A Word: Yeah, I just wanted Tim to bite Jason.
Tim's having a reaction to the new pain meds. The ones he'd reluctantly swallowed in the hopes of dulling the pain of his broken ribs just long enough to finish typing up a few more reports. Chase down a few more leads. Ignore a few more concerned emails from people he hasn't really seen in over a month. Pretend his voicemail isn't reaching capacity a little longer. Just drifting along, parallel to Tim's life but not really intersecting it. Asymptote. Always getting closer but never, ever touching. Like a moth to the flame that burns up when it does touch.
Tim's nose scrunches up as he reviews his last two thoughts before discarding them both. They don't make sense put together like that and he'd much rather watch the pretty lights than think about the depression that's his life right now. Tim's usually pretty good at that. When he's not drugged.
It's the medication, working on his mind in unexpected ways that has Tim so off kilter.
That's why the room is swaying under the couch and it feels like he's at the apex of a swing and is in free fall until the grapple hits the next ledge. He's high, some tiny sober voice of reason points out as he watches the puppet show put on by the shifting light of his television. So very, very high. He can almost feel the shadows running across his ceiling, and -shifting oh so carefully- he thinks he could taste the bright colors running across his flat screen. Bright, bright light and colors.
Oh, Tim realizes, he's watching cartoons.
Tim doesn't remember changing the channel from it's normal news channel, but then he also doesn't remember turning on the television in the first place. Or even leaving his computer to sprawl out on the couch. An ordeal with how slow his ribs have made him.
Scooby Doo runs in fear from a man in a scarecrow suit. Tim sympathizes and isn't sure if it's the bad guy or the dog that tastes like cigarette smoke smells. Probably Scooby Doo. His mind would probably associate that sharp chemical smell Scarecrow's fear gas used to have with the bad guy.
The smokey taste/smell persists as the screen cuts to Velma and Fred in a very dirty kitchen. Effectively ruining his theory and Tim feels himself pouting in the way he always denies is a pout to Tam or Dick or whoever tries to accuse him of pouting. The room spins sharply as a commercial cuts into the cartoon and Tim closes his eyes to fight the vertigo. Burying his face into his couch. Rubbing his cheek back and forth against the cloth which is soft and warm.
And smells like cigarettes.
And looks like, Tim slits his eyes open, denim. Jeans. Legs.
That's not right.
Tim drags his head up. Ignoring the way the room spins as he squints up into a blinding grin that really isn't very nice despite being a grin. Jason. Tim's fairly sure Jason wasn't in his apartment when he took the pills. "Jason? What're you doing?"
"They've got you on the good stuff. Don't they, babybird?" Jason is laughing. Silently. Tim can see it escaping him in a cloud of white smoke. Silent smoke. "Was beginning to think you'd never notice."
"Jason," Who? Notice what? Tim rolls onto his back. Pleased that he can do that without wanting to physically rip out a few of his ribs just to make the pain stop. "Jason."
"Yeah?" Jason's not watching the television and Tim thinks he might not've been watching it for a while, because the weight of his eyes feels like something he's been ignoring for a while. He brings a smoking stick to his mouth, and, oh. Cigarette smoke. Smell. Taste. Of course.
"Don't do that," Tim reaches up. Trying to snatch the smelly stick of death and throw it away. Somewhere. But Jason holds his arm out and away and Tim can't reach it. Not without bringing back the screaming pain Tim had just gotten over. Denied, he pouts up at the very amused looking man. "Jaaaason!"
"Christ, you're adorable," Jason flicks Tim's nose and chuckles. The cigarette disappears and the sober voice in Tim's head sounds a little hysterical as it wonders where it went, but Tim doesn't care because it's gone. He's got a remote now and Tim watches the light change across Jason's face as the sound he'd been feeling in his chest changes rapidly. A cacophony of noise that nearly makes Tim laugh. "Jesus, you got anything worth watching here? Something that isn't talking heads jabbering about bullshit?"
"Um," Tim turns to look at the cabinet holding his DVDs, but it's too far for his arm to reach and since Jason is supporting his head- Tim squirms. Well, it's more like his head and upper back and well, actually Tim's almost fully laid out in Jason's lap. Back supported by Jason's arm and head almost resting on his shoulder.
Huh. When'd that happen?
A finger pokes Tim's cheek. "What? Finish your sentence, Timmy."
"Tim," he turns his head back up to glare. He hates that name. "Not Timmy. Call me Tim. Call me replacement, pretender, babybird. I don't care, just don't call me Timmy. I'm a fucking adult not a child."
"Heh, you were born old, Timmers," Jason grins as he catches Tim's jab. Which hadn't been as close to connecting as Tim thought it was. Damn pills. Jason wiggles Tim's arm, smacking him in the face with his own hand. "You look like a vicious, little rat-dog right now. Yapping away at the cat in the window."
"I'm a vicious corgi," Tim spits out and turns his head until he feels skin against his lips as Jason cackles. Jason wanted to call him a dog? Fine. But Jason should really know Tim was more bite than bark.
"The hell are you- Fuck!" Jason jerks as Tim's teeth sink into his bicep, just under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Just shy of breaking skin because blood has an awful aftertaste. He holds the bite until he feels Jason tense, his other arm coming up to smack him away.
A vivid white set of teeth marks fade as the blood rushes back into the skin, turning them a deep dark red that Tim knows will raise up into painful welts soon enough. Satisfied, he leans back and smirks up at Jason.
"You little freak," Jason scowls but his voice drips with amusement and it seems likes he's more impressed than anything else as he looks down at Tim with his what-the-fuck-ever color eyes. They're blue one second and green the next, and Tim has given too much thought to that on normal, not drugged out of his mind, days. "So, goddamn high. Lay back down and watch the pretty cartoons, Tim."
Satisfied that his point has been made, Tim lets himself sink back down and turns his head to the television. Nose filled with smoke, and mouth filled with an earthy taste. Both of which have nothing to do with the mummy chasing Scooby and Shaggy through an abandoned house.