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Timothy Drake-Wayne swears under his breath as he crawls out from underneath the wreckage of the vintage plane that had landed on him, ignoring the blood that he left behind. He doesn’t know what was going on around him in the lobby, what he’s missed in his brief bought of unconsciousness, but he knows it isn’t anything good.
Eyes scanning the room quickly, he takes in everything around him. The three men on the upper level, aiming rifles and a bow at the action below; The Fatherless, sword in hand, stalking his prey; Robin, Damian, his brother who should be safe at home, facing an enemy he could not hope to beat.
He doesn’t stop to think, grapple out before he could blink, soaring across the lobby. The men on the upper level all look at him at once, weapons rising, just in time to be knocked down by three flying discs. Hopefully they stay down; he doesn’t have time to check on them.
He’s already swooping down, releasing the grapple mid-flight to land with a roll between his brother and his foe. Before either can act, he’s moving. He has two choices: He can fight the Fatherless and leave Damian to fare for himself, or he can protect his little brother.
He has two choices, but, in the end, there is no choice at all.
He moves quickly, scooping his injured brother into his arms and ignoring his protest, he turns his back on the Fatherless, drawing Damian to his chest and wrapping the cloak around both of them; he shields Damian with his body and waits for the pain.
The thrust of the sword is expected, and he’s turned his body just enough so that it goes through the right side of his chest rather than the left.
It still hurts though, a ripping, tearing feeling in his chest that makes his vision white out for a moment.
He groans in pain and tries not to think about the blade that's sticking out the front of his chest. With his right arm he draws Damian tighter, away from the sword, and with his left hand he grabs the blade and holds, tightly enough that it cuts through his cloves, makes his fingers slippery with blood, but he can’t let go.
If he lets go, the Fatherless can attack again, can aim better, can hit Damian instead of him, so he holds. Even as the blade is twisted cruelly, he holds. The blade goes deeper and a scream is ripped from his throat, an animal sound full of pain and desperation and there’s blood in his mouth, on his teeth, dribbling between his lips but he still holds on.
He holds on, because, like it or not, Damian is his brother, and this is what brotherhood is.
The Fatherless snarls in frustration and kicks Tim brutally in the right side. The blade is ripped free with an awful, wet tearing sound, and he is thrown sideway, rolling and sliding, clutching Damian desperately to his chest. He only stops when he hits one of the support pillars, feeling at least one rib snapping painfully with the contact, but he doesn’t have time to hurt.
With a growl of effort he hauls himself up, onto his knees and one bleeding hand. His good hand, his right hand is holding Damian quietly, keeping him below him, hidden by the black cloak as it pools around him, safe.
His head is hanging lowly, raven hair falling around his black domino, blood dripping from his lips, joining the blood that flowed freely from his chest and back. There’s a pool of it, a puddle forming around him, and there’s no way he can hide how injured he is, not from the boy held tight to his chest or the monster that stalks him.
He looks behind him, heart stuttering in fear as the Fatherless approaches. He can’t win this, can’t protect himself and Damian, in fact, there is a very real chance that all he will succeed in doing is to by a few more seconds of life for his brother at the cost of his own.
Suddenly, his lips curl up into a small smile; if that’s all he achieves… it’s still worth it. Damian is worth it.
The Fatherless steps closer, Tim squeezes Damian, it could almost be called a hug. He bends his head and whispers to him.
“Run. Run and don’t look back.”
Before he can say anything more there’s a massive hand wrapped around his throat. He’s lifted upwards, gasping in pain and grabbing frantically at the Fatherless’ arm with his right hand, holding on tight to try and alleviate some of the pressure on his throat. It doesn’t help much, and he’s starting to get dizzy from lack of oxygen, or maybe that’s the blood loss…
He’s motioning at Damian with his left hand, urging him to run, to get out of here while he holds the monster’s attention. He struggles in the Fatherless’ grip, kicking out at him but it’s like kicking a wall, the creature just doesn’t seem to feel it. With a grimace he goes for his belt, feeling for his discs, fingers slippery with blood. He manages to find three of them, holding them as steady as he can and slicing across the Fatherless’ chest, opening up three parallel slashes. He doesn’t expect it to do much damage; he just needs to keep the Fatherless’ attention firmly on him.
After a few moments of struggling, panicking as he tries to breathe, he just… stops. He hangs limply in the Fatherless’ grip, gazing calmly at the visor that covers the twisted creation’s eyes. Softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, he says one word to the man-child-monster that would kill him.
“Coward.”
He doesn’t spit it out like an insult or shout it with anger; he says it calmly, almost compassionately, because this poor shadow of a human is as much a victim of Talia as anyone, so determined to prove himself worthy, so determined to win the love of someone who doesn’t even know how to love, so afraid because, no matter what he does, who he kills, he can’t.
The Fatherless backhands him fiercely with the hilt of the sword, tossing him aside with disgust and anger like a broken doll.
He hits the ground and he can’t move, can’t even try to get out of the way. He cries out as a heavy boot rests on his chest, just above his wound, slowly pressing, crushing, ribs cracking under the pressure and he can’t breathe through the pain. He coughs weakly, blood splattering out as his body jerks involuntarily, trying to curl around himself as if that will make the pain stop.
He can’t get away, he can’t even try, so he just lets his head loll to the side and waits for the Fatherless to end it. In the corner of his eye he sees the light reflecting off the blade as it’s raised once more. He catches sight of Damian, the ragged edges of his yellow cloak flashing in the light as he turns, staring back at him with horror, anger, grief and gratitude, but he’s still running.
He smiles at Damian then, relief and forgiveness and, surprisingly, love. Love, because Damian is family, and just because you don’t like someone doesn’t mean you can’t love them all the same. Forgiveness, because no matter what Damian will tell himself, he deserves a chance to grow up, deserves someone to stand up for him, to protect him and to save him, and if Tim can be that person, then it’s worth it. Relief, because all he wants, all he has ever wanted was for his family to be safe.
“TT.”
The blade descends, and he screams, screams because he can’t help himself, screams because oh-god-that’s-his-heart. He screams and just when he thinks it’s over he screams again, because the blade is being twisted and it hurts. His body jerks again, head flying forwards only to thud back heavily as he grits his teeth past the pain.
His hands go to his chest reflexively, slipping in the blood and fluttering around the sharp steel as it’s drawn out of his body with a wet sound and he can’t even scream anymore, all he can do is shudder and cough more blood and look around frantically for his brother, hoping he made it out of the building, hoping he ran fast and far enough to escape.
What he sees confuses him. The Fatherless is running in the opposite direction, bloodied sword abandoned and why would he run? He looks around, trying so hard to make sense of it that he misses the large hands that run over him, checking for injuries, misses the light touch to his wrists, checking his pulse.
He doesn’t miss the warm arms that pull him up gently, wrapping around him and holding him to a broad chest and he relaxes into it almost subconsciously, taking comfort in the rare touch and he’d normally stiffen in embarrassment and try to escape, ashamed and mortified at himself for acting so needy, but here, now, it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
Not when Bruce is hugging him like this, and he can’t remember the last time anyone held him, the last time anyone cared for him or comforted him. He can’t remember if anyone has ever just held him like he was something precious, like he was wanted instead of just needed.
He clutches the edge of Bruce’s cloak like he hasn’t done in a long time, since the nights when he fell asleep on the way home from patrol and had to be carried into the cave. Back when he was Bruce’s partner, back when he was still trusted, still needed, back before everything was silence and suspicion and disappointment. He misses those days, misses them like he misses his parents and his friends and everyone he’s ever lost to this life.
And he thinks, maybe, by saving Damian’s life… Maybe he’s earned this.
He tries to focus, Bruce is saying something, repeating something softly but urgently.
“Look at me Tim, stay with me.”
He smiles tiredly, trying to speak around the blood in his mouth and the tightness in his throat.
“No names in the field B…”
“You’re going to be fine Tim,” he says, smiling at him, but his lips are shaking and his voice wavers and that’s all Tim needs to know that he’s not, “There’s an ambulance on the way. They’ll patch you up, you’ll be fine…”
“Don’t lie to me B… lost too much blood… stabbed my heart…” He can’t stop his words from slurring, can’t seem to think, he knows he’s forgetting something.
“Damian! B… please… is he… did I?” He tries to sit up, choking and struggling with the pain.
“Shhh, shh shh,” Bruce hushes him, running a hand gently through his hair and it makes him relax again, “He’s fine, he’s safe. I’ve got you…”
“Good…” he relaxes a little, before stiffening again, eyes frantic, pleading even, “Did I… did I do good? Was it enough? Did I…”
Did I make you proud?
“You… you did great son.” Bruce says, and his voice is shaking, Tim thinks he’s crying. Come to think of it, Tim might be crying too; there’s wetness on his cheeks and it doesn’t feel like blood.
“Good…” he hums into Bruce’s chest, smiling gently, his eyes trying to slide shut as he relaxed.
Dimly, he notices that he isn’t shaking anymore, he can’t feel the pain, everything is just… numb, almost pleasantly so. Some small part of his mind knows this isn’t a good thing, knows it means he’s too far gone…
It doesn’t matter though, Damian is safe, they’re all safe.
“B?” he mumbles sleepily, “Can you do s’mthing for me?”
“Anything.”
“Tell the others…” he trails off. How does he put it into words? How does he even begin to say what they mean to him.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting and strong, but shaking, and he sees Dick, Dick who tries to smile at him through his tears, but it looks like the worlds ending, like the sun’s going out.
Damian’s clutching the edge of his cape like it’ll disappear, he’s frowning and he just looks confused like he can’t figure out why Tim would save him, torn between grief and anger and gratitude and so damn lost because, for all his training, he’s ten.
“We already know Baby-Bird,” Dick says softly, “You don’t need to say it.”
“We’re family Tim.” a small, broken voice says, and it’s the first time Damian’s ever called him by name.
He reaches one arm out, ruffles Damian’s hair weakly and the boy doesn’t even bother to scowl. He grab’s Dick’s hand and squeezes weakly. He rests his head against Bruce’s chest and tightens his hold on the cape.
His vision is starting to fade and he abandons the struggle to keep his eyes open. They slide shut and everything is dark, but it’s not scary dark like alleys and warehouses and sewers and tunnels; it’s not cold dark like lonely rooftops and large, empty houses; it’s a warm dark, a comforting dark. It’s dark like being wrapped up in Bruce’s cloak, like falling asleep in the back of the batmobile, like hiding under his covers knowing that he’s warm and happy and safe.
It’s dark like family, like home.
He smiles, warm and happy and real.
“Family…” he murmurs, “Love you. Thank you.”
Everything is fading now, fading into the warm dark and he doesn’t fight it, doesn’t struggle because it feels like home.
The last thing he hears is someone sobbing his name.