For the first time, outside of the flinch after the thunder that cracked right through the folds of his brain, his ears flatten. The human in him (and isn't it weird- to think of a human as a part of him and not him, entirely) has been here before as an Unknown to be feared; the wolf isn't used to this, doesn't like it.

And maybe Tim's never liked it either, but--

irrelevant.

His ears are flat, the short tail is still swinging between the hocks of his back legs but now in a quicker staccato. Tim licks his lips in what he knows is a nervous gesture and he can't make himself stop it-- there's Power in how Wynonna is moving

moving towards the wrong

--wait, does she think...?

She does.

For the second time, Tim shouts: black lips pull impossibly back and he's... gagging, he realizes. Too late, he realizes- he can't defend himself. Wynonna has an iron grip on his neck; too coarse uneven brittle fur does nothing to stave away the sensation of not having air. Tim is used to that. The animal is not.

All he breathes in, in a wet choked gasp, is blood.

And then he can't feel his back legs.

He doesn't know when it happened; now he's gasping and coughing and all of his face is blood, and for a panicky moment he cannot move all four of his awkward and long legs. He's flat against hardwood floor, far from the Others. He's coughing. His ear are low, his tail swinging-- hopeful... hopeful...

He is not a member of this Pack.

He is an Other.

Through sheer will- fright- hope-- no: understanding, the wolf makes haste.

The doors.

It makes sense, even as he stumbles one- two- three times on unsteady feet.

Tim is not needed.

He would rather die than hinder.

The doors.

Kate has Power now, Power on her side:

she will be okay.

She will be okay.

He runs.