Note: I know, I know. I usually write Jason, but... well, now I have this. Next to Jason, Tim is probably my favorite Bat boy. Well, if I'm honest, the title of second favorite often switches between Dick and Tim. Right now, I would have to say it's Tim.
Something like panic grips Dick's heart when he finishes the last of the thugs off and he's instantly on his knees next to the lump that he knows is his brother.
How did this happen?
He'd lost sight of his brother-of Tim-over an hour ago. At the time he hadn't worried.
Tim could take care of himself.
Now he's regretting his earlier lack of concern.
The boy's face is bruised; he's been beaten.
Suddenly, Dick wishes he hadn't been so gentle with Crane's men.
He wants to see blood. He wants to see them bleed.
Dick clenches his teeth, redirecting his thoughts. They're down and out for the count now and his rage isn't going to be what helps Tim.
His hands hover in the air; he's not sure where to grab Tim first, but he needs to check him. He needs to make sure he's okay.
Tim is trembling, curled up around himself as if he's protecting his softer abdomen from an assault.
"No," the boy is mumbling under his breath, eyes screwed shut. "No, no, no."
And Dick knows.
Tim's been gassed.
It makes sense. As much as Dick wishes it weren't so, it makes sense.
Tim's experienced it before. They all have, but that doesn't make it get any easier.
It doesn't make Dick wish any less that he had been here to protect his baby brother.
He'd been gassed, terrified. And then they'd beat him.
It makes Dick furious. And not just at the thugs lying unconscious all around them. Not just at Crane, who he knows has managed to get away, but who he can't be bothered to care about right now, because all that matters here and now is Tim and getting him safe.
He's furious at himself.
He's the older brother here. He's the one who was supposed to have Tim's back. He's the one who Tim trusted to have his back.
He's the one who didn't have Tim's back.
"Tim," Dick tries, unable to keep his own voice from shaking. He doesn't care that he's using his civilian name, something Bruce is very clear they're not supposed to do. He's just desperate to reach his brother in the midst of his terror.
He grasps Tim's shoulders, hoping-praying-that physical contact is what Tim needs to snap back to reality.
Tim flinches, trying to wrench himself away from Dick's hands.
"Tim!" Dick can't help the urgency that works its way into his voice. "Tim, look at me! Please!"
"D-Dick?"
Tim's voice sounds strangled, hoarse. It doesn't require much effort on Dick's part to understand how it got that to be that way.
Tim had been screaming. He'd been screaming, crying for a brother who'd never come.
Because Dick hadn't heard him.
His brother had needed him-had needed him desperately-and he hadn't been there.
And if he hadn't come there when he did, it's likely they would have killed Tim. Tim who hadn't been able to fight back because he'd been under the influence of a highly hallucinogenic fear toxin.
"Yes," Dick gasps, his voice broken by relief. Moisture has dripped to his cheek and he blinks back… tears? He's crying?
It only takes him a moment to decide that yes, yes he is.
And there isn't a thing he can do about it.
"It's me, Tim." He pulls his brother closer to him, wrapping his arms around him in a hug. "It's me. It's okay. You're gonna be okay."
A distressed mewl from Tim lets him know that he's hugged too tightly and he reluctantly loosens his hold on his brother. He refuses to let him go completely. He never wants to let him out of his sight again.
He can't lose another brother.
Not like…
He squeezes his eyes shut and refuses to let his mind go any further.
He won't let himself go down that road.
Not when Tim needs him.
Tim reaches up, grasping his forearm. His grip is strong, fingers digging almost painfully into Dick's flesh through his uniform.
He's clinging to him, like he's afraid Dick might vanish at any second.
Dick holds him just a little tighter.
"Make it stop," Tim begs, and his voice is near a whisper. Dick has to lean a little further down to catch it. "Make it stop." His voice is fainter this time. "Please."
Dick doesn't have the antidote on him. He's only in Gotham occasionally these days and Crane doesn't travel to Bludhaven.
He has no reason to carry it on him.
That doesn't stop him from wishing he did.
"I'm sorry, Tim." He leans over, trying to get closer to his brother's ear. He's not sure if Tim will process what he's saying, but he tries anyways. "I don't have it. I'm sorry. I wish I did."
Tim is still shaking and Dick untangles one of his arms from his brother to reach for something else.
Dick doesn't have the antidote and he doesn't know what the gas made Tim see. He doesn't know what it-combined with the beating- made him go through.
He knows Tim is fighting it. He knows Tim is a fighter.
But it's kinder to knock him out until Bruce can get there. He can't let Tim continue to deal with this.
He reaches for his boot.
"Hang in there, little brother," he whispers.
And he slides the needle in.
"What happened?" Bruce's voice is gruff with what can only be described as paternal worry.
"I…" Dick licks his lips and tries to force the words to leave him. He averts his eyes, suddenly unable to meet his mentor's-his father's- gaze.
He's ashamed.
Because he should have had his brother's back.
He should have and he didn't.
Dick knows this.
"... I lost sight of him. Crane got ahold of him and…"
He squeezes Tim's limp hand in his own. He doesn't ever want to let him go.
Wordlessly, Bruce drops to his knees beside the two of them.
"You sedated him." It isn't a question.
Dick nods, swallowing past the uneasy lump in his throat. "I had to," he whispers, nearly inaudible even to himself. Unconsciously, he holds Tim's hands a little tighter, as if afraid his brother might be taken from him. "I had to. He was fighting. He was fighting so hard, but…" He swallows again, unable to get past the guilt.
"Nightwing…" Batman's voice silences him.
Dick drops his gaze. His chest tightens. The words "I'm sorry" are on the tip of his tongue.
Before he can get them out, a gauntleted hand grips his wrist.
Dick looks up, surprised.
"Don't," Batman warns. His eyes narrow behind the lenses. "Don't do this to yourself. You did what you could. You did good."
You did good.
Dick doesn't know what to say to that. If he'd done good… his brother wouldn't be in this position to begin with.
"The antidote…" he says weakly, finding his voice again, but Bruce has already injected the contents of a syringe into the boy's arm.
He lifts Tim into his arms, cradling him against his chest, and turns to leave.
And Dick follows.
It's dark. It's dark and something is following him. Something unseen. Something he can't escape.
It's right behind him. He can sense its presence. He can feel its breath.
But no matter how fast he runs, he can't escape it.
The first hand lands on his shoulder. He feels it through the suit. He feels it on his skin.
The hand is wrong. There are scales and claws and it's wrong.
A strangled sound that's somewhere between a gasp and a sob tears itself from his throat and he attempts to wrench himself free.
It's too late.
Already the claws are pulling him down, digging into his flesh.
"-im!"
There's a sound. A voice.
"Tim!"
A name. His name.
He jerks.
The sensation of release is immediate.
He's gasping. It seems like, no matter what he does, he can't get enough air into his lungs. He feels like a near drowning victim, who's only just found himself with the ability to break the surface.
His eyes shoot open.
Immediately, there's light, shining down on him, burning.
He shuts his eyes again, closing out the light.
It's too bright.
It's too bright.
Then hands are on his shoulder, grasping him.
The voice is back. It's speaking to him. There's an urgency to the tone and he knows that voice.
He knows it.
But all he can think of is the claws, the ripping and the tearing of his own flesh.
A keening whine of terror reaches his ears and he realizes that it's come from him.
The hands pull back quickly.
He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn't want to open them, but the voice is still there, coaxing him, encouraging him.
"Easy, little brother. You're safe. You're okay. You're okay."
The voice is gentle, warm, soothing.
Right now, Tim feels like he wants nothing more than to just sink into, latching onto its sound like a lifeline, a guide that's going to be bring him home out of the darkness.
"Tim?" The voice is suddenly more frantic now, more urgent. "Tim!"
With a gasp, his eyes snap open.
A face forms in his frontal vision.
Dick, he thinks. Dick.
He realizes, with a sort of absent distance, that he's hyperventilating.
He closes his eyes, tries to will his heartbeat back to normal, tries to forget the memory, the feeling, of claws digging into his flesh, chipping against bone.
"Are you with me?" Dick's voice again. A hand alights gently on his arm. It's just enough to ground him back in reality.
Tim blinks his eyes open again.
Dick is still there, leaning over him. His lips are curved in a faint smile, but the concern, the fear, hasn't completely left his eyes.
"D-dick?" he croaks, and immediately winces at how hoarse his voice sounds. He doesn't even want to contemplate how it got to be that way, but he knows full well.
Dick lets himself fall back in the chair he's no doubt dragged here from across the cave-he keeps his hand on Tim's arm and Tim doesn't want him to take it away-and the relief on his face is instantaneous.
"Hey," Dick says. He makes an effort to keep his voice light. "How are you feeling?"
Tim pushes himself to sit up- he might be in bed, but he's not an invalid-before answering. "Been better," he answers. And it's the truth.
He makes a list, mentally cataloguing what he can without actually seeing himself.
His throat feels like it's been sandpapered raw and he's aching like a herd of elephants just played a game of soccer with him as the ball.
What actually happened out there?
He reaches up, rubbing his head and pushing back several strands of hair at the same time.
Dick's smile is a little more sincere this time around. "You got that right."
Tim grimaces.
"Bruce?" he asks, a little tentatively.
Dick frowns, leaning back in his chair. "He left pretty much after we made sure you were going to be okay. Crane's still loose," he tells him. "He… he didn't want to, but I…" he colors slightly, "I told him I'd make sure to be here when you woke up. I'm sorry. I know you must have wanted to see him.
"No." Something in Tim's chest warms when he hears that Bruce wanted to be here. "No… I…. it's fine. He had to."
He pauses.
Then, "How…" For a moment, he's not sure he wants to know. He licks his lips and forces the words out anyways. "How bad?"
He knows it was the fear toxin. He knows that it was bad.
(It's always bad.)
But he asks anyways.
He wants to know.
Dick's expression becomes grimmer. "Bad," he says simply.
He doesn't elaborate. Tim doesn't ask him to.
He can imagine.
Tim swallows again. His hands fist in the blankets as he once again fights back the image of black demons chasing him, their clawed hands outstretched.
He shudders and shakes the image off.
"Tim?" Dick asks, concerned.
Tim meets his eyes. "I'm fine," he says quickly. Too quickly, he thinks.
Dick watches him carefully and Tim doesn't avert his eyes.
Finally, it is Dick who breaks the silence. "I'm sorry," he says.
Out of everything, an apology is what Tim had been least expecting.
For a moment, he stares at Dick, completely flabbergasted. "What? I… ?" His brow crinkles. "What are you apologizing for?"
"I thought I'd lost you, kiddo," he says. "I should have had your back." He lets out a shaky breath and runs a hand through his hair. "When I turned around and… I didn't know… I really thought… When I saw what they had done..." He falls silent, letting his hand drop back down to his lap.
His eyes follow it, but Tim can see his jaw clenching.
Oh.
Oh.
Tim thinks of the shrine that stands in its lonely corner of the cave. It's a memorial, the reminder of a soul since passed.
A soul mourned for.
A soul missed.
And he gets it.
Just like that.
"But I made it didn't I?" he says and he forces himself to smile. He forces himself to smile despite the memories of darkness and demons and claws."I'm okay."
Dick looks up to meet his eyes again. He looks shaken.
"I… Geez, Tim. Just… just don't ever do that to me again."
It's a promise Tim knows he can't make, because it's a promise he knows he can't keep. Not with the life they lead.
He bites his bottom lip and keeps his mouth shut.
There's a lull, in which neither of them speak.
Admittedly not surprising, it is Dick who breaks that lull.
"Are you?" he asks. "Okay, I mean," he clarifies. "I know it's... I know it's not easy. So I'm asking. Are you okay?"
Is he?
Tim thinks of shadows that follow and follow and won't leave.
"I…" He swallows and decides that honesty is his best choice. "It was hard."
He's not prepared for the crushing hug he finds himself suddenly enfolded in.
Tim grunts in surprise.
He reaches up, wrapping one arm around his brother's back. "Dick," he says, a little weakly. "You're squishing me."
Laughing a little, Dick loosens his hold, but he doesn't pull away completely. "I'm not killing you, am I?" he asks.
Tim shakes his head and manages a somewhat shaky laugh of his own. He's still holding onto Dick's shirt, he realizes.
He doesn't want him to leave.
"I'll live," he tells him and that's all the invitation Dick needs to pull him closer again.
"Good," Dick murmurs into his shoulder, "because I'm not going anywhere."
Note: So apparently I have this new thing for the Scarecrow as a villain now. And for people ending up in sickbeds. And hugs. Though I don't think those last two would surprise anyone who's read anything else I've written. Though usually it's Jason on the receiving end of everything. *coughs* But hey, we all need to switch it up a little bit, don't we?
Also, I apologize for the lack of Bruce in this story. I wanted the main theme to be the brotherly-type relationship between Dick and Tim. (Because big brother!Dick is the best. We all know he was born for that role.)