Tim's fingers press into the sides of Mike's neck, not cutting off his air supply, but getting a good grip on him. And it's just to bring him forward off the wall and slam him back against it roughly. Who cares how much trouble he can get in for roughing up a CI? Honestly, who cares about Mike Warren?

He doesn't ever remember telling Mike about his childhood, about the army, but that's not surprising. There are entire black spots in his memory from the days that laced together with too many narcotics, nights that he can't remember, but is relatively certain they involved being curled around Mike and talking softly into his shoulder or chest. Tim doesn't know half of what he's told Mike, and it's fucking frustrating.

Liquor is definitely safer. Even when he's drunk enough to fight or spill his secrets, he at least remembers doing it.

Right now, he's stone cold sober. Completely alcohol and drug free, and it's honestly painful as hell. Used to be, he only needed a few drinks to get him through the night. These days, he tends to put more bourbon in his coffee than actual coffee. And it's especially rough standing in front of Mike, who he's started associating with getting a fix.

"I suggest," he says, his voice low and sharp. "You shut the fuck up."