Tim latches onto him quickly, as if he were waiting for it, hoping for it. Even if only for a moment, he doesn't want to be alone, he needs the tender touch of someone he feels safe with to forget about the feeling of leather wrapped tight against his neck. Broad palms holding him steady, his own arms curling around Harry in turn.
"Thank you," he says, wiping his eyes against Harry's shirt. "I...I have no choice, but to talk about it. If we want to find him."
Taking time alone to process and heal, only sharing with friends and loved ones, is a luxury he doesn't have. If he doesn't know who did this by Tuesday, or convince enough people of his guilt, he'll kill again. But thus far, it's been just the facts. Grabbed from behind. Strangled. Dragged to the lake. Repeated over and over. If he says them enough times, maybe they'll become facts and nothing else, not nightmares or traumas that will stay with him forever or sensations seared into his skin long after the bruise goes away.
"I'm scared. I can still...feel it. Every time I breathe."
People need physical contact, it's a fact of life. The brush of a kiss against a forehead, the clasp of fingers together, the pressure of a shoulder leaned into another. A quiet embrace, Harry's fingers spread wide over Tim's back — because, he was attacked. ( Harry remembers: blood under his nails and children's lives on the line, a broken jaw aching and his belly sick with desperation; feeling dirty until someone took the time to put him back together. To pay him mind and wipe his injuries and fears away. )
"Not the facts," he says into Tim's hair, scrubbing his palm up and down. Up and down his spine, slow and soft. "Not the stuff you have to say because it's helpful. The stuff you don't want to say, and can't right now 'cause you have to lock in and get moving. The stuff for later. The stuff that catches up to you in the dark, for years and years. Until you forget who you were before what you have to become to handle it."
Maybe for now, it's the closest he's come to saying: me too. But, he doesn't matter right now. Not as his hand slips higher and his fingers card into the back of Tim's hair. Not to tug or pull, just to cradle the back of his head. " — yeah, I bet you do. Just keep to the facts for them out there. You can be scared right here."
Tim's life has been one of sudden shifts and quick disillusionments. Things don't change slowly, but all at once, leaving him dizzy as the entire world shakes beneath his feet. Before and after Hawk, before and after McCarthy, before and after Saltburnt. Hands on his body, hands on his neck, hellfire at his ankles. There was good to find in all of those, lessons to be learned, if nothing else. Before and after his almost-murder will be the next, but what is there to learn from this? That he ought to keep his mouth shut and not try to help anyone, lest he be punished for it? What it feels like to know that your next breath might be your last, or how blood tastes mixed with gravel and lake water?
It's senseless. No silver lining. Just the burning in his lungs that won't leave, blazes hotter as he chokes down a sob. Harry's hands feel like they might be big enough to hold him together for a while.
"Okay...okay," he whispers, not wanting to pull away, wishing the hand in his hair could take it all away on its own. "Can we lay down?"
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
Tim settles back into bed with shaky breaths, happy to have Harry guide him into place. He's made enough bad decisions over the start of this twisted game, and he's sure the mistakes won't end, so for someone to choose for him, no matter how small, it's a comfort. Where to lay his head, how to best protect himself (did the charm go off, or did he lose it in the struggle?), how to arrange this so it isn't illicit and there's no pressure.
He lays on his side, turned towards Harry, one arm tucked under his pillow and the other reaching for him over the bunched up blanket, touch going both ways. The comfort of an affectionate touch is still relatively new to him - for so long, he was afraid to seek it, for the slippery slope of sin he might tumble down if he even allowed himself to want it, much less accept it. The fear of Hell was replaced by the fear of more worldly consequences, losing his job and his family and everything else. Here, in Saltburnt, where despite the terror and confusion that comes in waves, with just enough rest to let their guards down before the next batch of horrors, this one little thing that he needs is allowed.
Of course Tim leans into it, nuzzling into his hand like a dog desperate for love, eager to be handled softly, comforted by the fact that the same fingertips brushing his hair back now were burned just days ago, making something that might have protected him, stalled his attacker long enough for him to be saved. He's safe with Harry, he has faith in that, and in the aftermath of an assault that has him flinching at shadows and keeping his back to the walls, there's no greater comfort that he could be.
"You...died?"
Asked softly, doe eyes wide and questioning. Helpful, maybe, isn't the word, but...it's something, feeling like he understands, and his neediness and shameless flirtation hasn't scared him off. Tim places his hand over Harry's, keeping it there on his head, keeping himself secure.
God knows, Harry's been where Tim is. Nearly forty years old, with every year of his life harder than the last; the stakes higher, the danger greater, the violence escalating until it nearly devoured everyone he loved and cared for. He's been on the receiving end of hands around his throat, knives sunk down to his bones, kisses laced with venom, promises that required him to carve off pieces of his innocence and feed it to the hungry mouths of more powerful entities. He's been in the lake. He's been paralyzed in his own bed, reliving moments that haunt him still.
Laying on his back, he turns his head to face Tim. The hand pressed to the side of his face brushing along the hairs just behind his ear, the ends of his fingers cold but the palm warm. He curls his fingers downward, tucking them into his palm as he — well, pets Tim — carding his fingers along the edge of his ear and avoiding the bruised mark on his throat as he follows the line of muscle bunched there up and down.
"Not tonight," he murmurs, but it's not not ever. "I just wanted you to know we have that in common."
The others who had drowned, even if they were saved like Tim, could probably empathize with him as well. But, Harry remembers the bitter bite of Lake Michigan closing over his head, the delicious warmth that had finally been in reach soon after, how tired he'd been. How it hadn't hurt, not really. It just felt like being weightless. It was the coming back that had hurt the most.
"You should take a nap before tonight, you're gonna' need your strength. And I'll stay, unless someone throws me out and takes my place."
“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.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2024-10-12 11:01 pm (UTC)"Thank you," he says, wiping his eyes against Harry's shirt. "I...I have no choice, but to talk about it. If we want to find him."
Taking time alone to process and heal, only sharing with friends and loved ones, is a luxury he doesn't have. If he doesn't know who did this by Tuesday, or convince enough people of his guilt, he'll kill again. But thus far, it's been just the facts. Grabbed from behind. Strangled. Dragged to the lake. Repeated over and over. If he says them enough times, maybe they'll become facts and nothing else, not nightmares or traumas that will stay with him forever or sensations seared into his skin long after the bruise goes away.
"I'm scared. I can still...feel it. Every time I breathe."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-12 11:52 pm (UTC)"Not the facts," he says into Tim's hair, scrubbing his palm up and down. Up and down his spine, slow and soft. "Not the stuff you have to say because it's helpful. The stuff you don't want to say, and can't right now 'cause you have to lock in and get moving. The stuff for later. The stuff that catches up to you in the dark, for years and years. Until you forget who you were before what you have to become to handle it."
Maybe for now, it's the closest he's come to saying: me too. But, he doesn't matter right now. Not as his hand slips higher and his fingers card into the back of Tim's hair. Not to tug or pull, just to cradle the back of his head. " — yeah, I bet you do. Just keep to the facts for them out there. You can be scared right here."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-13 12:45 am (UTC)It's senseless. No silver lining. Just the burning in his lungs that won't leave, blazes hotter as he chokes down a sob. Harry's hands feel like they might be big enough to hold him together for a while.
"Okay...okay," he whispers, not wanting to pull away, wishing the hand in his hair could take it all away on its own. "Can we lay down?"
Nothing untoward. Just exhaustion.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-16 01:29 am (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-16 05:35 am (UTC)He lays on his side, turned towards Harry, one arm tucked under his pillow and the other reaching for him over the bunched up blanket, touch going both ways. The comfort of an affectionate touch is still relatively new to him - for so long, he was afraid to seek it, for the slippery slope of sin he might tumble down if he even allowed himself to want it, much less accept it. The fear of Hell was replaced by the fear of more worldly consequences, losing his job and his family and everything else. Here, in Saltburnt, where despite the terror and confusion that comes in waves, with just enough rest to let their guards down before the next batch of horrors, this one little thing that he needs is allowed.
Of course Tim leans into it, nuzzling into his hand like a dog desperate for love, eager to be handled softly, comforted by the fact that the same fingertips brushing his hair back now were burned just days ago, making something that might have protected him, stalled his attacker long enough for him to be saved. He's safe with Harry, he has faith in that, and in the aftermath of an assault that has him flinching at shadows and keeping his back to the walls, there's no greater comfort that he could be.
"You...died?"
Asked softly, doe eyes wide and questioning. Helpful, maybe, isn't the word, but...it's something, feeling like he understands, and his neediness and shameless flirtation hasn't scared him off. Tim places his hand over Harry's, keeping it there on his head, keeping himself secure.
"You can talk about it, if you want to."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-16 07:34 pm (UTC)Laying on his back, he turns his head to face Tim. The hand pressed to the side of his face brushing along the hairs just behind his ear, the ends of his fingers cold but the palm warm. He curls his fingers downward, tucking them into his palm as he — well, pets Tim — carding his fingers along the edge of his ear and avoiding the bruised mark on his throat as he follows the line of muscle bunched there up and down.
"Not tonight," he murmurs, but it's not not ever. "I just wanted you to know we have that in common."
The others who had drowned, even if they were saved like Tim, could probably empathize with him as well. But, Harry remembers the bitter bite of Lake Michigan closing over his head, the delicious warmth that had finally been in reach soon after, how tired he'd been. How it hadn't hurt, not really. It just felt like being weightless. It was the coming back that had hurt the most.
"You should take a nap before tonight, you're gonna' need your strength. And I'll stay, unless someone throws me out and takes my place."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-16 08:59 pm (UTC)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.”