"Oh, shut up," he snipes. It's wholly unwarranted and a symptom of the thick tension, and entirely (if he dares be so bold) uncharacteristic of any good soldier. Tim could feel the white-hot stab of Jason's words as physically as he now feels the smooth hardwood underneath. He has never left his brother-

but it's so new to think of Damian as his brother.

And it's too late now, isn't it?

There's stale silence. Tim knows the sound when there's only one person moving through a furnished house, the wheek of a door swinging open to a previously lived-in bedroom. It's different from the quiet of stalking through a warehouse or drug den. Maybe something about the upholstery affecting acoustics. Maybe it's all in his head. Then there's the click-clack of dog paws. And a whine.

Tim's in the kitchen sink and dry heaving, mouth coated thick with saliva, but he thinks that the whining is from the white dog.

Damian's dog.

Like with his passing chat with Bigby, Tim can't think of what he can do that'll help. Not when there's such few options to begin with... and at least he didn't throw up on Jason. He runs faucet and doesn't think he's thinking much at all. That's alarming.

There's cotton in his ears. Can't hear the dog anymore. He smells-- barf. But not blood. That's good. Right-?

Christ.

Tim reaches to turn on the faucet and it's already been turned on. So he sits at the table in the kitchen and can't even help look for his brother's body, or his brother's cow, and he's-- seldom felt so--

eventually, when he trains his eyes on Jason again, Tim just stays quiet. There's an expectation in the glossy eyes of his. But it's not a good one.

Another death in the family-?