Tim stares at the blood. He wants to and doesn't want to ask in equal measures, that uncanniness setting off a hundred concerns under his skin, alarm bells that he does his best to keep deep underneath and nowhere near the surface. What was he supposed to do about that, anyway? Offer him a tissue or a napkin, but it wasn't like he had any. Tell him to clean his damn face off before that unnatural pink made Tim's skin really crawl.

"Yeah, great place," Tim says sarcastically. "Love blowing myself up and then getting...dragged through a forest and waking up in an unfamiliar bed. One of my favorites. Bet you're having a riot."