Tim's eyes rake over him, taking in the hand clamped over his middle like he's bleeding but there's no wash of crimson seething out. What is this, psychosomatic? Nightmare?
"You're not hurt," he says, forcing a steady note into his voice, trying not to let the breaking crest of Jay's terror engulf whatever tenuous calm he still has. "Nothing's wrong. It's okay."
Maybe it's not. Maybe he's a liar. Maybe it's something worse. Maybe it's not panic.
But he can't see anything.
But it's not in the nature of every injury, he remembers grimly, to be visible. He knows that. Better than anyone.
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Tim's eyes rake over him, taking in the hand clamped over his middle like he's bleeding but there's no wash of crimson seething out. What is this, psychosomatic? Nightmare?
"You're not hurt," he says, forcing a steady note into his voice, trying not to let the breaking crest of Jay's terror engulf whatever tenuous calm he still has. "Nothing's wrong. It's okay."
Maybe it's not. Maybe he's a liar. Maybe it's something worse. Maybe it's not panic.
But he can't see anything.
But it's not in the nature of every injury, he remembers grimly, to be visible. He knows that. Better than anyone.