A Dream of Morning (джен)

Bruce wakes with a snort and a crick in his neck.
Wincing, he picks his twinging neck up slowly, blinking grit out of his eyes. The tv is still on, flickering in the otherwise dark room.
“Is it possible… that aliens are responsible for the tragic wreck of the Titanic?” a narrator is asking.
Tim is still dead weight across his legs. Bruce can feel a damp patch on his sweatpants where he’s drooled on him.
Bruce digs his phone out of his pocket, careful not to disturb him.
4:32am.
Fuck.
Tim was due to be woken up for a concussion check over three hours ago.
“Tim,” he murmurs, rough with sleep. “Wake up, bud.” He shakes him gently.
When he doesn’t stir, he shakes him again, harder, sighing softly - Tim always is dead to the world on the rare occasions he actually sleeps. “Tim,” he repeats, louder, a normal speaking volume.
He tugs on his shoulder, rolling him towards Bruce.
There’s no resistance.
Tim’s head lolls.