revivalproject | Make your Statement, face your fear.

Entry tags:

Make your Statement, face your fear.

WHO: Jonathan Sims & YOU
WHERE: Jon's Calibration Room
WHAT: Explore the Archivist's mind
WHEN: During the Calibration Event [ June 3rd - July 10th ]
WARNINGS: EYES - Body horror, possible mentions of unsettling events including kidnapping, death and dreadful monsters

The Archivist's office is a mess. Most offices are. Especially offices located in basements. Offices that belong to equally chaotic archives. And the archives of the Magnus Institute are incredibly chaotic. Gertrude Robinson has seen to that. And yet the mess in this office isn't hers. It's the mess of the current Archivist, right now seated behind his cluttered desk, appearing even smaller than he actually is, the small lamp on the table serving as the only actual source of light in this room. In front of the Archivist sits a small pile of statement files on a dining plate, but his attention isn't on the files, it's on his visitor.

There are more of these files spread all over the room. Cardboard boxes full of them stacked high and pushed into whatever free corner has once existed in it. Further boxes are stacked less high or are plain lying around, some closed, some opened, some rummaged through. Other, smaller boxes that aren't filled with files join the previous ones. There are also a few metal shelves covering part of the walls. And file cabinets. There are more files in these as well as more boxes and books. Most of them scientific in nature, some deal with the arcane, myths and legends. Various types of tape recorders and boxes of tapes are also widely strewn about as well as loose pages of paper, the occasional tea mug and cobwebs. For some reason or another there are at least a dozen fire extinguishers to be spotted throughout the room, and it likely isn't due to the clearly used ashtray or the golden lighter with a cobweb design engraved onto it on the desk near the Archivist's dust-covered laptop, untouched cup of tea and the sole human rib. Aside from more stray sheets of paper and some writing equipment, a single book also resides on the desk, its title introducing it as A Guest for Mr. Spider.

Though there is more to be found in the various shelves as well. A knife as well as a cleaver, an unsuspecting whistle that seems to be surrounded by an odd fog and will vanish should one try to reach for it. Underneath one of the shelves, there even is a plain cardboard box filled with C-4 plastic explosives. Further up, a roughly football-sized dark sun dares the visitor to look at it to plunge them into utter and complete darkness. The frisbee some may recognize as a certain someone's shield seems a little out of place as it lays unassuming on one of the higher shelves, covering an odd little action figure from view.

But maybe one feels more compelled to look out of the window, suspiciously present in this basement office. Outside lies the vastness of space, set to incite the feeling of falling right into it unless one pulls away from the sight in time. Or the human-sized mannequin standing motionless in one of the corners, wearing an ancient gorilla skin along with its top hat and a wide, leery, painted-on grin. It has no eyes. The pulsing, black and red veins creeping along the walls of the office and present themselves in varying sizes and thicknesses may also draw the visitor's attention. Or the seemingly harmless and somewhat misplaced looking yellow door draws them in, just there on the wall behind that coffin lying on the floor as if it belongs there. Thick chains are wrapped around it with a padlock holding them close, key stuck inside and inviting the visitor to unlock it. Just ignore the large letters carved into its wood imploring you to 'DO NOT OPEN' the casket. It'll be fine.

Yet... How tempting all of these things may be, the visitor may be unable to entirely ignore the MASSIVE EYE taking up the entire ceiling of the room, glowing an eerie green and watching their every move. Or any of the other eyes scattered around the room. The walls, the cabinets, the shelves, the side of the Archivist's desk, the corners, the floor, the Archivist's forehead. All shapes and sizes and colors and all of them watching the visitor unblinking, unjudging. Just following their every move around the room - Just as the Archivist himself does.

Maybe you want to look around, and maybe you just want to take a seat in that single empty chair before the Archivist's desk. There is just enough room between it and the casket to not feel too cramped in. As for the trap door next to the Archivist's desk... Now that one won't open just yet.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It was reassuring to know Jon had at least one normal friend that had the chance to kill him and didn't. That built a lot of trust, in Tony's experience. "That was her choice to make, wasn't it? She didn't have to answer," he said before Jon could start blaming himself any more for the putting her in danger part. The Avengers didn't hold each other accountable when they were called to action; they agreed to look out for each other. "Listen-- my team--" It didn't make it any easier than Jon knew about Iron Man, but at least Tony could stop trying to work around these things. "They ream me for showing up a few minutes late, never mind not answering a call. But that's because they always show up for me, every time. It sounds like Daisy knows you'd show up for her, too. If I touch either one of these things, am I going to start wondering about her, too, like this asshole?" He gestured back toward the phantom Martin, the traitor.

Jon winces visibly. "Please don't call him that. He... He has his reasons. Whatever it is he's helping Peter Lukas with, he doesn't..." His voice trails off into a weak shrug. He can't exactly deny that his last few interactions with Martin hadn't been difficult, if not hurtful, even. Still... He wants to trust Martin to do the right thing.

He moves on to shake his head, voice softening. "But, no. Daisy didn't have to answer my call, but... She did. And I'm grateful for it." There is no way he would have been able to deal with two hunters. "As for your question... We all changed over the last few years, Tony. A lot happened."

Tony gave a shrug, too, rolling his eyes because it wasn't supposed to be that serious, except that it was a little bit--he had no reason to be precious about the guy that Jon said wanted him dead. Good intentions didn't make someone less of an asshole; Tony was an expert.

"I can see that. You got new pants," he said, as though that was the first noticeable difference in Jon across these memories, and not the body work he hadn't signed up for. It was supposed to be an offhand acceptance of any of their changes, however gradual or abrupt, despite this second hand, fractal familiarity with the people in Jon's life. They weren't any different from any other humans, even if they were aliens. The best Tony could offer to elaborate was, "I met some of my best friends when they were trying to assassinate me," waving a dismissive hand. However those changes happened, though, they still left Tony facing this Jon, that flinched when Tony didn't expect it. "But, you're so..." he tried to explain, then bit his lip, chin down to watch Jon through his lashes like he could figure out what he was trying to say from Jon's face, tapping his erratic rhythm against his chest. Maybe he was reading all wrong, most people just didn't take Tony very seriously or kept their distance. "I don't know what I'm allowed to say to you, sometimes," he mumbled, gaze dropping because he didn't mean to frame that as a personal problem.

The pant-comment has Jon blink at first, but the moment quickly shifts, making him want to inquire about that assassination attempt, instead. Then that idea escapes the moment Tony ends up the one looking for the right words, causing the Archivist to incline his head just a little.

It's an oddly frank admission he receives. Especially from Tony, who rarely appears to be at a loss - Or at least unwilling to simply march on, plain ignoring what consequences may wait ahead. And Jon gives a slow, thoughtful nod at first, letting his eyes drop to one of Tony's knees before raising one of his hands to place it over that very knee and gently massage his thumb along its side.

"I, I didn't mean to be difficult." He starts, then swallows the apology, deciding on a different angle, instead. "And I appreciate your honesty. It's not my intention to mandate what you are... Allowed to say either - Or make you feel that way. I apologize for that. Because I do want you to feel comfortable to speak freely to me." And he pauses for a moment before glancing back up to Tony. "Just try not to think too badly of Martin. He's... Not in a good place. And while he won't tell me what's going on... I feel that whatever he has gotten himself involved into, he's only trying to keep the rest of us safe. I want to trust him to let me know when he needs my help."

See, it wasn't supposed to sound like a personal problem and Tony couldn't even be frustrated with Jon for his listening skills for this one, because Tony wasn't looking for some apology or reassurance, he was trying to figure out what happened. Instead, he was watching their hands as he caught Jon's fingers on his knee, wanting to interrupt the impulse but not really wanting him to stop, and giving a small shake of his head that he knew looked like he was rejecting what Jon was trying to offer him until he rolled his eyes again and tried to give Jon a smile back. That was still very sweet and generous of Jon, but Tony didn't think it had anything to do with the way Jon could recoil from him. As much as Rumiko would deck him, even she never looked like she expected Tony to punch back; he didn't have any framework for this conversation.

"I'm not," he said of Martin, not entirely convinced himself. He was more sure as he added, "I'm thinking of you. I can see from where I'm sitting the top twenty worst fucking things that have happened to you..." If that wasn't what each of these objects was, that coffin and mannequin were very misleading and Tony had terrible luck, "And that made the cut." With another shrug, Tony opened his free hand, open to suggestions for how else he was supposed to feel about Martin in that context. He didn't like the guy who took Jon's bones very much, either.

"I suppose..." Jon starts, face turning thoughtful as he looks over to where Tony's hand has caught his fingers "All fourteen of the Fears are represented in this room. But the Lonely... I suppose I haven't fully encountered that one yet." He thinks aloud, glancing over to the whistle, currently surrounded by a thick fog.

"All the other Powers I experienced in a much more personal way, but I can't say I really felt entirely alone so far. That may be why the Lonely is not as present around here..." And he casts his eyes back up towards Tony. "Maybe Peter is planning its ritual. It could be his plan. Christ, if that's what's going on..." Then he may well be losing Martin as well. The thought alone makes Jon's fingers twitch as if he wants to curl them into a fist, or dig them into something. Must he lose everyone he cares for to these Entities? Is that part of his job now?

If Jon was the one that stopped these rituals and he was stuck here, that did not bode well for the people he left back home. Maybe it wasn't so bad, though, maybe, despite all evidence in this room, this was just another thing Jon got unreasonably hysterical about. "He seems to have it under control," Tony offered, making the gesture for Martin again. "What could happen, anyway? This freak sacrifices a goat and, what, he gets to be an avatar now? No offense, but that doesn't sound like a vast improvement on a guy's life."

Tony’s words have Jon state at him wide-eyed for several moments. Has he never told Tony what these rituals do? But now that he thinks about it... He can’t help but chuckle a little. It’s a find chuckle, though. And Jon stand up from his chair and steps as close to Tony as he possibly can to wrap his arms around the man’s neck and gently pull Tony’s head against his chest, the amusement not quite leaving him.

“That’s not what the rituals do.” Jon then says softly, refusing to let go, but neither changing the soothing tone of his voice. “They are meant to summon one of the Entities to my world and change it to meet its requirements to fully manifest in it and rule over it.”

That was...condescending. So Tony didn't get these Entities enough to think they would be interested in anything as pedestrian as taking over the world; everything else about them made it sound like they had higher aspirations than Dr. Doom, they already had their own dimension, one ant like this Peter jerking himself off over them couldn't have been worth much attention. Tony's frown at the gesture didn't stop him from accepting it and letting it ease the irritated bunch of his shoulders, though, releasing a toxic sigh from all of the frustration he had for Jon's friends and himself and all of this magic shit.

"I'm glad you haven't been alone," he muttered as he responded not quite with a hug back, but hands back on Jon's waist like he had when counting his ribs. He didn't have much comfort to offer about the end of the world ritual while Jon was stuck dealing with this one in the aftermath of their apocalypse, but he could stop being such a dick about Jon's friends.

These are ancient fears, Tony, and their aspirations are about as ancient and simple as turning the world they exist next to into a delicious nightmare buffet after their personal tastes. Sometimes that’s all that evil gods really want. They can leave the more complicated scheming to the more complicated supervillains dwelling in other dimensions.

Jon pulls his arms around Tony a little tighter and gives an appreciating hum to his words. “And I’m glad I’m not alone here, either.” And after a moment Jon adds a little shrug himself. “If it’s true that time doesn’t pass at home while we’re here, at least I don’t have to worry to return only to discover I have missed an apocalypse.”

Tony wasn't sure he believed that, the same way he didn't quite believe the forgetting everything part, but it didn't seem like a good time to argue the point--Jon's apocalypse could stay theoretically on hold. He had witnessed time do stranger things, anyway. "I'd miss the birth of a friend's baby by now," he sighed, taking Jon's squeeze as a cue to encircle his hips loosely, toying idly at his belt loops. "I missed my birthday," he added less confidently, not sure exactly when his birthday was without counting days, "And it must be summer by now, Cap's should be soon. I just launched a new phone, pure satlink for the mass market, it was supposed to change how media was shared. Already had a new array to launch at the end of the quarter to offset the load, the moon should be paying me rent by now." It would be nice if time could stop for them for a lot of reasons.

Jon listens to Tony’s words, the relative mundanity of their content a nice change of topic for once and he lets his fingers trail over the man’s neck and back where they can reach while contently nuzzling the top of Tony’s head.

“Your Birthday?” He asks, brows pulling up as he glances down. It’s true that time is terribly hard to count on this alien planet, but they can still make vague guesses about its passing.

“I owe you a present.” Jon decides after a moment and seals that decision off with a kiss to Tony’s head. This one he isn’t willed to argue about.

Even with his eyes falling closed, Tony could sense the unrelenting stare from all angles, keeping him tense and narrowly watchful over Jon's arm despite the tickle through his hair and down his neck, making him squirm in frustration. He passed both hands up Jon's back with a slow inhale, as though he could ignore it better if he could press closer to indulge in this affection that he had only seen the Admiral earn so far without any prompting, but those eyes had him wondering if this was just Jon's way of distracting Tony from touching anything else he didn't want Tony seeing. That was what Tony would have done, anyway. He released the breath in a huff at the kiss. Did it matter?

Forgetting when their birthdays might be was preferable to any gift options there might have been in this predicament, so Tony did snort at the offer, not sure he could pretend to be thrilled about an extra block of cinnamon-flavoured protein. "I could go for a big pool lounger right now," he mumbled, as long as they were having a fantasy, brain more than ready to offer an array of things Tony would prefer to have. "Oh, new car smell," he added, nodding gravely against Jon's shoulder, no doubt, not even the car, he'd take the experience of a new smell right now. Even better, "Forty-five minutes of alone time in the bathroom," he groaned. His taste wasn't always outrageously expensive, only most of the time, when he wasn't trapped in a bunker.

"Forty-five minutes." Jon mumbles into Tony's hair, sounding thoughtfully bemused. "That's quite some time to spent alone in the bathroom." Though he won't question those simple wishes. A little privacy is tricky to find with everyone being locked up in these tunnels.

Jon lets his hands travel in somewhat larger circles. Not quite a massage, but soothing regardless. "How about I find you a... A fun memory for now. I have... An idea what you might enjoy seeing."

Something else unrelated to monsters, rituals and bodily mutilations.

Or, Jon could stay here and keep doing that until the clock ran out, but even phrasing the offer like that had Tony abandoning the happy curl of his hands between Jon's shoulders to smooth his shirt back down his sides as Tony sat up to try to gauge what Jon meant by his expression. A fun memory that Jon thought Tony would enjoy seeing, this was an enigma, there were too many dangerous variables there to confidently assume Jon was about to send him very scandalous pictures like he would if he had received a text like that. "Is it about the cat again?" Tony asked, looking concerned that Jon thought anyone else's pleasure might have been cat-based. While Tony would treasure that cat memory, he didn't want Jon thinking he was interested in starting a collection, the cat was incidental.

Jon leans back enough to meet Tony's gaze without stepping fully away, almost meeting his eyes with an innocent expression.

"Actually, no." He replies, giving half of a shrug. "But I recall you were rather fond of the concept of loud, not entirely sober space pirates." Which may be embarrassing for him again, but which of these memories aren't. At least these memories don't entail any of the horrors more commonly encountered in his more recent memories.

Slightly stunned that Jon had actually been paying attention and not just letting Tony talk at him, Tony was slower to respond as he processed that Jon was basically offering him those scandalous pictures right after Tony had complained he did not have nearly enough alone time. "You're a menace," he declared, but he was sliding off of the desk with his hands still on Jon's hips, ready to help him find that memory if it would speed up the process. "If this set isn't long enough to get fucked in a sketchy toilet stall, I'm going to consider it legally an act of terrorism," he warned, urging Jon on to commit his crimes by walking him back toward the shelves, intrigued despite the demand which part of Jonny D'Ville's life Jon found the most memorable. He hadn't made it sound like it was the on stage part.

To be entirely fair, the most memorable parts for Jon are likely the parts of getting drunk and the parts where he gets told the next day how many people he has yelled at while drunk, which he can't remember for being too drunk. At least he has gotten a handle on his alcohol issue by now. For the most part. And these days he's not sure he can still get that level of drunk.

Jon sputters briefly at Tony's words, unable to form a proper reply until the man is already directing him to where most of Jon's memory have been stored. He already knows what he is looking for - Even has held the object briefly while looking for the cat brush before. It's merely a matter of crouching down and picking the pair of goggles back up from where they have ended up, and Jon takes a moment to inspect the items, running a thumb over one of the lenses, cracked in a way not too unsimilar to how his phone's camera has been cracked and he just shakes his head faintly, though his face can't quite mask the amusement.

"If this is what I expect it to be, you will have ample time to make use of more than one sketchy restroom." And quite likely to get an idea just what sort of menace Jon used to be when he was younger.

After fumbling a moment longer with the accessory, Jon puts the goggles on his head, looking doubtful as he mutters "...I feel much too old for these now."

But whether or not Jon feels too old for them, the action manages to trigger the memory and just as with the memory involving the Admiral, this one begins with none of the distorting static and instead morphs the setting much more gradually into a larger room, clearly intended to be rented for private events or parties. Maybe not as fancy and flashy as the parties Tony has been holding in his mind, but affordable for the more regular people inhabiting cities such as London.

The open door at one end of the room leads to the main area of a very regular pub. Not a shabby one, but also not the most exclusive establishment. The room is filled with a decently-sized crowd, enjoying themselves with some alcohol while on the stage at the other end the group of musicians is getting ready for the next part of their show. The steampunk theme is obvious by the amount of top hats, goggles, belts and buckles and mismatched pieces of imaginary uniforms.

Jon's younger self paces between them, lacking an instrument of his own to adjust, but grasping a microphone that looks rather like it used to be part of an old radio. While missing his glasses, he is, in fact, wearing the same pair of goggles Jon has picked up in the office, lenses uncracked on that one. His hair is more wildly outgrown, but already showing the first streaks of grey and dark cracks are painted around his eyes with black makeup. The rest of his attire consists of a long, worn leather coat, a plain shirt that once used to be white, a waistcoat, dark pants and ankle-high boots paired with a set of fingerless leather gloves and a fake gun at his hip.

And above all that, this Jon appears very agitated in his pacing, making his current counterpart grimace slightly and cross his arms.

The goggles on Jon already had Tony snorting with a lopsided grin, impulsively following Jon's hands to help smooth his hair like there was any way this could make the outfit dignified, so the effect of the whole room made Tony brighten with curiosity, wide eyes darting like a cat about to start running. This was very much not a familiar environment to him; if he had ever been in a 'regular pub', it was briefly, to drag someone else out, and his musical act experiences either happened in venues like stadiums or private planes, or places he would confidently describe at this point as 'condemned'. His experiences at that end of the extreme were much fuzzier; his own substance abuse skipped this stage, he had too much money to dally in 'regular'. This room would probably have completely failed to hold his attention if he didn't want to know what kind of people had made an effect on Jon, making Tony lean close to the nearest one in the crowd like he had scrutinized Leitner, only to snap back to hover near Jon with eager energy. Obviously, what Tony really wanted was to thread up next to the stage to turn his scrutiny on the main attraction of this memory, tracking this singer's pacing as he reached blindly for Jon to rub a hand up his back and take his shoulder to keep him close, tempered only by his tension. Against his ear, Tony asked, "Which one of them pissed you off?" This younger Jon wasn't quite the hard punk Tony had been picturing since learning about the band, more crafty flamboyance than grunge, but he was more than making up for it with the attitude.

“Honestly? All of them.” Jon replies with a little huff of indignation. Though a good part of it is directed at his own younger self as Jon watches himself crouch down at the edge of the stage to pick up a bottle of beer.

“I was the only one against taking this job, but was severely outvoted. Several groups from several schools throwing money together to set up this event - The pay was good? But I didn’t like performing with tutors around that might recognize us. The performance at least went surprisingly well. Especially given I am already half drunk at this point.” Jon elaborates, pointing forward at the stage and then nodding for Tony to come along the edge of the room to get closer.

On the stage ahead, the young Jon has returned to the center of the stage, gesturing with the microphone in his hand while collecting various ready notions from the rest of the group before he nods himself and turns back to the room, meeting the lingering expectation with a glare that lasts for a few moments before the performance starts.

Quickly it’s clear that this isn’t a purely musical number, but more of a musical tale told and narrated. It’s also an oddly befitting that this take on popular fairytale figures is a gruesome and bloody one when paired with the knowledge of where Jon’s future is headed.

What’s also getting clear with the very first musical number is that the future Archivist’s strength lies with the wilder and more aggressive pieces and that this young man is well versed in threatening an entire room with merely his voice alone.

It doesn’t stop the older Jon from pointing out another little detail to Tony to call out his younger self even more. “I was pretty stupid back then for never wanting to bring my glasses to any of these, by the way. I could have avoided an embarrassing fall later that evening... But you may get to see that, actually.”

This sounded to Tony more like something that belonged at a ren faire than a bar, making him raise his eyebrows and press his lips together in a way that suggested he was trying to be supportive of his friend's weird hobby and would diplomatically try to hold his tongue until Jon gave him one good reason to mercilessly roast him for it. It was not something he would ever admit to out loud, but it was possible that Tony was too old for this, because he didn't need Jon's help identifying the embarrassing parts. He could see why Jon would have been against being recognized.

It was easier for Tony to understand when the performance was less spoken word and more lyrical, but he wasn't sure how much that had to do with the band as it did with his rapt focus on young Jon's snarling and his unique position to slide behind the Jon standing off stage with him to watch over his shoulder, hands on his waist and ready to catch him if he started to shrink too much in humiliation. "These guys must have been a wreck when you left them, huh?" he observed, not sure it was just charisma they had been in the position of trying to replace. Murmured against Jon's neck with a laugh in voice, because this was sure to change on a dime when Jon started his stumbling or the group got too experimental again, Tony said, "Right now, I think I would thank you for spitting in my mouth. Is that weird? Who is this guy? Is this how you stopped Billy? Is that why he's hanging around the hospital now?"

“Hm.” Jon said, not quite shrugging his shoulders “We really just parted ways once we were done with school to figure out where to go next. It’s not uncommon, really. Small groups forming to perform to try and make a living.” For the most part it had simply been a job for Jon. He didn’t exactly grow up having money. Or even any relatives left he knew of to fall back on.

He watched the show for a few moments in silence, crossed arms wrapping around himself at some point before dropping down enough for him to place his hands over Tony’s. It’s still an odd time to remember. He easily felt more lost than he does these days at the Institute.

It’s the murmuring against his neck that pulls Jon back with a little shudder and he turns his head enough to glance back at the other man, blinking in befuddlement at what Tony just said before the flustered sputtering swallows Jon’s initial response before he can’t help but laugh briefly “Seriously? Christ! Do I now have to wonder if you want me to yell at you, or if you just want to watch me getting angry at others.” If it’s the latter... Well, then Tony might not need to wait too much longer. Not if Jon assumes the end of this memory correctly.

That must have been a lot to let go of all at once. If Tony didn't know exactly where he was supposed to be once he was out of school, he would have been pulled in eighteen different directions and likely would have just ended up in a bottle. None of the people he had been close to at school hadn't stuck around, though, he realized with a thoughtful pout, and only recently started to reappear for him like a strange echo catching up all at once before he was suddenly plucked from home. Absently, he took Jon's hands covering his as an invitation to lace their fingers together and replace Jon's arms across his chest, the calculating tap of one finger catching the percussion beat and metering this puzzle that nagged at him. That probably didn't mean anything.

The beat against Jon's chest was gone as Tony chuckled at Jon's sputtering, squeezing instead so Jon couldn't scramble away too quickly in embarrassment before Tony could press a kiss behind his ear for the reaction and ease his hold back down again to let him escape. Jon had done plenty of yelling at Tony and not a lot of getting angry at other people in front of him and Tony was here coaxing him to stay close with a tiny tug at his shirt, did Jon really have to ask? But Tony didn't have to see whatever Jon knew was coming to be wondering already, "Where is this aggression coming from?" The Admiral didn't seem to be experiencing any of it, but that moment could have been the exception to the rule, not the precursor to whatever was winding Jon so tight he was going gray before there were worms digging under his skin.

Edited 2020-06-26 00:40 (UTC)

While Jon appreciates the chance to get away, he doesn’t take it. Instead, he finds his attention trapped by their joined hands as he tunes out most of their current surroundings.

“Would you believe me if I told you that a lot of it was fear...?” He asks without looking up. “My fears, insecurities, disappointments, Moments of sadness, grief and despair?”

Jon lets out a very short, dry laugh “Heh. It felt safer to hide all that behind anger and sharp skepticism. I was... Entirely on my own. Myself the only person I could trust and... Too afraid to show any sort of weakness, I suppose. Christ.... I maintained that behavior during all my years working in Research at the Institute and into my position as Head Archivist. It just... Felt safe.”

That Jon had an answer for that question so readily had to be a good thing, ultimately, but it certainly didn't feel good to process all at once, making Tony gather Jon close again against his chest, one arm curled around his ribs and their hands together over his heart for Tony to rub his fretful thumb. He had been expecting a flippant answer that he would have to put together, and wasn't prepared with a better way to respond except another appreciative kiss for Jon's sharing. He had to be the flippant one, of course, watching the younger Jon work through this insecurity on stage more skeptically now, and asked, "Are you telling me you have a better relationship with fear now? Very tactile, very personal, working both ways, honestly, the communication seems great, you've worked out a lot of those early issues between you."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

You saw nothing.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject