InsaneJournal

Tim hadn't been sure what to think when he'd returned from the carnival to a photo album sitting prominently on his coffee table. Items that just magically appeared were never a good sign, and those in book form set him that much more on edge. And yet. It wasn't a Leitner. This place wouldn't possibly be that cruel. And there was a certain familiarity to it, a painful tug of something in that back of his mind, reminding him of something that he owned, something that he hadn't looked at in years, something that was far too painful to even consider. Far more painful than even the worst Leitner could have managed.

So he'd left it. Tim had left it sitting there, right where he had found it, for days, doing little more than occasionally pushing it to one side or the other when he'd needed the space.

Tim wasn't sure what had finally provoked him to open it, what had stripped the last inhibition from him in a way that overrode the fear or anxiety of what he would find inside. Because he knew what was supposed to be in it, and yet... Very few things had been like they were supposed to be for a very long time.

Perhaps it had just been boredom that had finally moved his hand, Tim opening it that morning during his breakfast, the other occupied with balancing bowl of fruit loops that precariously on the edge of coffee table that he'd overloaded with various books that he'd been trying to use to keep himself occupied. Or maybe it had been his own masochistic sense of guilt and the assurance that what he would find there was going to hurt whether it was what it should be or not. Or maybe it was a bit of both, twisting together until he'd decided that he'd ignored the potential for pain long enough with things that simply weren't keeping his attention anymore.

As Tim had opened the album, everything had stopped. His mind shuttered to a halt as it tried to comprehend the mass of oddly awkward and delighted photographs plastered haphazardly on the first few pages of the album. The banner hanging just out of frame announced 'Karaoke Night' in bright bold letters while Jon was settled petulantly in a booth sitting just in front of it, Tim half draped over his shoulders, cocksure smile gracing his face, and... And a stranger laughing mercilessly at Jon's resolute glare directed Tim's way.

Not a stranger, though. Not. Not. NOT.

No. This wasn't a stranger, as much as his brain felt like it was.

Because Tim remembered. He remembered that night. He remembered shamelessly asking their waitress if she would mind snapping a picture of the fabulous duet team that was going to win the evening while Jon had sputtered.

"No. Tim. No. Absolutely not."

"Come on, Jon! Just a bit of fun. You know how to have fun, right? Right here, darling. I'm going to make it easy for you. Budge over, Jon. I've got to get in frame."

"You are in the frame quiteenough, thankyou!"

"Personal space, Tim. It's a concept to some people."

"Sorry, Sash. You feeling left out?"

The realization burned in his brain as Tim stared at the photograph, took in the long hair cascading down around her shoulders, the glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose just threatening to fall off with even the slightest movement, and the sheer delight and affection in her expression.

There were a few like that, Tim having stack up on that poor waitress's tip each time she had humored him, each time she had snapped grainy, poorly lit shots with one of those old disposable 35mms for him.

Where had he even gotten those from? Warehouse clearance that had peaked his nostalgia gland? He'd had plenty, for awhile, and then a second hand digital whose shots he'd printed out at home. And then they'd all been transferred, and he'd had less and less reason to bring either out with them. Less and less reason or desire for all of them to even go out.

There were a few, a few, photos near the back that had Martin in them, too. Larger than life trying to take up too little space. Tim having abandoned Jon to try and be reassuring, welcoming, supportive because god knew Martin had needed at the beginning, when any and every little misstep had ended in Jon yelling at him, while Sasha looked scolding at their new boss, and Jon looked even more uncomfortable with the shift in dynamic than the rest of them. And then there were the later ones, even less of those, where things had evened out, and there was a bit more comfort in them even if it wasn't really matched by the ease of the earlier photos.

And then they stopped. After Prentiss and Michael. Or maybe before. The digital didn't automatically put dates on them like the printers had. So after awhile, it was easy to lose track of the dates, the time, to lose track of the progression, and can only order the slow decline by the photo's position in the book and the increasingly defeated expressions on all their faces.

The last few photos on the last page of the album, they were trying. They were all truly trying to have a good time. And yet. It was pained, strained, and even Tim can tell on his own face that he was putting on just to try and make everyone else happy, trying to do whatever he could to keep it all from falling apart.

Had it really started that early? Them falling apart? And if it had... How had he not noticed?

Or why had he pretended not to when he'd given up his last chance to say... what he'd needed to say.

But it was her. Sasha. It was actually her and not to figment she'd been replaced with, that stretched and warped nightmare of her appearance and personality that he loaded itself in him and corrupted all of his memories. No. It was really her. And even if he couldn't remember on his own. Maybe. Maybe with this and borrowing Jon's tapes...

He could pretend.