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Tim is lying in a pool of blood.
It’s his, he thinks. Most of it, anyway.
He’d put up a good fight, but he’d been severely overpowered. The sort of fight he would try to strategically flee rather than engage. But he’d had no choice, and this was the only distraction that would draw out so many of the soldiers so the others could finish the mission.
He’s alone now, left for dead, his assailants knowledgeable enough to realize he’ll either bleed out from his injuries or choke to death on his own blood in a matter of minutes. He should try to flip himself up off his back, to prevent asphyxiating like that, but his limbs don’t seem to possess the ability to move anymore.
He coughs, weakly, the motion pulling excruciatingly at the large hole in his gut.
It’s a good death, he thinks distantly. He’s not too torn up – well, physically he is, mentally he isn’t – about going out this way. Tim finds himself more sad at the thought of the bat-family having to grieve yet another death, than at the thought of he himself actually dying.
“TIM!”
Someone shrieking in pure fear and horror.
“TIM!”
He feels pressure on his stomach, and a gurgley whimper escapes him.
“Tim, stay with me, Tim, I’m here, stay with me.” The voice is frantic. “Tim, look at me please.”
He feels a hand lifting his head up, which is pretty great, seeing as he doesn’t have the energy to move a single body part. His eyes struggle to focus – concussion, something in the back of his head says – but he sees the colour blue.
“Nnnnng,” he tries, mouth full of red. “Nigh’wing?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” The owner of the voice chokes. “It’s me, and you’ve got to hold on for me, okay?”
“Too mush,” Tim struggles to breathe, “blood.”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood, yeah.” Tim thinks Dick is crying now, something wet splashing his face that doesn’t quite make sense to be blood. Wrong angle and velocity to be liquid coming off of Tim, but just about right to be sliding down Dick’s nose and dripping down. “But I’ve, I’ve got some self pressure applying field bandages and, and as long as I can get you back to the Batmobile, we’ll have enough supplies there to help you. Okay?”
Frankly, Tim is starting to feel cold, and he thinks he hardly has thirty seconds, let alone enough time to be carried anywhere.
“Tim!”
His head is shaken, a little roughly, and he blinks open his eyes. Dick has ripped off his mask, blue eyes bright with tears and desperation.
“Tim please, please, stay with me, I promise you’ll make it but you need to focus on staying awake, okay?”
Tim takes a moment to wheeze through the liquid in his lungs. “’kay.”
Dick looks slightly relieved but no less panicked. “I’m going to lift you up now, and it’s gonna hurt, but you have to not pass out, okay? You’re so strong Tim, and so brave, I know you can do this.”
Tim manages to give a slight nod, too out of breath to do much else.
He thought his body had been starting to become numb, the last embers of pain dying down, but getting lifted off the ground reignites it with kerosene and a blowtorch. He knows he would be screaming if his lungs had the capacity, but it comes out sounding more like the strangled yowl of a drowning cat.
“I’m sorry Timmy, I’m sorry, you’re so brave, I’m sorry, stay with me,” and tears are streaming down Dick’s face as he carries Tim bridal style through the… building. Base? He can’t seem to remember where they are.
He’s dying, he realizes. There’s blood everywhere, all over his torso and arms and legs and squelching between the seams of the Nightwing suit and his Red Robin armour. He can feel his ribs shifting unnaturally, broken and poking at his organs.
Was there a fight? Was he tortured? Was he in a car accident? Why can’t he remember?
“Almost there, we’ll be alright, almost there,” his brother repeats like a mantra. “Almost there, Timmy.”
He tries to speak, but spits out a mouthful of something instead.
“Almost there, stay with me Timmy, almost there.”
Trying again, he chokes, “wha’ happ-“ and then lets out a gasp as agonizing pain shoots through his leg.
Is his leg broken? Is that why there’s blood all over his stomach? If his femur broke or an artery got cut, that would mean significant blood loss.
“You were in a fight, and you were so brave.” The man blinks, and smiles down at him with the warmest, strongest, saddest smile in the history of the world. “You need to stay awake for me, okay?”
He’s tired, so very tired, but there’s something he needs to say before he goes to sleep, and he can’t remember the name of his, of, of who’s carrying him, but he’s family and safe and kind and he thinks he trusts him more than anyone ever.
His lips are sticky with, with something, with, with, partially dried blood, and it hurts his jaw to try and open it (is it fractured?) but this is important and he coughs and coughs and coughs, and blood spatters up at the face of his older, his, uh, the one carrying him.
And he means to say ‘love you,’ he does, but his throat is too full of something to force any sound through, and it burns in his chest because he has to say it, to someone who was his best friend, first family, only bright spot in his very lonely childhood, his idol and hero and brother all in one.
And he needs to say this before he moves onto the next world. He can’t die yet.
But he can’t form the words.
And so he stays awake.