Even sprinting with everything he's got, trying hard not to jostle Damian in his arms, it takes Tim far too long to get the kid into the Batmobile, bandaged up, and headed to Leslie and Alfred. The compound that their captors had kept them in is sprawling and twisty, and only Tim's hasty half-memorization of the layout before going in saves them from taking far too many wrong turns.
Damian does not speak to him again. He turns his head away and Tim gently secures him in the car's passenger seat, glaring halfheartedly at nothing with glazed over and watery eyes. He's tired and hurt, really barely hanging on—and Tim is surprised to realize that that alone scares and shakes him to his core—but Tim can still feel the anger and hatred radiating off of him. It doesn't even hold a candle to the self-loathing that envelops Tim's chest.
"I'll bring him home," Tim says as he closes the door. Damian turns away, says nothing. Tim doesn't blame him. After all, his words are nothing more than empty, meaningless promises. In Damian's mind, Tim might as well have been the one pushing that knife into Dick's skin, might as well be murdering their older brother all while he wraps Damian in bandages and a shock blanket and makes sure he's buckled in properly.
Tim is having a really hard time not feeling the same way.
He's sprinting again, the moment Damian is off and headed to safety. His lungs burn, legs aching as he pushes himself past his limits. Surely even Bart would be impressed by the speed he's managing though, desperation and the last lingering bits of cloying hope jolting like electricity in his veins.
He can make it. He can get to Dick, keep him from bleeding out, stabilize him now that he has fresh medical supplies. The Batmobile has been programmed to come back to the compound as soon as Damian is safe, hopefully with Alfred in tow. They'll perform field medicine, keep Dick alive until he can get to Leslie and everything will be okay. It will be. It has to be.
Tim skids around the final corner, throwing open the door to Dick and Damian's cell for the second time that day. It bangs loudly against the wall, sound echoing in the silence.
Dick hasn't moved, not a muscle since Tim left him. His head is still tipped back against the wall, arms limp where they curl protectively around his red- stained abdomen. He crashes to his knees beside his brother, dread curdling in his stomach as he realizes that he wasn't just imagining the stillness of Dick's chest.
His lips are parted, just slightly, lines of dark red trailing down his chin. His eyes, too, aren't quite closed. It's weird, some distant, broken part of Tim's brain thinks, to see those eyes, usually so bright and sharp, clouded over and dulled nearly to a shade of grey. They're completely empty, staring at nothing, the most horrible sight Tim has ever seen, at least until he watches how Dick's head rolls lifelessly when Tim tries in vain to check his pulse. Dick is a master of his own body, having literal decades of diligent training as both an acrobat and a vigilante—to see him move so bonelessly is sickening. It's as if everything that made him Dick Grayson is just... gone. This is nothing but an empty shell.
"I'm so sorry," Tim whispers, letting his brother's body slump against his chest. He rests Dick's head on his shoulder, tucks the dirty and blood-matted hair behind his ear before burying his face against the top of his head.
Dick smells like blood, like death, his hair of sweat and soot and metal and the barest hint of jasmine shampoo. Tim gags on it, burying closer. Dick nearly falls over, dead weight that he is, leaving Tim to awkwardly scramble to keep him from sliding off.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Dick, I'm sorry," he says, over and over, voice nothing more than hoarse whispers, meant for his big brother's ears alone.
This is his fault. He should have found another way, a better way. There had to be something he could have done to save both Dick and Damian. Damian had been right. Tim killed their brother. He may not have been Dick's tormenter, but he sure as hell qualifies as his cause of death. They can write in on the forms, put it in the files, print it on his death certificate.
Richard John Grayson, cause of death: Timothy Drake and his inability to save the people he loves the most.
He presses a shoddy and far too-late kiss to his brother's hair, unable to stop his brain from running through every single moment that Dick pulled him in for a hug or slung his arm around Tim's shoulders or brushed his hair back away from his face, gently teasing him about needing to get it cut. Every moment of pure, unadulterated affection he felt for his brother, every moment that he thought his heart might burst because this is what it feels like to love someone, and to know that they love you back, every moment that the words caught on his tongue but Dick knew he had to know —the memories rush up, swelling his chest and climbing into his throat making him feel the urge to cry and laugh and throw up all at once.
"I'm so sorry," he sobs into Dick's hair. "I should have been faster. I should have saved you both."
Dick says nothing, because of course he doesn't. Tim has never wished for the comfort of his big brother more in his life.
His fingers tremble as he gently thumbs Dick's eyes closed. He looks almost as if he's sleeping off a hard mission. Tim would give anything for that to be the case.
"Come on," he murmurs, voice not even half as hollow as he feels, struggling to his feet and hauling Dick into his arms. "I promised Damian I'd bring you home."