Sleepless in Ritattle (Tim X Rita Fanfic)

Horrible Idea

    Rita was at home with Moby. His comforting metal arm was draped over her shoulder as they lounged on the sofa and watched the new show, The X-Files.
    Just then, there was a knock at the door. Moby immediately stirred. "Beep beep, beep!" Rita understood this as I'll get it, honey. "Oh, it's fine, Moby," Rita said, standing. "I'll get it." She had been thinking maybe that show wasn't for her and wanted a break from it. It was starting to freak her out, especially as she could very well empathize with the main characters' need to figure out the truth.
She walked out of the living room and heard another couple raps at the door, louder this time. "Jesus Christ, I'm coming," She murmured. She finally reached the foyer of Moby's rather large house and, subsequently, the doorway. Rita opened it slowly, wondering who needed to speak to Moby at this hour.
Rita was taken aback when she saw Tim standing at the doorstep. He looked pretty wasted, and she could see his car with the door open and headlights still on parked not-so-neatly in Moby's yard.
"Tim? What the hell are you doing here?" She asked in a somewhat hushed voice.
Tim stared at Rita, momentarily blinded by the light casted onto him from her house, like a deer in headlights. He had to think; What am I doing here? Then he remembered.
"I need to speak with Moby," He tried to say firmly. Rita just stared at him blankly. "I have a bone to pick with that guy!" Tim slurred. Rita just sighed, now becoming aware of what this was about (although she didn't yet know what had prompted Tim's anger in this particular situation).
"You're wasted, Tim. Why don't you just come in and have some water?" Rita suggested. Tim thought this over. Perhaps he could still get Moby alone. Then he'd really catch him by surprise. "Yeah, mkay," He grumbled.
Tim followed Rita through the house and into her very expensive-looking living room. As Tim stared at what seemed to be the biggest TV he'd ever seen, Rita explained to Moby that she had to help out a friend, and he'd be gone by tomorrow. Moby just shrugged; he trusted her.
Rita led him to the kitchen, wondering why in the hell she hadn't just called a cab for Tim and sent him on his merry, drunken way. She shook the thought off and decided she'd rather not unpack this. I'll just get him sobered up and let him sleep in the guest room... then no more of this. I need to stop; I'm going to marry Moby, Rita told herself.
Tim sat in a chair and focused on drinking a glass of water that had appeared before him. "Thank you, Rita," He murmured. "You know, you're a lot nicer than you let on." Rita just stared at her hands on the counter.
Tim didn't remember much of what happened after that, but he knew he must have ended up in a bedroom, because the next morning he awoke in a bed that wasn't his with a bucket beside him. Head reeling, he immediately turned to throw up into it.
Oh fucking shit, Tim thought when he remembered where he was. Why in God's name had he thought this was a good idea? Tim knew he could be dumb when he got drunk, but he'd never done anything this stupid. He silently hoped to God that he hadn't said or done anything embarrassing last night. He checked his watch. It was about 1PM.
"What the hell is wrong with me," Tim said aloud, wondering whether to laugh or cry. It was hard to think with his head spinning and throbbing like this, but he sat up in bed and tried to take a few deep breaths. Feeling faint and queazy, he noticed a glass of water on the bedside table and immediately snatched it to drink a few gulps.
Suddenly, Tim heard steps coming towards the room he was in. He found himself not knowing whether to hope it was Rita or Moby. It didn't really matter, anyways, as Rita opened the door. Tim felt his headache double in intensity when light came in through the door, and started to really miss how dim the bedroom had previously been.
"I see you're up," Rita said awkwardly, at length. "Listen Rita," Tim began, starting to get out of bed. "I want to apologize for-" He cut himself off, noticing he was wearing sweatpants. "Where are my pants?" He asked promptly, now sitting on the edge of the bed.
Rita made a sound like ahem, and pointed at a plastic bag on the floor. Tim picked it up curiously, noticing the bag contained pants that smelled of stale urine. Tim, face burning, said, "So, um, I was pretty drunk." He avoided eye contact. I need to stop drinking, He reprimanded himself.
"Yes, well, it's fine; I called us both in sick for work, and Moby doesn't mind you being here. Although you should probably go soon," Rita added hastily. Tim nodded. "Again, I'm really sorry. I don't even remember why I came here," He stared at the floor, aware that they both probably knew the real reason why.
Then, he remembered. The organization. Moby! He looked up, into Rita's face. Do I want to tell her, though? It would crush her. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "You're right. I should go. Where are my keys?" He stood up, vision blacking out for a couple of heartbeats.
"Tim... you can stay a little while longer. Do you want breakfast? More water?" Rita asked quickly; she didn't want him to go just yet. "Sorry for bothering you. I shouldn't have come here," Tim muttered. He saw that his flip, wallet, and keys were on the nightstand next to the now-empty water glass. Snatching them up, he headed towards the door.
Rita remained stationary and waited for him to stop in front of her. "Tim, wait. Listen, I... You said something last night, and I think you should know... What you said, I mean," Rita stammered. Tim, mind reeling with the possibilities, said, "W-wait, what? What did I say?"
"You said..." Rita began. "You told me you loved me."