RP with sellsweed | WTF?
If Tim hadn't always been completely and totally drained the night before, the encounter with Sam would have sealed the deal. He hadn't even been further tempted with the weed in the kitchen, he just stripped off, went to bed and passed out cold from exhaustion. He never professed to ever be a particularly deep person, so shit like this just stuffed him. It was already hard enough trying to figure out what he was supposed to do to help Jason. Not that Tim actually thought he was going to be the one to come up with the solution. He had never managed to successfully help his best friend. The one time he tried, by taking him to New York after the chick with the baby, it all turned out shit anyway and Jason ended up right back at square one. Tim really couldn't be apologetic about that because he did prefer to have his best friend close to him rather than hundreds of miles away.
He did feel helpless, though. Plying Six with booze and making sure he didn't fall out of bed or the wheelchair when he was pissed off his face was helping, right? At least it was help Tim could manage and didn't involve too many emotions Tim didn't understand. But it was morning now. Or rather, just just click from morning to afternoon being 12:03pm. Stumbling out of bed, Tim managed to drag on some track pants and feel his way out into the living room. Coffee would be good. With a beer. "Hey, Six," he grunted at his friend in greeting, until he stopped short a couple of steps past the sofa and turned back, blinking groggily. That wasn't Six. "Who the hell are ya' and what the fuck have ya' done with Six?" he asked in confusion, frowing.
He did feel helpless, though. Plying Six with booze and making sure he didn't fall out of bed or the wheelchair when he was pissed off his face was helping, right? At least it was help Tim could manage and didn't involve too many emotions Tim didn't understand. But it was morning now. Or rather, just just click from morning to afternoon being 12:03pm. Stumbling out of bed, Tim managed to drag on some track pants and feel his way out into the living room. Coffee would be good. With a beer. "Hey, Six," he grunted at his friend in greeting, until he stopped short a couple of steps past the sofa and turned back, blinking groggily. That wasn't Six. "Who the hell are ya' and what the fuck have ya' done with Six?" he asked in confusion, frowing.