[He gives a slow, jerky shake of his head to the question, keeping his eyes steadily on Stiles. His mind is racing, but as ever, his lips and tongue and limited language are failing his cognitive abilities. If he could, he'd explain to Stiles what he is, what he was doing, he'd have so many questions, but he the words flutter like delicate insects just out of his grasp, dissolving to nothing when he manages to touch them.
R draws in a quick breath through his nose so he can speak.]
no subject
R draws in a quick breath through his nose so he can speak.]
Not going.. to hurt. Won't.. eat.
[There's the tiniest ghost of a smile.]
Just talk.