Tim calls the Batmobile, needing some way to get Damian into Leslie and Alfred's capable hands when he goes back for Dick. He'll still have to bandage the kid—or else he might not even make it back to the cave—and that will waste precious time that Dick doesn't have, but it's the best option he's got.

The Batmobile skids to a stop and to Tim's utter surprise out tumbles pretty much his entire family, Jason following on his bike. His entire family that had been on an off-world mission with no hope of contact for the past month, that Tim hadn't known were finally home. Tim loves his family, and they've had a lot of pretty good moments, but he swears he has never been more relieved to see them in his entire life.

"Red Robin!" Bruce snaps, jumping straight into action, although his gaze is definitely locked on Damian. "Report!"

"Nightwing," he gasps out, still reeling. "He's still inside. You gotta go—He's hurt! You have to—"

Bruce nods instantly, jaw clenching. "Signal, Black Bat, go with Red Robin and get Robin to safety. Red Hood, with me."

Jason takes off after him, uncharacteristically without any sort of complaint. Tim must have sounded pretty panicked. It takes a lot to get through Jason's hard- headedness and stubborn reluctance to show that he cares about any of them. It's the right choice, as much as Tim's feet itch to run after them, back towards where he left Dick behind; Bruce and Jason will have a much easier time carrying Dick than Tim would.

Duke is saying something, trying to heard Tim and Damian into the Batmobile, although Tim's hearing has pretty much been reduced down the rush of blood in his ears and the rapid pounding in his chest. Cass has to intervene, gently prying Damian from Tim's hands—when did he pass out? And how did Tim miss it?—and setting about bandaging some of the more pressing injuries.

"Red Robin," Signal says, and it sounds like he's said it several times now, "are you hurt?"

Tim shakes his head. "No. No, I'm okay." He has a few scrapes and bruises from fighting his way in to Dick and Damian, but nothing that really qualifies "hurt" in their line of work. He'll barely even need a bandaid or two, maybe an ice pack. Nothing like Damian. Or Dick. A sharp wave of nausea washes over him thinking about his older brother, and he once again has to fight the urge to run after Bruce and Jason.

"Are you sure?" Duke asks, and Tim knows that he's seeing the blood soaking his uniform and staining his hands. There's a lot of it.

"S'not mine," he mumbles. Probably a pretty even split between Dick and Damian. The cloying wetness on his knees definitely came from kneeling in the puddle of Dick's blood on the cell floor, but the darkened red on his chest and arms is most likely mostly from carrying Damian. His hands could be anyone, there's no real way to know.

"Time to go," Cass calls. "Cave."

Tim moves like a robot, increasingly numb, and holds Damian in his lap for the entirety of the ride.

"I'm sorry," Tim whispers, getting up from his vigil in the chair beside Dick's bed, and—at Dick's insistence —climbs in beside his brother. Damian continues to sleep, tucked in against Dick's other side.

Dick frowns, brow furrowing. "What for?" His voice is hoarse and garbled from several days of disuse in which he slipped feverishly in and out of consciousness, Tim clutching at his hand and refusing to leave his side. This is the first time he's really been awake and coherent enough to have any sort of conversation.

"I left you. I shouldn't have left you. If the others hadn't come back—"

Dick shushes him gently, his still shaky and weak hand coming up to brush the hair back from Tim's forehead. "You didn't do anything wrong, Tim. You did exactly what I asked you to. And look, I'm okay. We're all okay."

"You almost weren't. It was so close, Dick. And you made me..." He trails off, the words lodged sharply in his throat. Every time he closes his eyes he can still see the blood, and he keeps reliving that moment, the one where he was so sure that he'd been saying goodbye to Dick for the last time. It had been Dick's choice, but Tim was the one who would have had to live with the consequences of it.

He doesn't want to snap, doesn't want to yell or argue or sulk. He's too tired and relieved, and really, he's not actually mad, not underneath it all. At least, he's not mad at Dick. He is pretty furious at the guys that took Nightwing and Robin, and who had no reservations hurting them over and over. And he's mad at the situation, at having been alone and unable to help both of his brothers. He's not really mad at Dick for making the decision that he did. It was the right one, as much as Tim loathes to admit it. Damian is just a kid, not even twelve years old yet. Tim can't be mad at Dick for saving him, no matter how he feels.

"I'm right here, Timmy. I'm fine." Tim glares at him. "Alright," he amends, "I'm going to be fine."

"You better," he snaps, completely counteracting any harshness by burrowing closer against Dick's side.

Dick presses a firm kiss to his brow. "You did the right thing."

"Doesn't feel like it," he mumbles, face turned against Dick's shoulder.

"I know. I'm sorry. But everything's going to be okay now. We all made it home."

He nods, unable to do anything else. The emotions lingering in his chest are too complicated for him to try and unpack at the moment—maybe even ever—so he lets the drowsiness of faded adrenaline and the warmth of his living breathing big brother take him away. The cot isn't very big, and one of Tim's legs hangs awkwardly off the side, but Dick is right about one thing: this feels like home.