God. He doesn't want to move. Not when Raylan's looking down at him like that, hair falling into his face, wearing that easy grin. What if he got to experience this vision every morning? What if he always got to fall asleep with Raylan's arm flung over his waist? It feels wildly within reach, despite what logic and history are trying to tell him.

He could use a drink. Which is kind of how they ended up here. His internal clock says it's probably just after seven. No immediate reason they have to climb out of bed and face the day yet, so against Tim's better judgment, he doesn't.

"She'll know it's store bought," Tim mutters. Because he doesn't know how to bake a pie. Hell, he keeps a small stock of MREs in one of his cabinets for nights he gets home too late to order carry-out, or just wants something a little bit familiar.

Raylan mentions the wall, and Tim's curiosity gets the best of him. With a sigh, he pushes himself up with one hand, half-turning to examine the wall behind the headboard. There's a distinct line of chipped paint where the wood thumped repeatedly against it. Tim only gives a little grin of his own as he drops himself back onto the bed, purposefully landing so his head rests on Raylan's bicep.

"Worth it."