It's too much, too fast. She staggers back like someone who's had too much to drink, and he catches the reflexive jerk of a hand to the face. He's pressed hands against his mouth, trembling, to hold the red in as it dots the palm of his hand, every cough shaking his shoulders, too many times not to recognize the motion for what it is.

The burgundy streak clings to her jacket sleeve in a rusted smear as she turns to leave, looking like someone who's just screamed her lungs out rather than someone who's wandered to his room and muttered little more than a few words before retreating once more.

Unless she - did.

How's he supposed to know if she did? A prickle creeps up his spine in a slow, inexorable crawl.

You know, like an... anxiety attack?

Yeah. Like that.

She called it something special in the dream. Something like a - I rewound, Tim. Because you hurt yourself... And he's got no idea if blood has anything to do with it, but either way, something here doesn't add up. And as long as they're dealing in secrets, hey, he's got one of hers to match the one she's got of him.

"Did you just - was that a rewind?"

The words crack out with more sharpness than he intends them to, clipped and accusatory, his brow curving in a frown.