Daine's new shape flows to accommodate itself to his lap, only a little less surprising the second time around. Without any idea over what else he should be doing, Tim absently starts stroking her, running fingers through long, silky fur. It's a little soothing to have a loudly purring cat curled on top of him but his heart is still hammering, entire body tensed and jumpy from the question. He has to resist the tug of his own barely regarded memories that want to replay themselves in his head like a grotesque, tortuous, high-speed slideshow.

Tim's at a loss for words. It's not explaining it that's the issue, it's having to explain it without really saying it. Just knowing him has proved to be a death sentence in its own right.

"I don't mean to be." As if intention comes in any way into this. "Just, there's some - bad stuff I've had to deal with, and people might get pulled in."

Is that vague enough? Tim hopes to fuck it is. Daine's been so nice to him. He doesn't want anything to happen to her.