Work Text:
Not many people had shown up to Jon’s funeral.
Tim supposed that made sense. Jon had never been a socialite at the best of times. There was him. Martin sitting to his left, trying not to burst into tears for the third time today. Elias. Basira. Melanie. And someone who had introduced herself as Georgie. That was all.
He sat there in front of the coffin staring blankly at the pine box where he knew his former boss lay. They had cleaned him up good, cutting his hair, putting him in a suit, hiding the hideous burns that had killed him with thick layers of makeup. He looked attractive and put together and nothing like the man Tim remembered.
Elias was talking. When was Elias not talking? “What a tragic loss.” He was saying. “So much potential wasted.” he was saying. As if Jon was an object, a useful tool that Elias preferred and now needed to replace. In a way he was. They all were.
Tim was drunk. Tim had been drunk a lot lately. Drunk was better. Drunk was good. Being drunk meant Tim couldn't think about what had happened, couldn't think about the mannequin factory or the thing that had killed Danny. Couldn't think about Daisy Tonner whose funeral had been just a week before. Couldn't think about Martin’s crying, Basira’s hollow eyes, Melanie's rage. Couldn't think about Sasha. Couldn't think about Jon.
Elias wrapped his speech up. No one else had anything nice to say so they silently watched the box sink into the ground. The rest got up, heading inside for the reception. Tim watched duly as Basira guided a sobbing Martin off into the building. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tim wanted to feel bad for him. They were friends. Or at least they had been. Tim knew about Martin's feelings for the man who now lay in the ground. Tim didn't feel bad though to be fair, Tim didn't feel much of anything these days.
This was the time to say something. The others were gone. He was completely and utterly alone. Now was the time to talk to the dead man, to make some kind of grandiose speech about forgiveness or life or how stupid Jon had been. No words came out of Tim’s mouth. No thoughts entered his head either. There was only the dull throb of pain that had been there since Sasha and the certain knowledge that it should have been him. Tim should be the one in that box. Tim should have hit that button and killed Orsinov and blown up the factory and saved the fucking world and most of all, he should have died in the process. It was supposed to be him. Why couldn't Jon have just let it be him?
He hadn't believed Basira when he woke up in the hospital and she had told him what had happened. He had felt things then. He had screamed and raged and sobbed. He had needed to be sedated so he wouldn't aggravate his injuries. His leg twinged. The doctors had said he would never walk the same again. Just another reminder. It should have been him.
Tim shook his head. “You selfish bastard. Why couldn't you have let me had this?”
He turned his back to the open grave, heading not to the building where the reception was, but out of the graveyard. Thick fog swirled around him. The weather was always awful in London but Tim’s brain registered this as weird. Whatever.
Maybe he still had a few bottles left at home. That would be nice.