, ok, he obviously fucking doesn't, but he's spent months living with Tim on tour―laughing and talking with him, watching him, winding him up and teasing, being teased in return and seeing Tim's face light up because Jared's dancing like a fucking idiot on stage. Handjobs in whatever nook or cranny they can find, hot breath on his neck, fucking...Tim shaking in his arms as he admits he wants Jared too much. Too long, too close quarters, and it can't all be a lie, a pretense on Tim's part, because no one can keep pretending twenty-four-seven.

It's real. Tim's real. Jared has to believe that.

It's easier to believe than maybe it should be, feels like he's made some kind of decision but he's not a hundred percent sure what it is. Does it matter? Probably not, because he's moving forward already, small hesitant steps, a deep breath and then he widens his stride to something close to normal. He can't leave Tim lying out there, hurt, bleeding and who knows what else, he can't and he won't.

He's almost on top of Tim before he realizes it. Crouches slowly down to the ground, putting one hand down first because nu-uh, not enough balance by a long shot.

There's hardly a patch of clean or blood-free skin on Tim that Jared can see but he doesn't care, reaches out anyway. Tim's skin is fever warm despite the cold morning air and Jared strokes Tim's back, inch or two higher than his spine. He can feel Tim's lungs rattling which has to be a good thing, he's breathing at least.

Tim moves his head, groans, and then there's strong fingers fisting in Jared's shirt, yanking him down, hard. He has a split second to think that maybe if he wasn't so fucking dazed, he'd have seen it coming but it's too late because his back hits the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

Laying flat on the damp grass, gasping in a breath, it strikes him as ironically amusing that he's lived here for almost a decade and he's never been on his back in the yard as much as he has in the last forty-eight hours. That, and his hair's wet. Again.

Tim squirms closer, breath catching in what has to be pain but it doesn't stop him. Jared doesn't want to stop him either, he's moving for a start which is a hell of a lot better than five minutes ago. Not to mention he doesn't even know how to stop Tim, if he should. He lets out a shaky breath when Tim finally seems to get where he...wants to be? Is comfortable? Jared doesn't know but Tim's half over him, face pressed against his neck and about as close as he can be without being surgically attached. Tim's weight is almost suffocating, breath damp and heavy across his skin, but Tim moves with him as he wriggles to get more room.

He'd been helpless when Tim had him against the wall yesterday, and the likelihood that he's getting out of this unless Tim wants to let him go is slim to non-existent.

"Tim?" Word rasps out of his throat, voice waivers, and as he speaks he realizes he's got nothing to follow it up with. Doesn't know what to say next, how to express what he wants to say and what he needs to know; that Tim's still the person he thinks he knows.

Tim whimpers and snuffles even closer, which isn't any kind of response. Mouth open, faintest drag of teeth on Jared's neck and Jared shivers, tells himself it's because the ground's cold, dew-wetness seeping into his clothes.

He's not sure how he feels about Tim being so close after what he saw, but he has to cling to the belief that Tim's not going to hurt him. Tim whimpers again, and there's no way he's not in pain, breath breaking and catching in his throat.

It comes as something of a shock to realize the shivering he was trying to suppress has turned into involuntary shaking―him, not Tim―cold and fear settling under his skin and he can't do anything to help either of them if they stay here.

Tim keeps making small, helpless sounds, trying to get closer still and that about makes up his mind for him. That and the ever present fear of who―what might be still out here.

Jared struggles to shift Tim's weight even a little but gives up in favor of twisting around so he can see Tim's face, "C'mon, need to get you inside."

He recognizes the rumbled growl that starts in Tim's chest as soon as it starts, and this time it's not desire making him shudder at the sound. Tim's arm tightens around him and he's not sure if Tim moves closer or Tim pulls him closer. Heart races, still worried about...fuck, everything, outside, Tim.

"Gone. Safe." The words are breathed darkly, pain lacing every syllable. Another squeeze and, "Mine," is barely audible.

Jared's mouth goes dry. Already heightened emotions slam straight through a brick wall and into oblivion.

That's...all well and good. Maybe. But...the fuck is it supposed to mean? He doesn't know and he can't deal with it. Not right now. Pneumonia is easier, safer, and most of all, he can do something about it. So long as he gets them inside, and yeah, he really should be doing that.

It's an effort, strain on every muscle in his upper body but he manages to twist himself 'round, sitting up and hauling Tim with him. Tim's a dead weight almost which doesn't bode well at all. Jared knows it's not going to work as soon as he's done it, and he rolls Tim onto his back instead which is easy apart from the fact that Tim's clinging to him.

He doesn't have much experience with kids, but the way Tim clings, with barely any awareness and Jared having to forcefully move each of his arms in turn, rearrange them so he's got Tim facing the right way at least, makes him sort of wish he did. Might have half a clue how best to deal with this instead of just pushing Tim's hands, arms, away and hoping for the best.

He finally manages to get Tim's arm slung over his shoulders and he wriggles his own arm around Tim's back, grunting in exertion as he hefts them back up to sitting.

Vision blurs for a second, slamming home the fact that he's still not right. Cusses under his breath as he waits for it to pass, jerking his face away when Tim nuzzles against his neck.

"Ok. Ok, need to...get up," mumbles, more for something to say than anything else.

Stares down at the cuts―fucking understatement―on Tim's stomach and chest for the first time, flinching at what he sees. Fuck, Tim's lucky his insides aren't on his outside, vicious lacerations down to his groin almost, old dog―no, wolf―bite reopened and widened until he can see pink flesh. Jared's got no fucking idea how to explain this if he has to take Tim to the hospital, and he doesn't see a way that they're not going to end up in hospital.

He grips Tim's wrist to keep his arm in place, rocks their weight forward and fuck knows how he manages it, but he's on his knees and hauling Tim with him. Breathes deeply because Tim is fucking heavy and Jared can hardly hold his own body weight, never mind support Tim as well.

It takes him a couple of seconds to get his balance before he braces himself, face contorting from pain and exertion as he pushes them both to standing. Tightens his arm around Tim's waist to keep him upright, gets a hiss of pain and warm, thick and liquid trickles over his hand. He knows what it is but doesn't want to think about how he's likely just reopened something.

Can't think about that now, has to get them inside, clean Tim up, be practical because if he lets himself think on everything, he'll go crazy. He ignores Tim's whining, small pained sounds as Jared holds him close and moves them forward one step, then another.

Tim's feet are barely keeping up but it's better than nothing. He holds onto Tim's wrist, pulling down as he tries to shift Tim higher with his other arm, get a better grip on him. It's working, he's getting them inside. One foot after the other, just needs to keep going. Right foot, left, yanks Tim closer, nearly overbalances, braces his legs and fights back against the way his knees threaten to buckle. Fuck no, not going down. Tim can't take a sudden meeting with the ground for sure, and Jared knows he's not going to be able to get up again if they fall.

His back aches with the strain, muscles in his arms and legs burning, lungs feeling like they're on fire, but he's not stopping. Nu-uh. Needs to get Tim inside before they both catch pneumonia. The stumble-walk back to the house feels twice as long as it should, and by the time he gets them inside―crashing heavily, painfully, into the doorjam, part bracing himself, part over-balancing―his mouth's dry from the way he's dragging in every breath.

The guest room is closer than his own room, least explanation needed if the sheets get dirty because he can't hold Tim up long enough to get him in the shower which...fuck, he should try at least. Tim's wounds could get infected if he doesn't, and a shower will warm then both up. Goddamn, he's got no idea how he's gonna manage this. "C'mon, jus' a bit futher..."

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