It's weird, Tim thinks fuzzily, to experience a kind of pain that isn't somehow tied to the neurological. It's different, it's new, it's explosive, and it's nailed itself right into his gut. There's a vague sort of relief (that can't be healthy) in the face (not a face) of something so utterly ordinary. And, weirdly, all he can process is this ridiculous sense of comfort after everything that's happened.
For about five seconds.
"Jay -" he tries to grunt out, and he can feel the man unsuccessfully trying to prop him up, but has he seen the size difference between the two of them lately, what is he doing, he needs to grab the camera and run because that's what he always does, Tim faces the monsters and Jay just bolts. That's bitter, that's wrong.
He has one hand clamped over the place where it happened, same place as Jay even, he's going to bleed out so fucking slowly and it'll hurt every step of the way assuming he doesn't die of shock first, Tim knows too much about medical procedure after his life, and this feels exactly how he'd think getting shot would feel. There's a lot of fucking blood, the hand's not even doing anything but getting soaked in red, the front of his shirt, the ground, Jay's shirt, all of it. Tim's not even standing anymore but he can't run, he can't even make it as far as Jay did. He's gonna die like Jay, running scared, no camera, chased down by a childhood nightmare. Ha. Ha. Ha.
"Get out of here," he whispers, but to Jay or to the thing that's sliding impossibly, imperceptibly, towards them in the spaces between ragged breaths. It doesn't even move normally, fuck. One arm reaches. For them, for Tim, well fuck it had to happen sometime didn't it?
This is better. It was always gonna happen. At least it wasn't Jay. At least it wasn't Brian. At least it's someone who deserves it. He's the source, cut him out, shoot him out, bleed him out, break him open, burn the cancer inside.
Tim feels bizarrely like laughing at the absurd symmetry of it. Instead he gasps out a wordless cry at each movement, each jerking, clumsy attempt Jay makes to drag him away. Run, you dumb fuck. Tim's been shot and he deserves it. Run.
"Get out," he rasps. "Go."
The thing without a face reaches them, arms larger and longer than the world arcing at them to take him away.
tw: blood, suicide ideation
For about five seconds.
"Jay -" he tries to grunt out, and he can feel the man unsuccessfully trying to prop him up, but has he seen the size difference between the two of them lately, what is he doing, he needs to grab the camera and run because that's what he always does, Tim faces the monsters and Jay just bolts. That's bitter, that's wrong.
He has one hand clamped over the place where it happened, same place as Jay even, he's going to bleed out so fucking slowly and it'll hurt every step of the way assuming he doesn't die of shock first, Tim knows too much about medical procedure after his life, and this feels exactly how he'd think getting shot would feel. There's a lot of fucking blood, the hand's not even doing anything but getting soaked in red, the front of his shirt, the ground, Jay's shirt, all of it. Tim's not even standing anymore but he can't run, he can't even make it as far as Jay did. He's gonna die like Jay, running scared, no camera, chased down by a childhood nightmare. Ha. Ha. Ha.
"Get out of here," he whispers, but to Jay or to the thing that's sliding impossibly, imperceptibly, towards them in the spaces between ragged breaths. It doesn't even move normally, fuck. One arm reaches. For them, for Tim, well fuck it had to happen sometime didn't it?
This is better. It was always gonna happen. At least it wasn't Jay. At least it wasn't Brian. At least it's someone who deserves it. He's the source, cut him out, shoot him out, bleed him out, break him open, burn the cancer inside.
Tim feels bizarrely like laughing at the absurd symmetry of it. Instead he gasps out a wordless cry at each movement, each jerking, clumsy attempt Jay makes to drag him away. Run, you dumb fuck. Tim's been shot and he deserves it. Run.
"Get out," he rasps. "Go."
The thing without a face reaches them, arms larger and longer than the world arcing at them to take him away.