#n 2

Then, there is the hand; even now, even like this, Tim is immediately aware that this is a not a human hand. It has human fingers, yes, five of them that curl almost gently, carefully around Tim’s forearm, its thumb rubbing almost soothingly at his burn skin, making Tim whimper, but it’s also cold and too rigid, its skin feeling weird and melted against Tim’s, and he freezes in horror. 

“Fuck off,” he says; hopes that he manages to say it. “Fuck off you stupid creepy mannequin -”

“Tim,” repeats the voice. “Tim.”

It is low and sweet and familiar, and Tim feels like he’s going to be sick. 

“No,” he says. “No, no -”

“I wish I could fix you,” says the voice that cannot be Danny’s. It is very close to his ear now. “But i’m very tired, and my skin hurts.”

“No,” Tim repeats, but it’s weaker now. He feels dizzy and warm and blood keeps leaking from his lips, but he can’t feel his legs anymore, and cold plastic nestles next to him. 

“Tim,” it says again. “Tim, I think i’m scared.”

Tim wants to yell; Tim wants to cry; Tim wants to laugh. 

Tim says, his voice hoarse and small: “It’s ok, Danny. I’m scared too. It’ll be alright soon, though.”

“Tim.” There is something nuzzling his shoulder. It says his name, again, and again, like a broken record, and Tim finds himself murmuring: “It’ll be alright, Danny. It’ll be alright.” the world is fading, slowly, almost gently now.