Work Text:
Out of sheer exhaustion, Tim closed his eyes for a second and in that fraction of time, he felt himself start to drift off. Relaxing. Becoming one with his desk chair. "No," he hissed to the empty bullpen and dug the heels of his palms into already dry, gritty eyes. "Need. To. Go. Home." Yeah, he really and truly needed to leave, but that would require mustering up enough energy to get his ass out of said chair.
All he needed was his coat. His coat and his carryall. All he needed was his coat, carryall and to manage the sixty five steps from his desk to the elevator. All he needed was his coat, his carryall, the steps to the elevator and the fortitude to stay awake.
The frigid night air stole his breath, and he drove home, cautiously guiding the car over too slick roads with the heater blasting and the radio blaring for company.
**~~**
For the past six weeks, they'd figuratively been buried under rain, snow, ice, and sleet as Washington's weather had decided to join forces with their back to back cases. From the moment he’d woken up, through the entire day up until he’d parked his car in his building’s underground lot, all Tim had been contemplating was becoming one with his bed.
Yeah, that didn’t work out as well as he’d hoped. After an hour of tossing and turning followed by thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling, listening to the sleet hit the window, he’d had enough. Defeated, he threw back the covers and dragged himself to the living room, scooping up the remote before dropping down onto the couch. In times gone by, when insomnia had plagued Tim, he’d sit down at the manual typewriter and lose himself in his fictional world. Now days, he barely made eye contact with the typewriter.
After going through all three hundred plus stations in both directions, he once again understood why Tony relied on his massive DVD collection for entertainment. On the second go round he found an episode of Dr. Who which was more tolerable (and much less offensive than Toddlers in Tiaras or Say Yes to the Dress).
Tim jumped when his cell phone rang and waited a second before picking up. At very late o’clock (or was it very early o’clock) in the morning when the team was off for forty eight hours the only news at the other end of the line would be bad. Injury or death type of bad news. Heart in his throat, he furtively stole a glance at the caller ID. ‘Tony?’ “Tony? Is everything okay?”
//”I knew it!”//
Tim sighed, relaxing against the couch. The voice didn’t sound injured, hurt, sick or even drunk—it just sounded like Tony. “Knew what?”
//”That you’d be awake—“//
Tim opened his mouth—
//”Don’t lie to me, McInsomnia. You’re sitting on the couch probably watching some scifi marathon or something.”//
Tim flicked off the remote. “And what if I am?”
//”It’s three in the morning, you should be sleeping.”//
Was that worry in his partner’s voice? Concern? This was getting too close for comfort. Time to volley the ball back into Tony’s court “So should you. Be sleeping I mean.”
Tony chuckled, //”is that an invite?”//
“Really, Tony, it’s too late—“
//”Actually, it’s too early—“//
Slowly, Tim lowered the phone onto his lap and scrubbed his face. With a cleansing breath, he picked up the phone. “What do you want?” Okay maybe that was a touch nasty. He tried again, “What do you want so early in the morning. Are you okay?
//”Bad case.”//
“Understatement,” Tim agreed. It had been many years since a crime scene had made him nauseated enough to lose his last meal. Horrific enough that Tony hadn’t poked fun of him vomiting in the bushes.
//”Couldn’t sleep. Every time I close—“//
“Me neither,” Tim admitted, finally facing the reason sleep had been elusive.
//”Hate the winter,”// and Tony coughed for emphasis.
“If I remember, you’re not a lover of the summer, either.”
//”Extremes, I dislike extremes.”//
They chatted about nothing and everything. Tim shifted on the couch. “Look, Tony,” he stifled a yawn, “I think—“
//”How about breakfast?”//
“Breakfast?” Tim checked the glowing numbers on the cable box. “Oh crap.”
//”Was that ‘oh crap’ of course breakfast is a great idea. Or ‘oh crap’ I had other plans?”//
“It’s four o’clock.”
//”So you don’t have other plans and breakfast is a great idea?”//
Tim was getting a headache, he was tired, crabby, his ass had lost feeling and he obviously should’ve never answered the phone. And the pounding in his head kicked up a notch when the doorbell rang. “Shit…who the hell—“
//”Was that the doorbell? At this hour? I’ll stay on the line while you answer.”//
“Probably my neighbor complaining that I’m talking too loudly,” Tim groused as he stood and stretched. Tim opened the door, an apology already on his lips. “What the hell? Tony?”
“The one and only.” Tony breezed past Tim, waving a brown paper bag in his face on his way to the kitchen. “Bagels. Breakfast.”
Tim blinked, shut the door by rote and followed Tony into the kitchen standing there while Tony dumped the bagels onto a plate. “Hands off the cinnamon raisin, that’s mine.”
“Tony—“
The fridge door opened and Tim realized he was addressing Tony’s ass while the man rooted around the shelves. “Do you realize,” Tony said, closing the door with his foot, “you have unsalted butter, who the hell uses unsalted butter.”
“Please tell me that you weren’t outside my door the entire time we were on the phone.”
Two knives hit the table, sliding across the smooth surface until they hit the plate of bagels. “Okay, I won’t tell you.” Tony’s face scrunched in a thought provoking scowl. “That’s not one hundred percent correct. First I was buying bagels, then I was standing outside your door.”
“That’s just creepy. You’re creepy.”
Tony sat, spread out a napkin and grabbed his said cinnamon raisin with the point of the knife. “I may be creepy,” he winked, “but I’m a creep with good bagels.”
Tim sat with a groan. What was the saying if you can’t beat ‘em—
“Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of coffee?”
Mentally, Tim counted to ten. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Tony?”
Tony cut the bagel with a one handed grasp that had Tim fearing for at least one of the man’s fingers. “Hot chocolate. Do you have any hot chocolate?”
Tim didn’t dare roll his eyes at the situation until his back was to Tony. Rummaging through the cabinets, pulling out a box of instant hot chocolate with freeze dried marshmallows (probably from the last time Tony needed hot chocolate) afraid to check the expiration date, he dumped the contents of the package into a mug. Microwaved hot water and the drink was good to go.
Tony’s groan when Tim placed the steaming mug on the table was slightly orgasmic.
“Jeez, Tony, it’s only instant hot chocolate.” Tim picked up an everything bagel and began to saw it in half.
With his finger, Tony tapped one of the marshmallows, smiling as it bobbed on the surface. “Only? It has marshmallows.”
Honestly, the man’s shoe size and his mental age were definitely one and the same. Tim pasted a smile on his face eternally grateful that Tony was unable to read his mind.
“You know, just because I happen to love hot chocolate doesn’t mean I’m twelve.”
**~~**
The company and breakfast helped and after Tony had left (complete with a travel mug that he absconded from the back of Tim’s cabinet and filled it with two packets of hot chocolate),Tim was able to relax, rest and finally sleep. A slumber that left him refreshed and well rested, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in more months than he cared to admit.
**~~**
Two days later, on his way to work, Tim stopped off at the local high end grocery store where the fruit was practically picked off the trees, the veggies screamed ‘buy me buy me’ even though Tim hadn’t a clue what the hell they were and the meat display belonged in Cartier’s. He made no purchase except a box of hot chocolate with imported marshmallows (who the hell knew marshmallows could be imported? Or maybe the chocolate was imported?) for Tony. He’d leave it on his partner’s desk, without a note, because sometimes a friendship doesn’t need notes… sometimes an early morning breakfast and hot chocolate with marshmallows is enough.
The end