It's bitterly ironic that Tim has and is continuing to only really get along with Jay when the other man is dead. He hasn't had much to do outside of finally getting off his ass to call his boss over the issue where he went missing for over a week - he only learned the actual span of time in which he's fallen off the workman's map once he bothered to call and learn it firsthand - and several gratuitous apologies and a mostly-true story about the unexpected loss of a friend later, he's got semi-regular work hours again.

He's got a ghost-like not-friend periodically hovering in his apartment, a cryptic freak of a neural roommate occasionally renting room in his skull, and it sure as hell isn't normal, but it works.

Morning shifts are a special kind of hell, to say nothing of returning to the sound of something rattling loudly in the sink. Tim shuffles into the kitchen, not sure what to make of sight of a fork skipping around the diameter of the sink in a lively rhythm with no outside stimuli to speak of.

He frowns at it. It's not a terribly big leap to decide that something about that just - isn't right.

"Jay," he says slowly, drawing out the word cautiously.