Spoilers: set post-series 2
Summary: In the UK, about 99 litres of beer are consumed per capita, annually. This was inevitable, really.
"Christ," her hair muttered, sounding hung over. And rather familiar. Daisy cracked an eye open to glare balefully at the strands plastered across her face. It was a bad idea, as a shaft of light hit her directly in the face and caused a razor-sharp pain to explode in her head. "Christ," she muttered back to her hair, trying to fight down a wave of nausea and dizziness.
Daisy became aware of a weight around her midsection. And - cheeky bastard! - a hand resting lightly on one breast. She thought about objecting, but her sluggish mind was too busy trying to connect the concept of talking hair, a familiar voice, and a pale, masculine arm.
"'m I dead?" the familiar voice queried weakly.
"Dunno." The way she was feeling, Daisy was leaning towards 'yes', but thought she should wait for her head to stop imploding to make sure. Gradually the pounding lessened, although she didn't dare open her eyes again.
"Wish I was dead."
Along with the familiar voice, Daisy realized the smell was familiar. Sweat and that bloody body wash Tim insisted was manly and would make him irresistible to women. And beer, but that might have been her.
"'ey!" he said, with an unenthusiastic, rasping cheer.
Shit. Daisy's eyes popped open, sunlight be damned. The adrenaline suddenly rushing through her alcohol-sodden bloodstream overpowered her dizziness. Double shit. Tim was there. In her bed. Hung over. Tim-hand-on-Daisy-breast. What the fuck had they done? They'd ruined it all - their happy little family. One drunken night of rapturous pleasure, throwing caution to the winds, caving in to their basest desires, and destroying the quo of their current living status. This was disastrous!
With a wordless sound of horror, Daisy prepared to launch herself from the home-wrecking arms of her flat mate and best mate.
"Don't" Tim groaned, tightening his arm around her. Daisy found that her completely shite state of health prevented her from stopping him. "s'nice."
"Shush. Don't move or I may vomit," Tim muttered into her hair.
Normally, Daisy would sympathize, make a soothing comment or offer tea, but she was feeling too wretched to care about Tim past the possibility of him vomiting into her hair. Which, Daisy hazily suspected, would just make her feel worse.
What had happened? Daisy thought back to the night before and had vague recollections of multiple bottles of duty-free wine. Marsha, Mike, Tim, and she all making more and more outlandish toasts as the night went on. Stopping by the pub for a few more drinks. Mike proposing a club. Dancing with a good-looking bloke, then a good-looking girl, then both of them, and getting dragged off by Tyres and pushed into Tim. Someone giving her a series of girly-colored drinks. Oh, god. She'd drunk them all. The last thing she remembered was telling Tim he had lovely eyes and suddenly feeling rough denim underneath her cheek.
Christ, if her head would just stop spinning, maybe she would be able to put more of it together. And if her skin would stop hurting. It honestly felt like her jumper was bruising her arms…wait. Jumper.
"'ve got clothes on," she groaned.
Tim rumbled an affirmative. "An' they'll stay on, 'cause you're not moving."
Daisy had to admit that his warmth at her back was soothing her riotous stomach. Perhaps he had the right of it. Bit more sleep, then she wouldn't feel quite so bloody awful. What was a bit of a snuggle between mates? Eskimos bundled, didn't they? Or was that the Dutch? Perhaps the Amish. In any case, it was perfectly platonic.
"Cheers," Tim murmured. She felt the pricking whiskers of his goatee as he dropped a sleepy kiss on the back of her head and nuzzled into her hair. His arm remained firmly around her and his hand remained….well.