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Tim pressed his tiny hands against the bloody wound on Batman's stomach. Batman was leaning against the brick wall in uhm... Tim forgot which street, but in his defense he was a little bit busy here! Currently he was putting all his weight against Batman, trying to keep the blood inside his mentor and Batman didn't bother cooperating one bit! All he knew was they were somewhere in Coventry; this was all he could say at the moment.
“Batman, you have to work with me here. I-” Tim got interrupted by a thunder rolling over them. More lightning flashed down the sky. Strong wind blew through the street, carrying lonely trash and leafs. It had been like this for a while now, ruffling their – or more accurately: Tim's – hair and tearing on their capes.
Batman seemed quite disinterested on what Tim had to say, if he was even listening. Instead he was staring up to the clouds, maybe calculating when the rain is going to hit them.
Or maybe doing nothing except dying and leaving Tim alone with a dead body!
“Do you have some bandages in your belt?” Tim asked. He would look into the utility belt himself, but he didn't want to risk accidentally opening the pocket with smoke bombs or some of the other potentially dangerous things batman might keep in there. Additionally: Another risk he needed to consider was if it took too long to find the bandages and he did not keep his hands on the wound for that time, his mentor might bleed out. Tim had already tried to get Batman to hold the stab wound, but to no avail. He could feel warm blood soaking the gloves of his Robin costume and seeping between his fingers. The warmth was a stark contrast to the cold wind against his bare arms.
Batman was grunting … something.
“You are being such a Jerk!” Tim shouted. “A real... butthole.”
Batman was looking at him now. Maybe slightly lifting an eyebrow, as far as you could tell beneath the cowl. Or maybe doing nothing and this was all panicked hallucinations, Tim couldn't tell.
“What am I supposed to do now?” Tim asked. “I can't even carry you.” His throat was getting scratchy and kinda tight.
Batman shrugged. “Go home, Robin.”
“And just leave you here?”
“Yes.”
Batman leaned his head back against the wall and it seemed like he was falling asleep.
Tim screamed and hit Batman against the chest. “You are horrible, and way too reckless!” There was now blood on the yellow fabric around the bat emblem. “You could have easily defeated that mugger before he stabbed you. Just like flip-kick him or whatever. Or you know, just not get stabbed.” His eyes were now scratchy as well and probably also teary, and he usually would get embarrassed from crying in front of the Batman, but right now he was too angry with him, and so desperate and hurt and in panic. And it was also very much right now, and he didn't know what to do, and he also only had been Robin for a little bit, and he also didn't know what would happen to him if Bruce was dying now, and he knew even less what would happen to him or the city if Batman was dying.
“You are gonna die and it's all totally your fault!” He yelled at Batman. A violent shudder overcame him as if his chest suddenly decided it was too much and it would collapse now and then he was pretty sure he was loudly sobbing.
“I really think, you want to die.”
The tears are leaking out of his little domino mask. He spared one hand from the wound to put up and to wish the tears away, but as he saw how much blood was on it – how his new green glove was stained red by the blood of his mentor – he decided against it and pressed it back down.
A different glove however appeared on his cheek, stroking it softly. The tingly feeling where the tear had been flowing disappeared.
Tim looked at the glove. A midnight blue glove, hovering there, careful not to come to close, not to hurt or to pressure. Only the fingertips touching Tim's skin.
There was no blood on this glove. No blood, only dust from the street.
Tim leaned in closer, feeling the palm of the hand now against his cheek. The Batman glove was thicker, unlike the Robin glove you couldn't feel any temperature through it. But the shape and pressure of the hand against him, and the imagination of warmth was enough. Enough to sooth his fear.
Tim looked up at Batman. He was looking down at Tim.
“There are bandages in the third pocket.” Batman said. Quietly as Batman does it so often. When there were no criminals or rich guys or pretty ladies. When it was just him and Alfred and Tim. “You might want to use disinfectant as well.”
With shaky fingers Tim let his hands leave Batman's wound and guided them to the utility belt. He ignored the red prints forming on the pockets and concentrated on his task of finding the medical supplies. He collected two packages of bandages and one small bottle of disinfectant spray.
He must have looked lost, because Batman tried to reassure him. “Just remember your training; I know you've got this.”
Tim nodded, applying the spray. He wrapped the first layer of bandage – Batman had to shift away from the wall for it to work – pressed the second package against it, and finished the wrapping.
In the mid of it he asked: “Why do you even bring bandages with you, if you don't intend to use them?”
“Hm.” Batman said. “For you?”
“So I can fix you up?” Tim asked. A bit of smile broke through his drying tears.
“No. So I can fix you up.”
“Oh.”
Batman inspected the bandaging. “Good work.”
Tim felt a bit tingly upon hearing these words.
“And now don't cry anymore.” Batman whispered. And as if it had been a magic word, all the tears and stress and panic that had subsided while having a task reemerged. He let himself fall forwards against Batman's chest.
“Oh no.” Batman said. A hand patted his back awkwardly.
“Why are you like this?” Tim sobbed. “It is my job to keep you alright, and yet you do such things. Why don't you just- You should just have- You-”
“Let's just go back to the car.” Batman guided Tim away from his chest and sitting him up.
Tim watched from the floor how Batman felt for the gaps between the bricks and lifted himself off, breathing heavily, and grunting in pain. He staggered forward, making movements trying to pick Tim off the ground. But considering of Batman's injury and his obvious problems with walking and standing right now, Tim could not let that happen and quickly stood up. He moved to Batman's side, placing himself under Batman's arm to be his pillar.
It began to rain.
So he guided Batman – He tried his best not to lean too much on Tim, but a man could only go so far – back to the car.
Tim had been waiting in the guestroom Bruce had given to him while his father was hospitalized until Alfred was done stitching Bruce back together and sent him to bed as well. Only when he heard Bruce's sturdy steps on the carpet, the old wood creaking underneath and the old wooden door to the master bedroom opening and closing again, Tim glided down from his own bed and left the room, silently making his way down the hall.
He opened Bruce's door.
Bruce lay in bed, his torso bound by fresh bandages, a small light glowing dimly on the antique nightstand.
“Tim?” Bruce asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I- uh-” He picked against door frame. “I wanted to check on you.”
Bruce sighed putting the blanket to the side. “You can come here if you want.”
Tim practically flew towards him and pressed himself against Bruce's side.
“It's alright.” Bruce put the blanket over him.
Tim nodded.
“Are you hurt?” Bruce asked. Quietly.
Tim shook his head. Bruce stroked Tim's shoulder softly.
“I am very sorry, I put you through that.” Bruce said.
Tim nodded. “It's okay.” And it really was. In the end he could fulfill his purpose and keep Batman alive. That's all that mattered, right?
“It's really not.” Bruce said.