Texts From Gotham
A Word: Because pairings were assumed for the last chapter, I took one and ran with it. It's surprisingly hard finding a 'oops I almost slept with your dad' texts though.
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(509): Just hook me up with your dad already stop being selfish.
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"Kill me now," Tim groans as he lets the phone drop over the side of the bed and onto the floor. He hopes it breaks so there's no evidence of how utterly drunk he got last night, he'll buy Connor a new phone later. One that doesn't have a truly incriminating history of texts on it.
Connor reaches over to pat soothingly on his back. He's doing that thing that Tim had only known Connor to pull off without seeming like an ass. Grimacing at Tim's pain and mortification while also laughing his ass off. Silently.
"I don't think he minded. You really flattered him you know?" Connor says, trying to be nice about Tim trying to aggressively make out with his Dad at a bar. "I think he's too busy focusing on, um, Batman to really care? He's been watching his phone all morning while cackling."
"You're not helping Connor," Bruce knows about it. Tim curls up into a little ball and shoves his face under the pillow which smells a lot like Connor actually. "Am I in your bed?"
Connor climbs up onto the mattress and sits beside him. A welcoming line of warmth against his back as the other man starts kneading at the tense areas if his back. Easing them and the threatening rise of nausea. "Yes, I was afraid you'd injure yourself somehow if you were not watched."
"You should have put me on the floor," Tim says, muffled by the pillow.
"You're my friend," Connor says and it's both an explanation and a rebuke for assuming Connor might do anything less than the most polite thing. Well, aside from the times when he feels like introducing his fist into people's faces, but Tim knows Connor is a firm believer in everything having it's own time and place. Violence for criminals, and sleeping on the floor for friends so drunk they're hitting on his dad. "Do you think you can handle some toast or should I just get you water?"
Tim considers the question carefully and his stomach doesn't totally rebel at the thought of dry toast. "I think I can handle the food. Wait," Tim pulls his head out and squints up at Connor's calm face, "isn't your Dad in the kitchen?"
"Yes."
Tim doesn't groan or whimper again, though he wants to. "Can I just go out the window?"
"Only if you promise not to deliberately try and fall on your head doing it," Connor rolls out of bed with all the grace of a man who's never had a drink in his life. "Also, if you promise to come back in the front door after. You know you're not leaving here without talking to my father. He'll hunt you down if you try, and if you're not as hungover when he finds you he won't be as merciful."
"Kill me," Tim sighs before crawling out of the bed, bringing the warm and soft blanket with him. If he's going to be utterly mortified, he's going to have something he can turtle into until the toast gets made.
Connor laughs and Tim hates him a little for it because even that isn't malicious enough for Tim to justify lashing out.
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