Chapter Text
The fight with Darkseid was going badly.
Tim was already running on borrowed time.
He’d spent the last several minutes holding off Parademon troopers, and his body was beginning to make its objections known.
He could feel several ribs were almost certainly fractured, potentially broken. Every breath sent a sharp ache through his side.
His suit was torn in half a dozen places, blood lazily dripping from several cuts.
Dick was somewhere ahead funneling civilians toward evacuation routes away from the battle. Hopefully they still had power up ahead to help guide the civilians to safety. The sun was going down quickly, and with it a chill was beginning to permeate the air.
Jason had already gone down after throwing himself in front of a civilian caught in the Parademon armies’ attack. Tim only caught a frenzied glance of Jason as he struggled to sit up on the ground. He looked rough, but Jason would recover… eventually.
There would be time to worry about him later.
Bruce was holding Darkseid’s attention almost single-handedly, barely dodging blows from the god’s nearly invulnerable fists.
He had Damian with him, which at this point was more of a handicap than an advantage.
Every time Damian moved, Bruce adjusted with him, breaking his own stance to keep himself between his son and Darkseid.
The newest Robin was too hot-headed to realize how badly his presence compromised Bruce’s ability to fight.
They were being stretched thinner by the second.
The hairs on the back of his neck lifted as Tim felt a terrible sense of foreboding come over him.
Something was wrong.
Justice League backup was seventeen seconds out and counting.
Tim knew his count was accurate.
It wasn't soon enough.
They had heard of Darkseid's Omega Beams, of course. Everyone had. But hearing the name over a conference table in a briefing was different from seeing it in action. No one had been able to tell them what the beams actually did or what would happen if it hit a person.
Hit Bruce.
He only knew Bruce was in its path, and that was enough.
Tim had chosen this family long before they had chosen him, and he would make that choice again without hesitation. If taking the hit meant Bruce didn’t have to, there was nothing else to consider.
He would choose them every time.
Even now.
Especially now.
It happened in a few seconds.
Batman wasn’t looking.
He was too focused on forcing Damien backwards, and himself with Damien. Trying to create space between them and Darkseid’s fists.
But it wasn’t his fists Red Robin was looking at now. No, Tim saw a red light brightening Darkseid’s eyes as they flared and his grin grew broader.
The Omega Beam shot from Darkseid’s eyes, zigzagging across the gap Bruce had created, angling around rubble and broken beams, creating no discernable path.
But Tim was sure Bruce was the end point.
Before the beam had left Darkseid’s eyes, Tim’s feet had already started moving.
Tim pushed harder than he had ever pushed, breaths coming quickly, heart pounding.
He reached Batman just as the Omega Beam was upon him. He slammed both hands into Bruce’s chest and shoved with everything he had, sending him stumbling clear.
Tim’s momentum carried him straight into the space Bruce had occupied.
There was no time to stop.
No time to turn around.
No time to see whether Bruce had gotten far enough away.
The beam hit him squarely in the back.
It was a clean interception.
Tim was sent careening from his momentum and the blast.
There was barely a moment to hear a strangled yell behind him.
“TIM!”
Then the world went white.
And static.
And nothing.
His momentum carried him forward, and whatever he'd hit went down with him. Tim sprawled across it, the impact knocking what little sense he had left completely loose.
Eyes closed tight against reality, his thoughts came in fragments.
Thank God it wasn't a brick wall.
A beat.
I'm alive?
Another.
Is Bruce okay?
He couldn't remember.
He couldn't-
Wait.
There hadn't been anything there.
Tim's brow furrowed as he tried to piece together the last few seconds. There had been nothing in front of him. Nothing but Batman, Darkseid, and….
Had the Justice League arrived?
Had someone caught him?
Was it the Flash?
He tried to move.
Pain answered immediately, familiar and sharp, but nothing felt newly broken. The injuries he'd already taken were still there, but they hadn't gotten worse.
That was something.
Tim took a breath and forced himself to focus.
The thing beneath him moved.
Tim froze.
It moved again.
It wasn’t a twitch or the shifting of rubble beneath his weight.
Rather he felt a slow, steady rise.
Then a fall.
His breath caught.
He was lying on something that was breathing.
Very carefully, Tim tried to lift his head.
His body protested. His arms shook beneath him as he gathered what little strength he had and pushed himself upward.
His eyelids felt impossibly heavy as he forced them open and looked down.
“Dick?”
The name left him in an incredulous gasp.
It was Dick, in full mask and suit, looking remarkably unscathed for the battle they had just been through.
At the sound of his name, Dick's head snapped up from where it had been resting.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other.
“I’m sorry.” Tim's voice came out little more than a rasp. He coughed, wincing at the raw scrape in his throat. “I know-” he cut off with another cough. “No names in the field. I’m just so happy to see you.”
The words were barely audible.
His voice had taken a beating during the fight, strained thin from all the yelling, and the dust he'd breathed in hadn't helped.
But Dick was here.
Alive.
Warm.
Relief crashed through Tim so suddenly that his strength gave out.
He collapsed back against his brother, wrapping both arms around him and dragging in huge, desperate gulps of air.
The night air had turned cold around them, but Dick was warm, solid and alive beneath his arms. Tim could feel that warmth all the way down to his bones.
Maybe even farther.
Tim held on tighter.
His whole body shook as the last of the adrenaline poured through him, leaving him trembling and breathless against Dick's chest.
No one would know if a tear escaped beneath his mask.
He'd earned one.
He hadn't thought he was going to live.
Throughout this, Dick didn't say anything.
He simply let Tim hold on.
Let him shake.
Let him fall apart for a few precious seconds before putting himself back together.
Or so Tim assumed.
Because the longer he stayed there, the more something felt wrong.
Dick was too quiet.
Too still.
A hand might have ghosted over Tim's back at some point, another through his hair, but even those gestures had been strangely restrained.
Reserved.
That wasn't like Dick.
Tim's relief faltered.
Was Dick hurt?
How had he missed that?
He'd hit him hard enough to knock them both to the ground. Dick could have a head injury from the fall alone. Not to mention injuries from the battle.
And if he'd been anywhere near the Omega Beam….
Tim's stomach twisted.
Had Dick taken the hit?
Was that why Tim was still alive?
With considerable effort, Tim pushed himself upright and slid off his brother until he was sitting beside Dick's waist, though he kept one hand braced against him.
If he was still leaning into Dick a little, well… no one had to know that was because he desperately wanted the contact.
Besides, he had an excuse now.
Checking Dick for injuries was perfectly reasonable.
It was just… Tim had never been particularly good at initiating affection. Dick was always the one who started it. A hand on his shoulder. An arm around him. Ruffling his hair. Pulling him close without asking.
Doing it himself felt strangely clumsy.
But checking for a concussion? That was well within his purview.
Tim leaned closer.
Dick continued to be unnaturally still.
Tim frowned.
He needed to check Dick's pupils.
“Dick,” he breathed.
No response.
“Nightwing.”
His voice was scratchy, but louder this time. More commanding.
Still nothing.
Tim could feel the gentle rise and fall of Dick's breathing beneath his hand.
Alive.
Breathing.
But not responding.
Not the way Dick should.
Not the way Dick ever did.
Alarm prickled down Tim's spine.
There was blood smeared across Dick’s body, but most of it looked like it had come from Tim’s wounds.
He pushed himself onto his knees, ignoring his body’s protests, and turned to face Dick
Tim let out a dry, awkward chuckle, “sorry for bleeding on you.”
Dick still showed no reaction.
Tim reached for his face as he carefully explained, “I’m going to check you for head trauma.”
If Dick could hear him, knowing what was happening would help keep him calm.
“You're gonna be okay,” Tim murmured.
His fingers traced carefully along Dick's scalp and temples, searching for blood, swelling, broken skin. Searching for anything that might indicate a head injury.
Or, heaven forbid, an entry wound.
Tim sat back on his heels after finding nothing significant.
“I'm going to take your mask off,” Tim stated as he leaned forwards. “I need to check your pupils for a concussion.”
He reached for the edge of Dick's mask.
One of those previously motionless hands shot up.
Fingers closed around his wrist.
Tim jolted.
Both of them froze.
The sudden movement seemed to jolt his brain back to awareness too.
For the first time since he'd opened his eyes, Tim stopped thinking about whether he was alive.
Stopped thinking about whether Dick was hurt.
And thought to look around.
He had made a mistake.
It was a novice mistake, completely un-Robin.
But there hadn't been anything more pressing than survival. His entire world had narrowed to I'm alive and is Dick okay? Everything else had simply failed to register.
Which, Tim realized belatedly, should have been a clue.
The battle had been dirty and loud, demanding attention.
His gaze swept the alley.
No rubble.
No dust hanging thick in the air.
No distant shouts.
No screaming.
No Darkseid.
Instead….
A car horn sounded somewhere nearby.
A voice carried faintly through the night.
When did it get that late?
A streetlight shone from around the corner.
Tim's eyes widened.
They weren't in the flattened remains of Gotham anymore.
Tim's stomach dropped.
“Nightwing…”
He didn't look at Dick when he spoke.
His voice came out strangled.
“Where are we?”
The answer was everywhere. Found in the damp stink of Gotham's back alleys. In the faint mist hanging in the air, heavy with the promise of rain. In the distant traffic.
Gotham.
This was Gotham.
But where was the battlefield?
Where was Darkseid?
Where was everyone?
See, Tim had always been good at control.
Of himself, his emotions, information and situations.
Control of his choices, his future.
Even control over other people, on occasion, when blackmail was necessary.
But he felt rather out of control now.
And that was a scary feeling.
For perhaps the first time in a very long time, Tim had no idea what came next.
His breathing quickened.
Tim's head snapped toward Dick as his brother slowly pushed himself upright.
It was impossible to tell whether Dick was moving slowly because he was hurt…
or because he didn't want to startle Tim any further.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
They simply watched each other.
Tim's mouth opened and closed several times before he managed to find the words. Dick's head tilted slightly to the side watching.
That was wrong.
Not wrong enough to mean anything. Not yet.
Dick could be concussed. He could have taken a blow to the head. For all Tim knew, Darkseid's attack had done something to him that they hadn't even begun to understand.
That had to be it.
“What happened?” Tim asked.
Dick continued to stare at him.
Tim swallowed.
“Where are we?”
Nothing.
“Nightwing?”
Still nothing.
“...Dick?” Tim’s quiet voice had a slight tremble to it.
At last, Dick drew in a deep breath.
“Gotham.”
Tim stared at him.
Then he laughed.
The sound came out strained. Thin and breathless and embarrassingly close to hysterical.
“I know we're in Gotham.”
Dick's expression didn't change.
Tim scrubbed a trembling hand over his face.
“I mean where. Where are we? Where is Darkseid? What happened to the battle?”
“What happened to you?” Dick responded.
Tim's head snapped up.
Tim would have shouted if he thought he could, “What do you mean, ‘what happened to me?’ You're the one who's acting strange!”
Dick said nothing.
Tim continued on, “none of this makes sense.” His breathing hitched. “We have to get you back to the Manor. I'm really worried you have a serious head injury. You're not acting right.”
“Manor...” Nightwing repeated slowly.
Tim frowned.
“Yes. The Manor.”
“What Manor?”
Something cold moved through Tim's stomach.
He stared at Dick.
For a moment, he couldn't make himself speak.
Then, very carefully, Tim reached out and touched the back of Dick's hand.
The contact was tentative. Almost pleading.
“This is exactly what I'm talking about,” he said softly, urgently.
His fingers curled slightly against Dick's glove.
“Wayne Manor, Dick, our home.”
He lowered his voice, feeling like he was sharing confidential information with someone who was too injured to remember.
“With the Batcave. And the med bay. Alfred will know what to do.”
Tim desperately hoped he was right, because he certainly felt out of his depth.
Dick's mouth fell slightly open.
He looked...
Confused.
Not dazed.
Not injured.
Confused.
And for the first time, Tim noticed that Dick hadn't asked a single question about the battle.
Hadn't asked about Bruce.
Hadn't asked about Jason.
Hadn't asked about Damian.
He hadn't asked whether anyone else was hurt or where the Justice League was.
Nothing.
He was just focused on Tim, like Tim was the only thing in the world, the center of this jumbled universe.
Dick's expression suddenly changed to have a set, determined quality.
“Yes,” he said decisively.
He pushed himself lightly to his feet.
“Let's go to the Manor.”
Relief hit Tim so quickly it almost made him dizzy.
“Okay.”
Dick reached down and caught him by the wrist. And he pulled.
Not gently.
Tim stumbled up and forward with a startled gasp.
Pain tore through his ribs.
“Ah!”
His free hand flew to grip his side.
“Nightwing, wait. Slow down,” he gasped between pained pants of breath.
But Dick was already moving.
Tim stumbled after him, trying to keep his footing on the uneven and slick pavement.
“Dick!”
The grip around his wrist tightened.
Tim's brow furrowed.
Dick had never held him like this. Not when Tim was being stubborn, and not even when he was actively trying to do something stupid.
And definitely not when he was injured.
“Dick,” Tim repeated, breathless. “You're hurting me.”
Nothing.
Tim struggled to process all the information in a meaningful way, aware he was losing time as the man holding him was making quick work of dragging him out of the alley.
Think. Think. THINK.
Tim looked down at the hand around his wrist.
Then back at the man before him.
It wasn't one thing.
It was all of it.
The silence.
The strange answers.
The way Dick had looked at him when he'd said Wayne Manor.
Dick hadn’t just been confused…
He’d been…
Shocked? Like it was something Tim shouldn’t know.
Could a head injury alone be enough to explain all this?
Tim's eyes dropped to his own wrist. It’s not adding up.
Then to the man’s hand. What am I missing?
Put the pieces TOGETHER, Tim!
Movement caught his eye.
The man’s free hand pressed against the ear opposite Tim.
The man was listening?
No.
Not listening.
Talking.
Tim held his breath, straining his ears.
Dick's voice was so quiet he almost missed it.
“-onfirmed Code B577, suspected H7Y5. Rendezvous in the cave.”
Tim's blood ran cold.
He didn't think now.
He wrenched his wrist free, stumbling backward into the alley.
Anywhere would be better than wherever those codes had him headed.
Dick-
Is this Dick?
He stilled for only a moment, and then turned on Tim
That one turn alone was full of grace. Poise.
Controlled power.
Everything inside Tim went on high alert, his mind screaming louder than his notable injuries.
The man looking at him wasn't tired.
Wasn't injured.
Wasn't disoriented.
He was simply watching Tim.
Calmly.
Patiently.
Like a predator whose prey had finally realized it was being hunted.
The man hadn’t been concussed.
The man had been doing recon, and an excellent job of it, judging by everything Tim had already given away.
Was Dick always that big? This man seemed bigger than Tim remembered Dick to be.
Or maybe he only looked bigger because Tim suddenly felt very, very small.
His shoulders were square beneath the armor, no visible fatigue to weigh them down. His breathing was steady. There was no tremor in his hands, no pain tightening his features, no sign that he had been anywhere near the battlefield they'd just left.
Tim's heart hammered against his probably broken ribs.
He had never been afraid of Dick.
Not once.
There had been times he had been afraid for Dick.
Afraid of losing him, what could happen to him, or when Dick was hurt.
But never… never of him.
“Dick?”
The name came out barely above a whisper.
The man tilted his head.
And Tim finally understood.
This wasn't his Dick.
This wasn't his Nightwing.
And whatever Gotham this was…. It wasn't his Gotham.
Tim turned abruptly and ran.
He didn't know where he was going. Or where he could go.
He didn't even know if there was anyone in this Gotham he could trust.
He only knew one thing: he couldn't let himself be caught.
Couldn't let himself end up in someone else's power.
Those codes...
Similar enough to the ones he knew.
Confirmed identity compromised. Possible alternate-universe travel.
The thought was absurd. It was also the only one that made any sense given the very real circumstances he found himself in.
Bats were wary creatures. Tim knew that much. If this really was another universe, and they had no idea who he was, he couldn't imagine them simply letting him wander around.
Containment.
Interrogation.
So a cell, probably.
Maybe they would help him find his way back… after they deemed it appropriate.
Tim would rather escape and work alone.
He had no idea what the rules were here, and that meant he had no idea how far this Batman was willing to go. A single person could differ wildly between universes, and Tim did not want to find out all the ways these bats could be different.
Tim pushed his legs harder, relying solely on the power of adrenaline. He knew he would crash out so hard after this.
His ribs screamed with every breath.
At least one is definitely broken. Ignore it.
His boots slapped against wet pavement as he turned blindly down another alley, one hand instinctively coming up to brace his injured side.
He thought he was making some headway-
A soft pat-pat of quick, light footsteps sounded behind him.
Tim's stomach dropped.
He barely had time to turn his head.
And then the world lurched.
His back slammed into gritty brick hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, and the back of his head struck the wall with a vicious thunk.
White exploded across his vision.
Tim gasped.
Stars swam behind his mask.
For one humiliating second, his eyes burned with sudden tears.
On a good day, he could keep pace with Dick.
On a longer challenge, there was a very real chance he could outthink him.
But this wasn't a good day.
He was exhausted. Injured. Disoriented.
And this wasn't Dick.
Not his Dick, anyway.
What was he supposed to DO?
The thought barely finished forming before an arm slammed across his throat.
Tim's head hit the brick again.
Definitely a concussion. Deal with it later.
He choked as the pressure intensified, hands coming up automatically to grab at the armored forearm across his throat. The imposter Dick then drove an escrima stick hard into his side.
Tim made a strangled sound as pain ripped through his ribs.
“Easy,” he gasped, though there was nothing easy about any of this.
Nightwing had him mercilessly pinned with no apparent concern that he might hurt Tim.
Tim knew his Dick had a couple inches on him, and Tim found himself squinting up at the familiar mask… the white lenses…the face beneath it that should have meant safety.
His pulse hammered in time with his ribs.
Tim had to think fast.
He had one advantage that he could see.
If these Bats were anything like his own, they cared about their family.
And even though he wasn’t technically THE Robin anymore….
They cared about their Robins.
Maybe…
Maybe they cared enough about their Tim to hesitate.
“Please.”
The word scraped painfully out of his throat.
The pressure against his neck didn't ease.
Tim tried to swallow against the arm.
“It's me,” he forced out. “Tim.”
Nothing.
Not even a flicker of recognition.
“Tim.” Nightwing's voice was low and cold.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Tim's heart sank.
“Tim Drake,” he rasped quickly, half statement, half plea. “From the Manor next door. Robin!”
The response was immediate.
A low growl.
“There are no Drakes in the Manor next door.”
The escrima stick pressed harder, making Tim flinch
“We don't know a Tim Drake.”
Tim's breath caught.
“And there is no Robin.”
For a second, Tim simply stared at him.
His mind rejected it.
No.
That wasn't-
That wasn't possible.
Tim's throat tightened.
He could barely breathe.
He knew better, he knew this wasn’t his Dick, but he couldn’t help but seek comfort.
“Please, Dick.”
His voice cracked.
He hated how small it sounded.
“Hurts.”
His fingers tightened desperately around Dick's forearm.
“Can't breathe.”
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the pressure eased.
Only slightly.
Dick's arm remained firmly across Tim's throat, still more than enough to keep him pinned against the wall. But the crushing pressure loosened just enough for Tim to drag in a breath.
He gasped.
The damp, filthy air of the alley flooded his lungs.
It was the sweetest thing he'd ever breathed.
Tim coughed around it, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to force his lungs to cooperate. His fingers remained curled around Dick's arm, clinging to it without even realizing he was doing so.
As he wheezed he didn't see the change in Dick's expression.
Didn't see the way the hard line of his mouth softened or the brief flicker of something almost like curiosity behind the white lenses.
Or the way that curiosity lingered.
There was something else there, too.
Something quieter.
Something that looked dangerously close to want.
Tim had no idea what it was.
Not yet.
But Dick did.
Unbeknownst to Tim, this universe did not have a Timothy Jackson Drake.
It had never had a third Robin.
After Jason died and was resurrected, there had been no boy waiting in the wings to take his place. No younger brother to fuss over, to protect, to annoy. No one who had looked at Dick Grayson and seen a big brother before Dick had even realized he wanted to be one.
This Dick hadn't had a little brother to take care of in a very long time.
And now Tim had mentioned it.
Tim.
Robin.
Something inside him had shifted.
The idea filled him with a powerful, aching want.
Not for an answer.
Not for an explanation.
For him.
Tim was intuitive.
He had to be.
He might not have been privy to Alternate Dick's thoughts, but intuition was one of the things that had made him good at being Robin. He'd learned to read people in the spaces between their words, the shift of a shoulder, a change in breathing, the fraction of a second before someone moved.
And this Dick was softening.
Tim could feel it.
He didn't know why.
He didn't think the reason mattered.
Whatever had caused that hesitation, he couldn't possibly make things worse than they already were.
Could he?
Tim had a crazy idea.
His eyes flicked down to the escrima stick pressing into his side.
He knew those weapons.
His own Nightwing had used them for years. Tim had sparred with them, studied them, stolen them more than once when Dick wasn't looking. He knew exactly where the activation switch was.
If he could just…
There.
Tim moved.
He slammed both hands down onto the escrima stick.
The sudden movement caught Dick off guard.
It happened in less than a second.
Tim's fingers found the hidden button.
He pressed.
Twisted.
And ripped the weapon toward himself.
Dick grunted as the escrima stick was torn sideways. His arm came away from Tim's throat as he abandoned the chokehold and grabbed at the weapon with both hands.
For one precious moment, Tim had the advantage.
Surprise.
Speed.
And the desperate, reckless determination of a Robin who had no intention of being put in a cage.
Tim twisted the stick again and the weapon crackled to life.
He shoved the charged end toward Dick.
The electric current slammed into his side at waist level.
Imposter Dick cried out and his grip was suddenly broken.
The man hit the pavement hard and he seemed unconscious, his body twitching from the residual charge.
Tim stared at the scene.
He had done it.
He was hurt.
He was exhausted beyond anything he could remember feeling.
His ribs screamed with every breath.
His head was pounding.
His lungs still burned from being deprived of air.
He was almost certainly concussed.
It didn't matter.
He was Robin.
He would always take the chance.
Tim turned and ran.
For the first few steps, it felt like freedom.
He was out.
Away from this looming Imposter Dick.
Away from the unknown Batfamily that attacked first and asked questions later.
Away from the cage and the questions and the interrogation he knew would have come.
He just had to keep moving.
He had barely made it a few more strides when his foot came down on something slick. His boot shot sideways out from under him.
Tim's stomach dropped.
His arms flew out, but his body was too slow.
Too tired.
Too hurt.
He had spent everything he had.
There was no more adrenaline to draw from.
His arms, weakened by the fight, didn't come up quickly enough to catch him.
The pavement rushed toward him.
For one absurd moment, Tim thought:
I just need to-
Then he hit.
Hard.
Pain.
Pain was his universe.
It filled everything.
His ribs. His skull. His lungs.
Tim felt like he could barely breathe. Harsh, ragged gasps dragged themselves in and out of him against his will as he fought his way back toward consciousness. Every breath scraped through his ribs like something sharp was lodged beneath them.
He was alive.
He thought?
Somehow, that felt like a question.
Tim pushed himself upright with a groan and immediately regretted it.
Pain exploded through his body.
His vision flashed white. His stomach lurched, and for one terrifying second he thought he was going to black out again.
He dragged himself to the nearest wall and sagged back against it, breathing hard, his abused body trembling with the effort of simply staying conscious.
There was someone else down the alley.
A man.
Tim blinked several times, trying to make sense of the blurry shape.
Why was his vision blurry?
He could tell the man was struggling to get up, too.
But he looked considerably better off than Tim felt.
Tim's eyes narrowed.
Tim.
The name surfaced from somewhere deep and hazy.
He rolled it around in his cottony mind.
Tim.
Was that him?
He thought so.
Probably.
The man finally made it to his feet and swayed once before regaining his balance.
Tim watched him warily.
“Hello?”
The word came out as little more than a rasp.
Tim swallowed and tried again.
“What...”
His voice failed him.
He coughed with restraint since even that small movement sent a hot lance of pain through his ribs.
What had happened to him?
He probably needed a hospital.
That thought came easily enough.
Hospital.
He knew what a hospital was.
He knew what pain was.
He knew his name… he was pretty sure it was his name anyway.
Everything else was… blank.
Tim stared into the middle distance.
There should have been something there.
A memory.
A face.
A place.
Anything.
He reached for a memory and found nothing but fog.
His stomach twisted.
The man didn't seem to have heard him, only a moment had passed.
He was bending down now, retrieving something from the ground.
A stick.
Tim frowned.
Was that stick important?
He tried again.
“Hello?”
The word came out so pitifully that, under any other circumstances, Tim suspected he would have been embarrassed.
Was he dying?
It felt possible at this point.
His pitiful word was good for something though, as the man froze.
His head turned toward Tim slowly.
After a beat, the man approached hesitantly, rubbing a spot on his side.
Carefully.
Like Tim might startle and run.
As if Tim were going anywhere.
He couldn't have gotten three feet if he'd tried.
The man crouched beside him, moving with an odd gentleness that didn't match the strange costume or the mask. One gloved hand lifted, slowly, giving Tim plenty of time to pull away.
Instead, his palm settled against Tim's cheek.
Tim shuddered.
Then, almost instinctively, leaned into the warmth.
A sob caught painfully in his throat.
“I…” His voice broke. “I don't know what happened. I just woke up here.”
A visible shudder wracked his body as he tried desperately to hold back the rest of his tears.
They hurt.
The man made a soft, soothing sound.
“Shh.”
His thumb stroked gently beneath Tim's eye.
“Here,” the man murmured. “This will help you feel better.”
Something tugged at Tim's face.
The man carefully removed it and tossed it aside before Tim could see what it was.
What had that been?
Was it why he hurt so badly?
He didn't know.
But suddenly, wetness was streaming freely down his cheeks and his vision was a little less fuzzy.
Huh.
Maybe it had been holding back the tears.
The man was wrong, though.
Tim definitely didn't feel any better.
The pain was still there, vast and consuming, swallowing every thought that tried to rise above it.
The man tenderly cupped Tim's face between both hands.
“You're just a baby,” he whispered.
The words were so soft that Tim wasn't sure he was meant to hear them.
The man made another quiet, soothing sound.
It seemed to have the opposite effect though as the tenderness pierced Tim to his soul.
Tim broke.
A sob tore out of him, followed by another, and suddenly he was clinging to the man's arms as though they were the only solid things left in the world.
“Everything hurts,” he cried, looking up at the man, eyes wide and spilling over. “And crying hurts, and I might be dying, and I'm scared,” Tim sobbed.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The man slid an arm beneath him and lifted Tim carefully into his lap.
Pain ripped through Tim as his body was shifted, bright and viscous enough to wrench a whimper from his throat. His fingers tightened desperately in the man's odd suit, looking for purchase among the hard planes.
But once he was settled against that solid chest, it was worth it.
He was being held.
Really held.
Even through the suit, the man's body was warm against him. Tim could faintly hear the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath his ear, slow and calm and impossibly reassuring.
“It'll be all right,” the man murmured as his hand rubbed slowly up and down Tim's back.
“I'll take care of you.”
Tim's eyes drifted shut.
“We'll take care of you.”
Somewhere above him, the man spoke quietly to someone else.
Tim didn’t think there was anyone else there but his brain was so muddled he could have missed them.
Something about a pickup.
That sounded good.
They could use a ride.
Tim swallowed against the pain in his throat.
“Are we going to a hospital?”
The man hummed.
“Mmhmm. I have a hospital at my home. Best doctor you'll ever find.”
Tim relaxed further against him.
“We'll get you patched up. Give you some medicine.”
The hand continued its slow path along his back.
“And then I'll make sure you never get hurt like this again.”
A pause.
“We all will.”
Tim's eyes fluttered.
“We'll take such good care of you.”
The words settled over him like a blanket.
He wanted to believe them.
Truthfully He already did.
His voice was barely more than a breath when he asked, “I’m sorry I don’t remember, but who are you to me?”
The man looked down at him with a smile.
Not the sharp smile he'd worn in the alley.
Not the calculating one.
Something softer and almost unbearably tender.
“I'm your big brother, you can call me Dickie.”
Tim blinked slowly.
His thoughts were becoming harder to hold onto.
“Dickie” Tim sighed.
It was hard to tell because of that mask, but Dickie seemed so very pleased with him. It was in how his smile went a little crooked and his head leaned down to nuzzle against Tim’s for a moment.
Tim hurt, but he felt at peace being held so tenderly.
“Don't worry about any of the things you've forgotten,” Dickie whispered, smoothing Tim's hair away from his forehead.
“We'll remember them for you.”
“We?”
Tim barely managed the word.
But Dick's smile only deepened.
“Yes,” he murmured.
“We, your family.”
Tim's eyes slipped closed.
He was so tired.
He could feel himself sinking, slowly slipping beneath the surface of consciousness.
Then-
A low rumble vibrated through the ground.
An engine.
A powerful one.
Doors opened.
Then slammed shut.
Quick footsteps approached from somewhere beyond the haze.
More than one set.
Voices followed, hushed and urgent.
“He's hurt-”
“Careful-”
“His head-”
Gentle hands found him.
Fingers brushed through his hair.
One settled against his cheek.
Another rubbed slowly over his back.
Tim whimpered when someone touched the enormous bump at the side of his skull.
“Easy, little one.” The voice was deep and gravely.
He didn't know who said it.
He found he didn't care.
There were people here now.
People who knew what to do.
People who were going to help.
Tim didn't know all their names or remember their faces….
But he knew from how his big brother talked that they must be his family.
And that was enough.
It was everything.
Tim let himself go.
His last thoughts were simple, peaceful, comforting.
His big brother had found him.
His family would take care of everything.
Whatever nightmare happened was over and he was finally going home.