His heart's in his throat when he sees that weapon, metal and sharp and meant for him. And it's not fear that makes Tim recoil- flinch in the unnervingly quick way a dog does, but it happens and his ears, again, are flat. His tail tucks in between his legs and, for the first time, one paw lifting in a plea and licking at his lips though he doesn't want to taste the blood, Tim feels-- disgusting. His breath is stuck where his heart is; he hears himself force in a horrid, grating rasp.

Good boy.

And Tim doesn't get it.

He thinks, he just never will.

Nothing good is met by so much doubt at the door.

His tail wags. Furious, anguished, devastated. Hopeful.

Tim feels absolutely disgusting.

The fur is too hot, even the thinned and mangled mane. He is caked in blood. He feels it coagulated in the very roof of his very long mouth. Behind his teeth. He smells it.

He smells smoke and the pungent medicinal tell of swill.

He smells something like-- home.

Tim runs in. His hip clips the frame of the door as he shoots inward. He's made a beeline for the bathroom, a bull in a china shop. As he hops in the tub- he slips, tangles in the ancient shower lining. The wolf yelps again-- rarely, but not never, has he ever made such a fucking mess.