Careful as he can be ( and oh, he can be careful; he can be diligent about where he puts his hands and feet, keep his limbs tucked in like the cryptid he is, all skinny angles and half-starved intensity finally filling in at the seams ), he checks over the top of Tim's head. Locating the bed behind him, and the debris that he has to clear off it in order to give the guy some space to relax. Okay, okay. He can do this. The ability to comfort is a learned trait, and Harry's a little under thirty years behind the curve in regards to doing it. Well, if at all.

Comfort wasn't for boys like him, unless it came with a harsh lesson.

" — it won't help, but I... " He doesn't know if it's even worth saying, but maybe being a little open and vulnerable with a normal human being will wash the fever of the Sidhe from his brain. It'll push back the Mantle urging him to sink teeth into someone so very sweet, the way his hindbrain wants him to sometimes. Dominance and survival are the name of the Winter Sidhe, and he rebels against it with inner fire and a deep, nigh-primordial sense of control. So, it won't help.

It won't help, but he takes Tim to bed. Slips things off the covers one-handed and draws them back, urging him to settle down into the confines of his blankets and lay back against a pillow. It won't help, but he nudges Tim over, tucks the blankets between them like a gentleman and folds his long, long body onto the mattress. It won't help, but, he says to Tim

quiet, and half-tucked into the pillow he lays down on, his hand encompassing the side of Tim's head, stroking a thumb over his temple

" — I died in a lake, too."