He can't help but snort, an involuntary dry grunt, and that turns out to be a horrible idea because his nose is still running dark trails down across the front of his face. Fuck, he's a mess. Blood, snot, sweat, the whole nine yards. He probably looks like a fucking zombie or something, all bloody-mouthed like something out of Brian's treasured B-movies. Fuck, that's not a thought he needs.

Jay's laughing, and that's a sound Tim's never heard before, except it comes out wrong and just makes him feel ill. Well. Ill-er. He drags his jacket sleeve across the front of his face a few times and tries not to let his stomach heave when he sees the tan fabric. The way that thing had worn it - that wasn't him. But this is his dream, his head. So of course it was.

"Yeah," says Tim wryly, eyes shutting again. "Real great job you did there. Don't forget I had to save your ass. Y'know. Again."

At least he succeeded this time. That never happens. Tim forces his eyes open to look at the idiot whose life he always fails to save in dreams like these, and doesn't dare to hope that it would let itself end like this. Jay dies, or Tim dies, or they both do, but mostly it's Jay. The unbreakable loop.

"You okay?" He doesn't have the energy to infuse the words with much emotion. They sound robotic, mandatory. Well. It's the thought that counts.