"..." He's weak. That'll be the excuse he'll think up after dinner. After a quiet beer, after the check in with his specialist and sending along the nightly data. When the house has gone quiet and all he can think of is how much he hates sleeping in the bed here alone-

He shouldn't ask. A large part of him doesn't want to, but he's standing in the hallway, dressed down to try to get some sleep, ready to leave Jim to it when his hand darts back to tangle their hands together.

Anything, Jim said, and he feels the worst kind of selfish, the worst kind of weak for swallowing past a suddenly dry throat and murmuring. "...stay with me tonight?"