Jon sees it coming an instant before it hits. Even now, he does not have a scrap of combat-readiness in him, not really. Something in his nose goes crunch, and he reels backward with a strangled yelp of pain— flails for a moment, somewhere between pinwheeling to keep his balance and clutching at his face— and goes down on his arse on the pavement.

For a moment he sits there, a bloodied mess, blinking up in startled offence at Tim.

Yes, that's Tim.

Rather confirms what he remembers, too.

"I— yes, I— probably deserved that." Jon picks himself back up, gingerly thumbing blood from his lip, flinching when he brushes the nose that does not heal quite fast enough. This does not diminish the genuine, shaky relief in his voice. "Christ, I'm glad you're—" alive? That may not be wholly accurate. Here? He shouldn't be; the past month has proven just what Deerington is.

So he falters, here, at a loss and still slightly bleeding. "I— I'm glad to see you."