Disclaimer: I don't own them but I'd like to. Comments are always appreciated - I have a second chapter, should there be interest.
He was on his knees in the third floor men's bathroom- the one nobody used (although the reasons men give why were many, Tim had settled on that it is out of the way, perpetually stifling hot and subtly stinking, and also Reardon preferred it for his mid-morning drop-off).
Tim used it now, though, the speedo-wearing weirdo can suck it, shove it, smoke it...
He leaned over the bowl again and heaved. He was never eating breakfast again.
Nelson needed to come with a fucking trigger warning.
He shouldn't have a smartphone.
Who the hell filmed that shit?
He doesn't, now, and Tim felt some small satisfaction, although he now owed Nelson a new one and an apology.
The worst part was he hadn't been prepared. He should've been, should have looked at his face more closely, but generally when someone shoved their cellphone (and he hated that technology, it made Nelson even stupider) in your face and said 'watch this!' The video was cats or a baby or some weird beautiful satisfying thing, like a water balloon popped in slow motion.
Not... he grabbed the sides of his legs, fingers digging in and twisting to bruise, get the pain to fight the nausea for him.
He panted, the sweeping swell of it coming over him again.
The hold on his legs wasn't working, so he bit his forearm, small, hard bites, each on their own not enough, but together, jarring the sickness loose.
If he'd only expected it.
If he'd seen it coming.
If he'd realized that no, really, Nelson was showing him and Raylan amateur footage of Syrians cutting off heads… they were executing…
But Nelson didn't come with a trigger warning, and Tim couldn't fight his gorge any more.
He leaned his forehead on his arm when he was done, and shivered, head to toe- he'd been shaking and sweating since he plucked Nelson's phone out of his hands and dropped it in his coffee cup and swept out, chin up, shoulders back, eyes-front-soldier.
He felt safe to let go the toilet, sit on his ass and wrap his arms around his knees, reaching first to flush.
He cried, just tears at first, devolving into sobs and hiccups and hysteria, angry for the tears and helpless to stop them, frightened at the intensity and the fact he could still cry at all.
The tears stopped first, then the nausea, but the shaking and sweating stayed. He got up, got himself a drink, and washed his face, shaking like he had Parkinson's disease.
If he couldn't get the shaking stopped soon, he'd cycle back up. He knew that. If he could go home he would grab a book, bury himself in an adventure, tell himself what he felt was for the characters, because who knew if the Princess would escape this time, with her dark and troubled past and moody denial of her innate specialness and powers to save her Kingdom? If he could go back to work, he would go and drive someone from point a to point b and watch so carefully for any danger or threats. His prison transfers -and witnesses (and coworkers)- never realized how safe they were, with him. They didn't see how he kept watch, and that was okay. Tim kept it anyways.
But he couldn't go home, couldn't go back to work, couldn't do anything but hide in this bathroom and sweat and pray to god Reardon had already done his constitutional.
All because Nelson didn't come with a damn trigger warning.