“Okay. Thank you,” he agrees, with a soft nod. Tim doesn’t want to push, hates that he himself was victimized so publicly, in a situation where he has no choice but to talk about it over and over. There’s no time to process, no time to choose when and to whom to reveal his pain. Maybe they don’t need to reveal it at all, if they’ve both experienced it for themselves. They both know the moment of losing faith in their own lungs, when the body knows it’s out of fight. The fear and the helplessness that’s hard to articulate without breaking down, the final bargaining with God to hear his case and not cast him away for his sins. If Harry knows at least most of it, then it doesn’t need explaining. It’s more than most people will understand, without that.

Slowly, as if he’s afraid he might make himself flinch at his own movements, he shifts his head so his neck is stretched out, letting Harry’s cold fingertips touch the bruise. It makes him tense again, for a few breaths, but the cool sensation is soothing. A more intimate icepack.

“You can stay,” Tim offers, perhaps too quickly. “But, um. Hawk—he lives here, on the other side, but he’s been on this side a lot, cuz of everything. He won’t throw you out. He doesn’t have a right to, I don’t really know where we are right now, it’s-- complicated. If you don’t want to deal with that, I understand, but right now, I...”

Can’t be alone. He’s barely holding it together with Harry here, having no company but his thoughts would be...well, it would be bad. Tim can’t shut down now, not with so much to do. A nap he can accept to keep his brain working, but he doesn’t have time to sink fully into crisis mode.

“I want you here.”