Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Timmy,” Dick says weakly, grinning. There’s blood on his teeth, although that’s nothing compared to the blood that’s… everywhere else. The hoarse quality to his voice makes Tim want to vomit.

At the sound of Dick’s voice, Damian lifts his head from where it’s been pressed against Dick’s side. Even the customary glare he offers Tim is weak and barely there, sad and pitiful. For the first time, Tim recognizes that Damian really is a child, small and scared and hurt. The sight makes his blood boil; he suddenly wishes he’d hit those guys a little bit harder on the way in. Anyone who hurts a little kid like this deserves more than just a little bump on the head.

They’re both covered in blood, and both of Dick’s legs are twisted at horrifying angles. There is absolutely no way he’s walking out of here.

Tim hadn’t expected it to be this bad. His intel had been off. 

“I can’t carry you both,” Tim says, guilt coloring his words as he crouches down. The stench of blood is overwhelming, making his stomach churn.

Dick nods, like this was completely expected. “Take Dami.”

Damian makes a noise of protest, but Dick is already worming his arms under his small body to try and hand him off to Tim.

Dick shushes him gently. “It’s okay now, baby bat. Tim’s gonna take you back to Alfie and get you all patched up. If you ask nicely, they’ll probably even give you the good drugs.”

Together, Tim and Dick get Damian to hook a single arm around Tim’s neck—his other one is broken and swollen and held protectively against his middle. Tim scoops him up, and although he’s never really carried Damian before, he doesn’t think he’s supposed to be this light.

Without Damian half sprawled across his lap, Dick somehow looks even worse. Besides the bruises and broken bones, there’s a large splotch of blood staining the whole left side of his torso that’s very, very worrying. No less worrying, though, than the blood trailing from the corner of Damian’s mouth. Internal bleeding is never, ever a good sign, and Damian already seems barely aware of what’s happening, although he does keep whining and reaching weakly for Dick with his good hand.

Dick takes his hand for just a moment, squeezing it firmly but gently, and something passes between them. Something silent and intimate that Tim feels almost like an intruder witnessing it. 

He hates it. He hates this. He’s been searching tirelessly for Nightwing and Robin for the past two weeks, only for all his hard work to come to a screeching halt because he can only carry one of them. He wants to scream and sob, and he kind of really, really wants Dick to fix this for him because he doesn’t know how.

Dick made the decision for him, but it’s an unacceptable decision. Tim feels trapped, and for a moment all he can do is stand there, shifting back and forth slightly as a frustrated and desperate whine threatens to tear its way up his throat.

“I’ll be back for you in a minute, Dick,” he says. He has to go now. No more delaying the inevitable. The longer he waits, time continues to tick away. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Dick nods, smiling weakly. It’s a bit gruesome looking with the blood on his lips and the bruises on his face, but it’s such a trademark reassuring Dick Grayson smile nonetheless. It almost makes Tim feel better. Almost. If he were still Robin, if he hadn’t seen all the things he’s seen in this life, he might be able to believe him.

But Tim knows better now.

“I promise,” he insists again. 

“I know, Timmy. Don’t worry about me. Just get Dami to safety.”

Tim wants to blurt out how much he loves his brother, but he’s too scared to say it. It feels too much like goodbye, and Tim isn’t even remotely ready for goodbye.

Tim nods, swallowing around the painfully massive lump in his throat. “Come on, Damian,” he whispers thickly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The last thing he sees before he turns to leave is Dick’s head falling back against the wall, a single cough splattering his lips with blood. 

“Drake,” Damian mumbles against his neck as they run. “Go back. You have to go back. Grayson—”

“I will, promise. Just as soon as I get you to safety.”

“No,” Damian insists, starting to sound frantic. He wiggles weakly in Tim’s arms, straining against his hold with the little bit of strength he has left. “No, Grayson is far worse off than he let on. We cannot leave him, Drake, he…” Damian cuts himself off, burying his face back in Tim’s shoulder.

Tim keeps running forward, doesn’t allow his steps to falter, although he wants to. He really wants to. Every step feels like betrayal as he travels farther and farther away from his big brother. Tears blur his vision, and no matter how rapidly he blinks he can’t quite get rid of the fog they cause.

“I know,” he whispers. He knew as soon as he laid eyes on them back in that cell. But Damian needs just as much help as Dick. “But Dick… He made his choice, okay? He wanted me to save you.”

“No, no, no. Please, Drake. Go—go back. You have to save him. You have to save him! Drake!”

Tim bites his lip, hard, and holds Damian tighter. “I told you, Damian. I’ll go back for him.”

“You will be too late, Drake, and you know it. You are leaving him to die. His blood will be on your hands.”

I know. I’m so sorry, Dick.

Damian sobs and rages and screams, and the only thing Tim can do is hold him tighter, determined to save one brother tonight.

Chapter Text

Tim calls the Batmobile, needing some way to get Damian into Leslie and Alfred’s capable hands when he goes back for Dick. He’ll still have to bandage the kid—or else he might not even make it back to the cave—and that will waste precious time that Dick doesn’t have, but it’s the best option he’s got. 

The Batmobile skids to a stop and to Tim’s utter surprise out tumbles pretty much his entire family, Jason following on his bike. His entire family that had been on an off-world mission with no hope of contact for the past month, that Tim hadn’t known were finally home. Tim loves his family, and they’ve had a lot of pretty good moments, but he swears he has never been more relieved to see them in his entire life.

“Red Robin!” Bruce snaps, jumping straight into action, although his gaze is definitely locked on Damian. “Report!”

“Nightwing,” he gasps out, still reeling. “He’s still inside. You gotta go—He’s hurt! You have to—”

Bruce nods instantly, jaw clenching. “Signal, Black Bat, go with Red Robin and get Robin to safety. Red Hood, with me.” 

Jason takes off after him, uncharacteristically without any sort of complaint. Tim must have sounded pretty panicked. It takes a lot to get through Jason’s hard-headedness and stubborn reluctance to show that he cares about any of them. It’s the right choice, as much as Tim’s feet itch to run after them, back towards where he left Dick behind; Bruce and Jason will have a much easier time carrying Dick than Tim would. 

Duke is saying something, trying to heard Tim and Damian into the Batmobile, although Tim’s hearing has pretty much been reduced down the rush of blood in his ears and the rapid pounding in his chest. Cass has to intervene, gently prying Damian from Tim’s hands—when did he pass out? And how did Tim miss it?—and setting about bandaging some of the more pressing injuries. 

“Red Robin,” Signal says, and it sounds like he’s said it several times now, “are you hurt?”

Tim shakes his head. “No. No, I’m okay.” He has a few scrapes and bruises from fighting his way in to Dick and Damian, but nothing that really qualifies “hurt” in their line of work. He’ll barely even need a bandaid or two, maybe an ice pack. Nothing like Damian. Or Dick. A sharp wave of nausea washes over him thinking about his older brother, and he once again has to fight the urge to run after Bruce and Jason.

“Are you sure?” Duke asks, and Tim knows that he’s seeing the blood soaking his uniform and staining his hands. There’s a lot of it.

“S’not mine,” he mumbles. Probably a pretty even split between Dick and Damian. The cloying wetness on his knees definitely came from kneeling in the puddle of Dick’s blood on the cell floor, but the darkened red on his chest and arms is most likely mostly from carrying Damian. His hands could be anyone, there’s no real way to know.

“Time to go,” Cass calls. “Cave.”

Tim moves like a robot, increasingly numb, and holds Damian in his lap for the entirety of the ride.

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers, getting up from his vigil in the chair beside Dick’s bed, and—at Dick’s insistence—climbs in beside his brother. Damian continues to sleep, tucked in against Dick’s other side. 

Dick frowns, brow furrowing. “What for?” His voice is hoarse and garbled from several days of disuse in which he slipped feverishly in and out of consciousness, Tim clutching at his hand and refusing to leave his side. This is the first time he’s really been awake and coherent enough to have any sort of conversation. 

“I left you. I shouldn’t have left you. If the others hadn’t come back—”

Dick shushes him gently, his still shaky and weak hand coming up to brush the hair back from Tim’s forehead. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Tim. You did exactly what I asked you to. And look, I’m okay. We’re all okay.”

“You almost weren’t. It was so close, Dick. And you made me…” He trails off, the words lodged sharply in his throat. Every time he closes his eyes he can still see the blood, and he keeps reliving that moment, the one where he was so sure that he’d been saying goodbye to Dick for the last time. It had been Dick’s choice, but Tim was the one who would have had to live with the consequences of it.

He doesn’t want to snap, doesn’t want to yell or argue or sulk. He’s too tired and relieved, and really, he’s not actually mad, not underneath it all. At least, he’s not mad at Dick. He is pretty furious at the guys that took Nightwing and Robin, and who had no reservations hurting them over and over. And he’s mad at the situation, at having been alone and unable to help both of his brothers. He’s not really mad at Dick for making the decision that he did. It was the right one, as much as Tim loathes to admit it. Damian is just a kid, not even twelve years old yet. Tim can’t be mad at Dick for saving him, no matter how he feels. 

“I’m right here, Timmy. I’m fine.” Tim glares at him. “Alright,” he amends, “I’m going to be fine.”

“You better,” he snaps, completely counteracting any harshness by burrowing closer against Dick’s side. 

Dick presses a firm kiss to his brow. “You did the right thing.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he mumbles, face turned against Dick’s shoulder. 

“I know. I’m sorry. But everything’s going to be okay now. We all made it home.”

He nods, unable to do anything else. The emotions lingering in his chest are too complicated for him to try and unpack at the moment—maybe even ever—so he lets the drowsiness of faded adrenaline and the warmth of his living breathing big brother take him away. The cot isn’t very big, and one of Tim’s legs hangs awkwardly off the side, but Dick is right about one thing: this feels like home.

Chapter Text

Even sprinting with everything he’s got, trying hard not to jostle Damian in his arms, it takes Tim far too long to get the kid into the Batmobile, bandaged up, and headed to Leslie and Alfred. The compound that their captors had kept them in is sprawling and twisty, and only Tim’s hasty half-memorization of the layout before going in saves them from taking far too many wrong turns. 

Damian does not speak to him again. He turns his head away and Tim gently secures him in the car’s passenger seat, glaring halfheartedly at nothing with glazed over and watery eyes. He’s tired and hurt, really barely hanging on—and Tim is surprised to realize that that alone scares and shakes him to his core—but Tim can still feel the anger and hatred radiating off of him. It doesn’t even hold a candle to the self-loathing that envelops Tim’s chest. 

“I’ll bring him home,” Tim says as he closes the door. Damian turns away, says nothing. Tim doesn’t blame him. After all, his words are nothing more than empty, meaningless promises. In Damian’s mind, Tim might as well have been the one pushing that knife into Dick’s skin, might as well be murdering their older brother all while he wraps Damian in bandages and a shock blanket and makes sure he’s buckled in properly. 

Tim is having a really hard time not feeling the same way. 

He’s sprinting again, the moment Damian is off and headed to safety. His lungs burn, legs aching as he pushes himself past his limits. Surely even Bart would be impressed by the speed he’s managing though, desperation and the last lingering bits of cloying hope jolting like electricity in his veins. 

He can make it. He can get to Dick, keep him from bleeding out, stabilize him now that he has fresh medical supplies. The Batmobile has been programmed to come back to the compound as soon as Damian is safe, hopefully with Alfred in tow. They’ll perform field medicine, keep Dick alive until he can get to Leslie and everything will be okay. It will be. It has to be.

Tim skids around the final corner, throwing open the door to Dick and Damian’s cell for the second time that day. It bangs loudly against the wall, sound echoing in the silence.

Dick hasn’t moved, not a muscle since Tim left him. His head is still tipped back against the wall, arms limp where they curl protectively around his red-stained abdomen. He crashes to his knees beside his brother, dread curdling in his stomach as he realizes that he wasn’t just imagining the stillness of Dick’s chest. 

His lips are parted, just slightly, lines of dark red trailing down his chin. His eyes, too, aren’t quite closed. It’s weird, some distant, broken part of Tim’s brain thinks, to see those eyes, usually so bright and sharp, clouded over and dulled nearly to a shade of grey. They’re completely empty, staring at nothing, the most horrible sight Tim has ever seen, at least until he watches how Dick’s head rolls lifelessly when Tim tries in vain to check his pulse. Dick is a master of his own body, having literal decades of diligent training as both an acrobat and a vigilante—to see him move so bonelessly is sickening. It’s as if everything that made him Dick Grayson is just… gone. This is nothing but an empty shell.

“I’m so sorry,” Tim whispers, letting his brother’s body slump against his chest. He rests Dick’s head on his shoulder, tucks the dirty and blood-matted hair behind his ear before burying his face against the top of his head. 

Dick smells like blood, like death, his hair of sweat and soot and metal and the barest hint of jasmine shampoo. Tim gags on it, burying closer. Dick nearly falls over, dead weight that he is, leaving Tim to awkwardly scramble to keep him from sliding off. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Dick, I’m sorry,” he says, over and over, voice nothing more than hoarse whispers, meant for his big brother’s ears alone. 

This is his fault. He should have found another way, a better way. There had to be something he could have done to save both Dick and Damian. Damian had been right. Tim killed their brother. He may not have been Dick’s tormenter, but he sure as hell qualifies as his cause of death. They can write in on the forms, put it in the files, print it on his death certificate. 

Richard John Grayson, cause of death: Timothy Drake and his inability to save the people he loves the most. 

He presses a shoddy and far too-late kiss to his brother’s hair, unable to stop his brain from running through every single moment that Dick pulled him in for a hug or slung his arm around Tim’s shoulders or brushed his hair back away from his face, gently teasing him about needing to get it cut. Every moment of pure, unadulterated affection he felt for his brother, every moment that he thought his heart might burst because this is what it feels like to love someone, and to know that they love you back, every moment that the words caught on his tongue but Dick knew he had to know —the memories rush up, swelling his chest and climbing into his throat making him feel the urge to cry and laugh and throw up all at once.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobs into Dick’s hair. “I should have been faster. I should have saved you both.”

Dick says nothing, because of course he doesn’t. Tim has never wished for the comfort of his big brother more in his life.

His fingers tremble as he gently thumbs Dick’s eyes closed. He looks almost as if he’s sleeping off a hard mission. Tim would give anything for that to be the case.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice not even half as hollow as he feels, struggling to his feet and hauling Dick into his arms. “I promised Damian I’d bring you home.”