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Jack opens a sleepy eye and blinks dazedly around….. and this is one reason why he doesn’t drink. Because he winds up waking up at an unforgivable hour, face down on the floor, and maybe still a tiny bit buzzed, and is that a piece of furniture on his back? A warm, moving piece of furniture with a kitten-like snore? Shit.

Jack groans internally because, how did this even happen? And why does it always have to be Bitty? He wiggles a little in vain, hoping for an easy escape but freezes when Bitty shifts in his sleep.

Jack can feel where Bitty’s face is pressed into the indent of his shoulder blade and tracks from there. Face to his shoulder blade, shoulder to his spine, which ouch, flat stomach against his ass, and their legs are apparently entwined. Wonderful. But maybe it wasn’t the best idea to be thinking about all of the points of contact between him and Bitty, who'sshiftingagainohGod!

Jack relaxes when Bitty settles but it’s short lived as he feels dampness on his shoulder blade, near Bittle’s face, his brain helpfully supplies. What is that? Has Bitty awoken and is now silently crying for some unknown reason into Jack’s shoulder? Jack feels his heart twinge at the idea, which quickly turns into a flinch of terror as he hears the kitten snores pick back up. Bitty is still asleep, Bitty is not crying, Bitty is drooling on him, honest to God frat boy drool.

Jack’s brain has fled him and he barely registers the little whine and stirring that warns him that Bittle is finally waking up. He does hear the little sniff and groggy, “Where in the name of….” mumbled straight into his back before Bitty tenses.

“Who are you?”, Bitty whispers warily. Jack can feel where Bittle’s face is pressed hard into his t-shirt.

“What?”, Jack responds belatedly, not understanding the strange question.

“Jack! Thank everything holy! Shitty said he’d kill me if I ever drooled on him again I am so happy I passed out on you!”, Bitty says and his whisper is hot and fast against the damp fabric covering Jack’s shoulder, and it’s oh so sincere.

Jack can’t help it. He starts chuckling, then laughing, until he’s going full force, his laugh booming around the Haus common area and probably up to the bedrooms too. Jack can feel Bitty laughing too, the way they’re pressed up together. It’s high and sweet and it carries, even muffled against him. Their laughter is just starting to subside into rather unattractive wheezing when a couch cushion appears from the early morning darkness to smack Jack Zimmerman upside the head.

“Shut the fuck up you loony birds, some of us are trying to sleep here,” and that’s definitely Ransom’s hangover voice.

Jack tilts his head to look up the floor, up the floor, is that a thing? He quickly spots where Ransom and Holster, whom is still engrossed in a bear like slumber, are spread out on the floor near the couch. His eyes dart away, and then back, to where Ransom’s head is pillowed on Holster’s bare stomach and his eyes are staring murderously into Jack’s own. How had he not seen that before? Both in the literal and figurative sense.

“Sorry,” Jack tries to murmur. But is cut off by another, “Shut the fuck up,” though this time with less heat. Jack then turns his attention back to the stationary lump on his back.

“Bittle,” no response.

“Bittle move,” and Jack throws in a little buck.

“Wha!? I’m up! I’m up!” and all of a sudden Jack’s back is cold and there the distinctive thump sound of a body hitting the floor as Bitty rears out of his impromptu nap.

“Ow.”

“Bitty! Jesus!”

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

Jack is now on his hands and knees, having lunged toward the area of the thump, but spares a moment of his concern to glare back at Ransom, who rolls his eyes. Jack continues his crawl towards Bitty’s whines of distress but halts when he sees him rubbing at his perfect little behind.

“I think I bruised my tailbone,” and Jack cannot stand that pout. Then Bittle gives him a shit eating grin, “Kiss it better?” And no Bittle is not allowed to do that.

“How bout we get some water and go back to sleep?”

“That will work too,” and Bitty’s soft little smile is almost just as bad.

Eventually Jack and Bitty make it to the kitchen for a glass of water and then stumble up the stairs together. Jack brings Bitty into Johnson’s old room and the boy wastes no time in flopping face down on top of the covers, which works just fine with Jack. But then he catches sight of a blue knit blanket over the back of the only chair in the room, and he is 100% positive Bittle’s mom knit it, and something in him makes him walk over and get it and place it over Bittle, whose breath is already evening out again but who grunts in appreciation. Or at least Jack would like to think of it as a grunt of appreciation.

As Jack is leaving the room he hears from the bed a muffled, “Goodnight, Jack.” He doesn’t turn around.

“Actually, it’s morning Bittle.”

“Good morning, Jack,” and this time Jack does turn around, smiling at the poof of hair sticking out from beneath the blanket. Seeing the bleary eyes peering at him through the darkness half of Jack’s mind makes a decision and winks, actually winks, before turning and walking out of the room in a daze, confused at himself, resolved to sleep on it.