"Awesome," he grunts, and there's just no way to make it sound sincere even if this time, for once, it actually kind of is.

He's practically gasping by the time he reaches the top, planting one hand against the wall, coughing up a storm.

Oh god.

Fuck. No. No.

Tim lurches to his knees, then to all fours. He can't stop. His throat's on fire. His head is burning. Something smothers the panic building in his chest, in his skull, suffusing the pressure with an ungodly ache. He can't see beyond the worn concrete, the flecks of crimson hitting the ground the longer he coughs, no, no, no.

At least he can't hurt Jay like this.

Because Jay's already dead.

And it's all - your - fault.