TLV: IC Inbox

[statementfuckingends]

You've reached Timothy Stoker, leave a message at the tone and I'll get back to you.

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[statementfuckingends]

[Bad. Very bad, and Tim can't help the short yelp of his friend's name when he ducks down to grab his shoulders.

He's not dead, he can see his chest moving, faint as it is, but he certainly doesn't smell drunk, doesn't look injured--

Realisation shocks him upright, and he just glares at Jon.]

Are you fucking kidding me, Jon?!

[epistemological]

[ Jon is not fucking kidding you, Tim. He is, in fact, in a coma. ]

[statementfuckingends]

[He thinks he's got a right to be mad about it, thank you very much!!

Not that he can do much but huff and bluster, and mutter furious grievances under his breath as he picks up Jon with embarrassing ease, so he can deposit his friend on his own bloody bed instead of letting him wake up in the fucking den.

That won't even be there tomorrow. Lucky bastard, sleeping through this one.]