Dick fell face first on the containment cell, caked blood on the corner of his mouth and the bridge of his nose pulling at his skin as he winced in pain.
His shoulder was dislocated, he knew, but he had no energy at the moment to even move enough to set his arm back into place.
And sure, maybe his leg was broken in three places - and what did it say about him that he had grown used to the biting agony of a fracture in the last year - but Dick couldn't help but think that at the very least, he was the one being beaten and starved, that it was his skin the one marred with scars and burn marks.
His...
Not his angel's.
And of course, he was going to spend the next week in confinement, away from light and food and even water, but it wasn't his white hell, it wasn't the void.
He could do it.
Plus, Calvin had deserved every single stab he had given him - the blood hardening under his nails sent a shiver of satisfaction running down his spine - because that asshole had the nerve of leering at him.
Leering like a pig and whispering that he knew he was the trainee with the special treatment, the one that usually skipped punishment while the others were burned alive.
But worst of it all, Calvin had hissed in his ear that he should be grateful for the one ensuring his safety, for the little angel that was paying for his benefits on his back.
Dick had not understood the implications, had not wanted to see what the other Talon prospect meant, but Calvin had finally sighed, running a hand through his hair and whistling a happy tune for a few second before telling Dick, straight faced an honest:
"Makes you curious, don't you think? I kinda wanna fuck little Timmy myself to see what kind of a ride he is."
Dick hadn't needed to hear another word before his feet were in the air, the hunter knife he had been practicing with had been twisted into the older teen's shoulder and his hands were clawing at the man's mouth, nails digging into that disgusting, amoral tongue that dared to utter his angel's name without reservations or the respect such a creature as Tim deserved, index fingers digging into Calvin's eye sockets so that he would never be able to look at his angel again.
Calvin didn't deserve to have gazed upon Timmy when Dick had not.
He didn't deserve to know his name when he was still so unreachable for him.
The white of the void swarmed the corners of his eyes as he felt a sliver of drool drip from his snarling mouth, the other Talon's agonized screams muting all sound but his frantic heartbeat.
That heartbeat Tim, his angel, had protected.
The sickening squelch of an eye finally giving out to the pressure gave a surge of vicious satisfaction to the young teen.
He cackled maniacally even as he was pushed onto the ground by three instructors, his face banged against the concrete and blood sprouted from his nose but even then, as they descended upon him ready for his punishment did his smile not diminish.
The hiss of the hydraulic door sliding back and then forth again made his aching muscles tense further, imagining that further punishment was in story for him and that, whatever luck he had imagined himself possessing by now ad finally run out.
But instead a cool, wet cloth was carefully pressed against his bruised cheekbone, soothing is burning skin and stopping the pulling of the dried blood at the same time.
Dick felt his mouth go dry even as he managed to choke a small whimper of disbelief.
"Don't talk," his angel whispered in the darkness, the broken edge of his voice unmatched by the gentleness of his touch. "I… I think I am too angry at you now."
Despair curled and rolled on the pit of Dick's stomach, but he obediently kept his lips closed.
"Calvin Rose is older and far better trained than you are," his angel continued to say as he took the cool cloth away from his face and slowly ran it through the scratches and cuts in his arms. "He could have killed you without a second though. You were lucky he is so cocky."
Dick growled, low on his throat at the thought. Calvin Rose wasn't even worthy of having his name been uttered by his angel.
"He said bad things…" he finally said, his voice a hiss of anger he wasn't sure before then he could muster. "About you."
"It doesn't matter!" his angel reprimanded, small hand curling over the cloth for a moment, trembling. "Don't pay attention to what they say about me. It doesn't bother me and it shouldn't bother you either."
"But…" Dick complained.
"My reputation is nothing for you to lose your life over, Dick," the angel interrupted, his voice so small and defeated Dick felt the void slithering back into his brain by its absence. "You promised you wouldn't die, remember?"
And there it was, the crux of the matter.
He had promised he would live on, if only to ensure Timothy, his angel, would have a reason to live as well. Tim who, as the rumors stated, was giving something to Owlman in order to keep him safe.
Tim, who already said he would have no reason to keep living if he left.
He nodded, a tired sigh forcing his eyes to close.
"I'm sorry," he whispered then, his uninjured cheek resting on the ground.
"… it's okay," Tim whispered back, a hesitant hand finally coming to rest on his hair, his slender fingers carding through his blood caked strands in order to comb them back into order.
Dick felt the air leave his lungs, his heart erupt into a storm.
His stomach burst with heat.
The void fell quiet.
Idly, in between all the emotions ravaging his psyche, Dick realized this was the first time he and Dick had actually come into skin to skin contact with eachother. Despite their relationship, despite the years they had relied on eachother, despite the fact they had never seen eachother's face.
They were touching…
… and it was beautiful.
And with such realization came a new kind of clarity.
The clarity of one who has come to the realization of their life's position. Of their purpose in the universe.
He had to train.
He had to survive.
He had to live.
Not because it was the right thing to do.
Not because he had to honor his parent's memory.
No.
He had to live, from now on.
Because his life did not belong to him anymore.
His life belonged to this wonderful angel, this compassionate being that was giving his all for him.
He was Tim's.
His twisted fingers rose on their own to grasp Tim's slender wrist, entwining their hands against on another and breathing in the soapy smell of his skin, aching to keep him close, to keep him safe. Consume him so he would never leave him behind.
His broken leg didn't matter.
His dislocated shoulder didn't matter.
Only Tim mattered, would matter forever.
And, oddly enough, he was perfectly okay with it.