Archive of Our Own

When he was fifteen, Dick almost drowned in the Gotham harbor.

The guys who caught him weren’t just dunking some random kid, he’d been out as Robin at the time. That probably only made them meaner, though.

He still remembers the hands on his shoulders, on his head, pushing him down and holding him there. He remembers the acidic taste of the water, the burn of it in his nose and eyes. He remembers the fingers that dragged him up by his cape, pressed into his throat as he tried to cough, and shoved him under again. He remembers the ache in his muscles that wouldn’t let him drag himself out of the water after the thugs tried to run, and he remembers feeling like he was going to die as he coughed up water sludge, a gloved hand at his back.

He remembers what it feels like to drown.

It’s still not a pleasant experience.

Batman isn’t here to save him this time.

Dick’s body takes over as the fucking towel drapes back over his face and he thrashes against the men holding him down. A hand tightens in his hair, slamming his head back against the ground. He can’t see the water, so every extra second in between sends pent-up panic thrumming through his body. He’d barely recovered from the coughing fit incurred last time, and now he can’t breathe again even though it hasn’t actually started yet.

Water soaks into the cloth and his mind is lost to instinctual terror. It’s in his mouth, it’s in his nose, it’s in his lungs, it’s in his skull, and he can’t breathe.

The breath he’d already taken expunges from his chest involuntarily, and water takes its place in his throat, burning on its way down. All his thrashing does nothing – there’s a body on his legs, hands on his shoulders, someone holding his head down, chains around his torso. His throat is on fire, feeling completely swollen yet still somehow allowing water to drain into his lungs, his body swallowing fruitlessly. He wants to scream, to protest, to plead, to say whatever he needs to say to just get them to stop.

The burning water fills all extra space in his body that it can reach. The special kind of lightheadedness that comes when oxygen is removed washes over him, and the fear sinks deeper, into the walls of his  veins. The second his struggles begin to die down in strength, the towel is removed.

His body convulses, trying to get rid of the water. It bubbles in his throat, some spilling out past his lips, but without the air to cough it has nowhere to go, only settling back down and feeling like he was drowning all over again. He jerks to the side as soon as the hands on his shoulders and in his hair let go, ribs wracking painfully as he tries in vain to clear all the water. The harsh hacking tears through his throat, rough and raw.

Enough water spills out to allow him to gasp, and the air burns just as much as the water. He’s not focused on anything other than his intake of oxygen, like he’s just realized it’s the only thing that has ever mattered.

As soon as he’s reasonably breathing again, a hand seizes his hair and wrenches it back, his neck arching to look at the man crouching beside him. The one who poured the water.

His expression is flat and serious, a deadly sort of desperation set in his eyebrows. “Tell us what you know,” he says, low and soft.

Dick lets his eyes slip closed. He wants to answer, he wants to spill everything but he can’t because it’ll put his family and a lot of innocents in danger. He can’t, he can’t give them up. He can’t.

The hand moves to his throat, and the slightest pressure makes his body react like he’s drowning again even though he’s fine now. He jerks, arms jolting against the chains.

“It’ll be over as soon as you tell us what you know,” the man – Scott Holland, he remembers from his briefing – says quietly.

Dick’s breath quakes, but he stays silent.

“Again,” Holland says firmly.

The hands fall back on his shoulders, shoving him down on the ground. This time, Holland kneels next to his head, and clamps his knees on either side of Dick’s skull. It’s effective at keeping him still. He doesn’t have the space to wriggle in the panic that follows the towel lowering again.

He can’t breathe.

The water burns as it floods down his trachea. His ears ring and light flashes in his eyes, the colours of the warehouse roof above him melting into one that soaks him in overwhelming pain and horror.

When his eyes fill with tears and he gets lightheaded again and the water doesn’t stop, a thought hits him like a wrecking ball has been dropped over his corpse.

He’s going to die here.

He’s going to drown to death on dry land, tortured for information he can’t bring himself to give up.

His family is going to have to deal with another death, no matter that it’s just his.

He’s on the brink of unconsciousness when all weight lifts off him and he doesn’t realize the towel’s gone until the same moment he realizes he’s emptying the water from his stomach.

Yelling muddles together in his ears. He’s suddenly dragged from the floor, lugged behind the guy who grabbed him, and hauled up. The pressure around his waist drops; his arms stretch above him, hung on a hook dangling from the rafters, and his legs aren’t nearly stable enough to hold him so all his weight ends up straining his shoulders.

“Who did you call?” Holland seethes. The desperation edges his voice, now.

Dick’s first full breath ends in a coughing fit. His throat is raw, rocking with pain every time in shudders.

“Who did you call?”

Holland pushes something into his stomach. Electricity floods through his muscles, seizing and straining. The added pain brings him that much closer to a breakdown.

“I didn’t,” Dick forces out.

“There’s somebody outside, right now. I want you to tell me who it is, and how you did it.”

“I didn’t,” he chokes out again. Then, Holland’s fingers are digging into his jaw, yanking him close.

“Tell me.”

If it’s one of the Bats, Holland wants to know which one so he can make a getaway. He knows them well, well enough get Dick caught. Dick knows who it’s most likely to be, but if he keeps Holland here he’s going to get found.

Holland’s impatience overrides him, and metal cracks across Dick’s temple, throwing his head to the side. The edge was blunt, but there was enough force behind it to split his skin. He can feel blood start to gather on the cut, left of his eyes.

“I have less than ten minutes before my men go down and whoever you called gets inside. I can either leave, or spend the time making hell for you.” Holland brandishes the thing in his hand. “I’d love to find out how long it takes for that material to melt into your skin.”

Blue flame flicks from the tip of the nozzle, turning into a steady stream.

It’s not a gun, like he thought. It’s a blowtorch.

Nightwing’s suit is heat-resistant and doesn’t burn. He’s not sure how well it’ll hold up against such a concentrated heat.

Ten minutes.

If he gives up now, Scott Holland will walk. It’ll be infinitely harder to catch him after that, he’ll take his business and go underground. Is that worth it?

Not yet. He’ll hold out as long as he can.

“Stubborn asshole,” Holland hisses.

His hand closes around Dick’s throat, and he’s choking again.

The flame brushes at the skin under the edge of his jaw, the blistering heat coming close enough to burn him. Pain licks across his nerves, easily overwhelming him.

Holland trails the flame up his cheek, burning the whole way, coming close enough to his eye that Dick can see down the pipe of the torch. It pulls away just as he really starts to panic about it. The skin left behind stings and flares like it’s still there.

Phantom water bubbles in his airway. He can’t breathe again.

Dick can feel the flaring warmth pressed against his suit, lower on his chest, scorching heat barely kept from being enough to blister his skin. He can imagine his suit material melting to his skin, sticking to burnt flesh, harder to remove due to its nature. He’s panicking about it without it ever really melting when the door slams open.

That was not ten minutes.

Did he know Dick was here?

Holland is similarly caught off-guard. The man whips around, blood draining from his face.

Red Robin rolls into the room, several muscle men rushing in behind him. He drops one immediately. They all appear to be disarmed, at least of any firearms. Holland tries to run; Red Robin throws a batarang and catches him through the leg at the same time he’s whipping his staff across someone’s skull.

Dick gets a front-row seat through half-lidded eyes to how much his little brother has developed. He’s fast, he’s efficient, he’s ruthless, cold, uncaring and emotionless behind the cowl. Dick can see Robin in the fundamentals of every move he makes, but past that is something unfamiliar, new, refined and developed. He’s never seen Tim up close like this before. He’s terrifying.

The men go down quickly. Tim doesn’t spare him a glance as he starts interrogating them. It doesn’t take long, with threats and pressure points; When he’s done with each person, he zip-ties or handcuffs them.

Tim brushes right past him to get to Holland.

He can’t say he doesn’t deserve it.

Their conversation is hushed, low, so Dick doesn’t hear it. He does know that Holland is much more stubborn than his men. He also knows when the discussion ends, because there’s a loud thunk of Tim’s staff connecting with a skull, and then the muted sound of a body dropping.

Dick’s shoulders burn, his muscles straining in his sockets. He’s not sure he’d even be able to move his legs under him, much less stand on them. His skin is still flared with pain, and it’s getting harder to keep his breathing somewhat even. The chains are digging into his skin hard enough to hurt and cut off his blood flow. He’s exhausted. He wants to go home.

He can’t bring himself to open his mouth when Tim leaves.

He deserves it. He knows he deserves it. He doesn’t have the right to ask anything of him, not after all the shit he did. He took Robin, he didn’t believe Tim, he let Damian get away with all kinds of the shit he did, he threatened Arkham – and he left Tim to find Bruce on his own. Tim doesn’t owe him anything.

It still hurts a little that Tim knows it too, that he’s finally realized Dick isn’t worth putting up with. And isn’t that pathetic? That Tim walking back out without a word, leaving his sorry ass right where it is, spikes a pain in his chest that’s worse than anything else?

He accepts the pain with quiet resign.

Tim’s already taken care of the immediate threats for him. If he was ever deserving of the title of Batman, he’ll be able to get himself out. Eventually. When his throat stops burning and his muscles turn solid again.

And if he can’t, the police will probably find him.

For now, he’s just tired. He lets his head tip forward and his eyes slip shut.

Minutes later, he hears fabric and weight scraping against concrete. A string of pleading trickles into the room. Somebody’s being dragged in. He doesn’t look to see who.

There are no footsteps, but whoever’s being dragged lets out a very close pained sound. Like, three-feet-in-front-of-him close.

“Those. Tell me who has the key,” Tim’s voice says lowly. His tone is measured, but irritated.

“I- I don’t-”

“Point them out if you have to.”

Whoever it is lets out a pained noise, then a gasp. There’s a small noise somewhere else – a jingle of metal – then dragging bodies again, the footsteps of whoever’s still conscious stumbling behind. Tim’s putting them all in one place for the police.

Dick doesn’t say a word before the final sound of weight against the floor dissipates from the air.

His arms are sore. They’re going to hurt so bad in the morning. He’s a little worried about permanent damage to his muscle tissue. He wonders if this counts as a stress position. As if his night hadn’t already been awful.

He’s not expecting for Tim to come back.

So when his voice, clear, concise, and technical, carries through the door, the surprise shocks his eyes open.

He’s logging, talking to the screen embedded in his gauntlet. “…Time, two nineteen a.m. Ten assailants arrested, plus Scott Holland. Log command: link to Scott Holland’s file. The ten are as follows; Michael Tennan, Felix Nir, James Ratchet…”

Tim strides forward, checking his gear casually and swiftly. “Minor injuries sustained. Concussions, bruising, likely minor abrasions. Holland with a laceration on his upper right leg. I, Red Robin, sustained no injury.” Tim eyes Dick for a second, digging in one pocket, and moves on. “Log command: enter. Used gear includes three smoke pellets, one batarang, retrieved, six pairs of handcuffs and five zipties. Restock handcuffs. Log command: enter.

“Found Nightwing on-scene,” Tim lifts a lip distastefully, “no emergency signal received beforehand. Log command: Note. Link Nightwing’s report later. End note.”

A padlock falls to the floor. Tim’s fingers dig into his hands as the chains jingle.

“Log command: enter. Lots of evidence found. All data was collected and copied, pictures and data on servers 16b59 and 98a4fk, as well as drives HEFFQL-07 and TON-3-99. Servers will be wiped in thirty days. All weaponry was left for the police, as well as enough evidence to both convict and shut down this group. I’ll probably get to it first, though. Log command: note. Watch Gabrielle’s outcome, they seem to only be doing this because they need money. Find out what for and see if you can help and/or get them on a better path. End note.”

The chains get looser against his wrists as Tim unwraps them. Eventually, they slip entirely, and Dick’s knees hit the ground, hard. The impact jolts through him. His arms protest wildly as they drop, stretching out the muscle.

Tim stands above him now, huffing in irritation. Metal clatters on the concrete when he throws it to the ground. He reaches out, tipping Dick’s head to the side with fingers on his chin – the touch is gentle, but it’s so distant, clinical and sterile. Tim looks the burn over with a cold eye and a hard line to his mouth. Dick sucks in his next breath through his teeth when his skin starts to pull with the examination.

His touch withdraws, and Tim steps off to the side, finishing his log. Dick sits there and listens to his own choppy breathing and refuses to even look in the direction of Tim’s boots.

He’s not sure what Tim’s waiting for, especially since he’s already called the police.

He must get tired of it eventually, though, because he gives an aggravated sigh and stalks up to hold out a hand.

Dick stares at it dumbly, eyes slowly dragging up to Tim’s. He doesn’t understand what he’s asking for.

“Save that look for someone who cares,” Tim says coldly. “Come on. I’m taking you back. The sooner you get dealt with, the sooner I can go do something else.”

Dick shakes his head. “I won’t... be able to walk,” he manages to rasp out through his throat and his exhaustion.

Tim’s expression doesn’t change, not what’s visible under the cowl, but Dick can feel his judgement passing over him.

“The Batmobile’s outside,” he says finally. “If you lean on me, can you make it?”

Dick shrugs.

“Well I can’t carry all of you, so you’re going to have to have to do some work.”

Tim leans down and takes an arm over his shoulders. He gives no warning before he stands up, and Dick’s muscles ache as they stretch. He has to brace his hand against Tim’s shoulder. He tries his damnedest to walk by himself as much as possible, but his legs give out under him twice on their way out.

Tim pushes him into the back, leaving him to spill out over the seats as he climbs in driver’s. Dick’s arms hurt, so he props himself somewhat against the seats in a manner that takes all his weight off of them.

The clicking of the autopilot route hangs in the heavy silence of the car. When they start moving, Tim glances back at him with an unreadable expression. Dick used to be able to tell what his brother was thinking, even if he only had his mouth to study, if he really wanted to know, but now Tim just seems like a wall, cold and irritated.

He turns back, pushing a button on the dash. “Red Robin and Nightwing’s patrol ended,” he mutters. Then he turns back to his logging files without another word.

Dick closes his eyes and pretends he wasn’t reading hatred in the set of Tim’s shoulders. He also pretends he doesn’t feel water trickling down the back of his throat.

He slips into unawareness at some point, and the slamming of the car door is what brings him back.

When Tim pulls him out again – not mean, but still distant – they’re not in the Cave.

It’s a garage of some sort, instead. He’s not sure where, because there are no windows, meaning probably underground somewhere. The material looks new – recently built. Still, it’s well-used, gear hanging on the walls, a computer in one corner, tables covered in all kinds of junk.

Tim pulls him into an elevator, and Dick finally realizes that this is his place. The elevator opens to a flat; Dick hasn’t been here before. He doesn’t even know where here is. He’d asked, once, for Tim’s address after he moved, but the look of death Tim sent him was enough to make him shut up and he hadn’t felt like he’d deserved to ask again.

The flat is almost bare. There’s nothing on the walls; sure, Tim’s stuff is spread throughout, but to pack and leave would only be moving it all into boxes. He wonders if that was intentional, if Tim was always prepared to leave quickly, or if it had just happened like that because he didn’t feel like the space was his own. Either instance hurt to think about.

Tim pushes him onto a blank couch.

Then he leaves.

He walks through a doorway without a word or a glance.

A sudden exhaustion hits Dick, and he’s too tired to pretend that doesn’t hurt him as much as it does. His heart twists in his chest, but he doesn’t let it grow, either. Instead of thinking too hard about it – leading him into a spiral – he closes his eyes and leans back into the cushions.

The pain has begun to taper back into something tolerable. If he doesn’t breathe or swallow, he gets relief in his throat. His arms ache less without pressure. The burnt skin on his face only hurts when it pulls, and the cut isn’t even noticeable anymore. He’s slept through worse before.

His state of half-consciousness means he doesn’t hear the footsteps before there’s a shove to his shoulder, jolting him awake.

“What the fuck, Dick?” Tim glowers at him, kicking his shins. “I’m not your nurse, and I won’t act like it. You couldn’t even try?”

Tim’s dressed in plainclothes now, and a quick scan reveals no injuries, not even bruises. That loosens something in his chest that appears every single night. “Try?” he repeats dumbly.

“You could’ve gotten your mask off, at least,” Tim says coldly, crossing his arms.

Dick blinks at him, then reaches up slowly. He has a fingernail hooked under his domino when Tim grabs his wrist.

“Are you high? Where’s your solvent?” Tim snaps.

He doesn’t let go, prolonging the touch. His grip is tight, like Dick might try to break it. He won’t.

“I don’t carry it,” Dick says quietly.

Tim’s eyes narrow, irritation written into the steel of his expression. He shoves Dick’s hand back, and whisks away, back with a bottle before he can blink.

He pulls Dick’s face closer by his chin, fingers barely shy of his burns. The bottle opens, and Tim dips his finger inside. He traces it along the edge of Dick’s mask until it drips down. It pulls away easily when the glue dissolves.

Tim smacks it on his cushions. “Can you do the rest yourself, or do you need help with that, too?”

“The rest?” Dick repeats.

“The burns. The blood. Your suit.”

Dick blinks slowly, and shrugs slower. “It won’t kill me if I leave it.”

Tim stares at him, his frozen-over gaze long and piercing. “Elaborate.”

“I’m tired,” Dick shrugs. “I’ve done it before.”

Tim’s jaw tightens, eyes flaring. It reminds him abruptly of Jason.

He’s changed so much.

And Dick wasn’t there for it.

Tim walks out again, silent.

He comes back with a first aid kit in his hands.

“I… didn’t mean you had to do it for me, Tim,” he says, drawing his eyebrows together.

“You’re not going to.”

“No. But you don’t have to. I can deal with it tomorrow.”

Tim sets the kit down, smoothly flicking it open. He draws out burn cream and checks its expiration date.

“I’m not letting you leave it like that.”

“Why?”

A heated kind of anger flickers over Tim’s expression for the first time. “What do you mean, why?”

“I mean,” Dick amends carefully, “that you don’t have to. That I didn’t mean to make you feel like… like you need to.”

“Need to what?”

“Care.”

A dark expression flickers now. “You,” he says coldly, “have no say over what I feel.”

There are clothes in his hands the second time he stalks away. He drops them in Dick’s lap, then pulls him forward by his collar, reaching for the zipper. The sideways yank doesn’t put enough pressure on his throat to make him panic, but it’s damn close.

“Tell me why you think I don’t care about you.”

Dick tips his head away so he has easier access. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” His suit peels down.

“Why not?” Dick repeats, confused. “I hurt you, Tim. You’re angry at me, you know why not. I hurt you so much, and I’m not sure I’ve stopped hurting you. You shouldn’t feel like you have to take care of me because I don’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve for you to pull me out tonight, I didn’t deserve for you to take me to your base, I don’t deserve for you to be taking care of me now. You should’ve just left me there. You would’ve been right.”

Tim yanks his arms from his sleeves and shoves him back by his chest. “I don’t care what you think you deserve!” he spits, trembling, genuine hot emotion wet in his voice. “You’re just like Bruce! Guess what, you fucked up! Instead of changing or doing better, you’re just taking shit away from yourself as some sort of messed-up recompense! Well, I’m not a fucking vessel for your punishment!”

Tim’s eyes are glossy, his pain and hurt finally showing through. He towers over Dick, glaring down at him with clenched fists. “You don’t have the right to tell me how to feel about you. Telling me I shouldn’t care about you paints me like an asshole.”

Dick stares at him, stricken. “But you shouldn’t,” he says, broken. “Not after all I’ve done. Not after all I put you through.”

“It’s not about you!” Tim bursts. “You hurt me so bad. You called me crazy and left me alone, gave me no choice but to isolate myself, you took away the one fucking thing that I felt gave me worth in this stupid fucking family and you gave it to the kid who’s hated me from the beginning. You took his side constantly and you couldn’t even admit I was right after I brought Bruce back. You got mad at me for teaming with Ra’s after you left me no choice, and you haven’t checked on me once after I got back, and you don’t talk to me about anything but vigilante work, even when we’re off patrol. But guess what? You did all that to me. You hurt me. And I have never once thought that you could make it up to me by punishing yourself, by making yourself unhappy, by removing things from your life to make you feel better.

“Have you ever thought about apologizing instead of pushing consequences on yourself?” Tim’s voice cracks, and he’s crying by now, shaking as his chest shudders. “Have you ever thought about fixing it and doing better instead of taking things from yourself?”

Tim allows himself time to sob, and takes a deep breath, dragging his arm across his eyes. “I didn’t need you to perpetuate this guilt complex you have, Dick, I needed you to be my brother. I needed you to apologize and tell me I didn’t deserve what you did. I needed you to step up again and offer your support and care. All you’ve done instead is make me feel like you don’t love me anymore.”

Dick’s shaking now too, but he doesn’t realize he’s crying until hot liquid drips from his chin. He swipes the trails away quickly. “Of course I love you,” he manages to crack out after pulling in a rattling breath, successful after many attempts.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, arms wrapped around his stomach as he tries to get his control back. Dick wants so badly to hug him, to pull him into his arms, but he doesn’t think it would be appreciated at the moment.

Tim wipes his eyes for the final time. “You’re doing an awful job of showing it.”

Dick doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Tim takes the shirt and shoves it into his chest, avoiding his eyes. He takes the hint and pulls it on carefully. The fabric goes over his eyes for a second – when he pulls it down, Tim has a wet rag in his hand, and the cushion dips next to him.

His touch on Dick’s shoulder is angry, upset. He pulls him towards him, still avoiding his eyes – the rag dragging across his face is rough, harshly scrubbing the blood off, the cut stinging as the rag fibers dig into it. Still, he prefers it to the distant it was before.

Tim’s next breath is shaky. “Hold that,” he says, pressing it to the cut. The clotted blood had been cleared, meaning it had to stop bleeding again. Dick brings his hand up – their fingers brush for barely half a second.

Anxiety tightens around his chest for a second. He should just say it, but he’s a little worried he’ll get shut down. “I- I didn’t think you’d... want it. Want me. I get overbearing. I didn’t want to push you.”

Something flickers over Tim’s expression, smoothing out again into what is just plain tension. He picks a packet of burn cream from the kit, checking its expiration. “You didn’t even try.”

For a long moment, Dick just flickers his gaze over his brother’s face. “I was afraid,” he says abruptly, finally admitting it. “It happened with Jason, I pushed too hard and he reacted badly. I was afraid you’d think I was brushing over what I did, and that you’d stop talking to me at all. You’re right, I didn’t try. It was cowardly.”

Tim’s lips tighten, and he doesn’t say anything else. The burn cream spreads out on his fingertips, and he reaches out again to tip Dick’s jaw toward him. He’s a little softer this time, a little gentler, as he traces the stinging lines on Dick’s skin. His breath shudders a little, his lips twisting like he’s chewing on them. “I don’t- I don’t think any of this is worse than second degree, and even then, not much of it is.” Dick pretends he doesn’t hear the break in Tim’s voice. “I saw the blowtorch. What happened?”

“Holland wanted to know what I knew,” Dick tells him, lifting his shoulders a little, even the small movement a sore one. “He heard you coming, and figured waterboarding wasn’t going to do it. He said he’d see if my suit melted to my skin.”

Tim’s hands stutter to a stop. His eyes widen.

“What- Waterboarding? What? They waterboarded you?”

“Yeah?” Dick says with a questioning lilt.

“Dick! Why didn’t you tell me, you asshole?”

“I thought you knew?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have- I didn’t- Of course I didn’t know.” Tim punches his chest, and it hurts a little, but Tim is upset again and that’s all he can focus on.

“Tim-”

“Shut up. Have you noticed any signs of secondary drowning? Does your chest hurt? Have you had trouble breathing?”

“No,” Dick says. “Not yet.”

“Good,” Tim mutters. “Anything else you haven’t told me about?”

Dick’s eyes drift as he thinks. “Bruises. And they got me with a tazer.”

“That’s all of it?”

“That’s all.”

“No burns, not through the suit,” Tim says under his breath, likely just to himself. “Christ, I need a drink.”

He’s not twenty-one yet. Dick watches him push up from the couch. Instead of coming back with alcohol, though, he comes back with a goddamn energy drink.

“Take the suit off, Dick,” Tim says, and he sounds exhausted, tipping back a swig even as he wipes his eyes.

Dick strains out of the bottom half of his suit. The clothes Tim gave him, they’re a size or two too big – and they smell like Jason.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, knocking back the rest of it. “If I’d known you were being waterboarded, I would’ve come for you sooner.”

 “You came... for me?” Dick says slowly.

“You didn’t check in,” Tim tells him quietly, “so I came to get you.”

“I didn’t think anyone paid attention to those logs anymore,” Dick whispers.

“You do. I do.”

Tim drops the can on the floor and sits beside him. He reaches out again, dragging his thumb along what’s left undressed of the burn. “There. Don’t touch it now.”

Dick catches his wrists before he can pull away. His grip is weak, light, and it would take little effort to break. Tim doesn’t, not yet.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says, his voice cracking.

“Don’t,” Tim tells him. He’s clearly trying to bring back that same cold from earlier, but he just sounds broken. “If you’re not going to take me seriously, then I don’t want to hear it.”

“I will,” Dick says. “I love you. I’ll do whatever you want. I don’t care if it earns me forgiveness. I’m still not sure I deserve that. But you’re right. You deserve it.”  

Something shutters over Tim’s face – it looks like grief, but that can’t be right – until he finally just closes his eyes. “Promise,” he says desperately, slipping his hand down to clasp Dick’s. “Promise me.”

“I swear it,” Dick says without pause.

Tim swallows. He nods slowly, his grip tightening further.

“Good,” he rasps finally. “This is the only chance you’re getting.”

“Okay,” Dick accepts softly.

Tim moves so quick Dick doesn’t know what’s happening until Tim is pressed into his chest, face tucked into his collarbone. Dick sits stunned for a moment, then returns the hug fiercely. Something he didn’t know he was carrying lifts with his brother in his arms again.

Tim’s grown so much. There’s more muscle than there used to be under his fingers, and he carries a certain litheness Dick had never noticed before. His hair is long, but it’s soft when Dick runs his hand through it. He’s finally taking care of it.

After a while, Dick says, quietly, “It’s late.”

“Shut up,” Tim snorts wetly, and he sounds a little lighter, too. “You’re the one trying to sleep on my couch.”

“It’s a nice couch,” Dick compliments, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Thanks, it was here when I bought the place,” Tim says dryly. He pushes up to his feet, then extends a hand. “Come on. If I’m sleeping then you are too.”

Dick accepts, letting Tim pull him to his feet. It was probably about time. Except when Tim beckons him to follow, it isn’t to the door.

“You aren’t kicking me out?” Dick questions.

Tim sends him an unreadable look. “Not worth it,” is all he says. His bedroom door opens – it's much different than the rest of the place, Tim's stuff is strewn everywhere. He moves what looks like a bunch of case files from his bed, stacking them in his arms. He jolts to a stop- “Unless you want to go,” he says suddenly, turning his intense gaze on Dick.

“I'm right where I want to be,” Dick tells him, smiling softly.

Tim's shoulders relax. “You're so cringe,” he says, leaving the files in a different open space. He elbows Dick toward the bed as he hits the lights.

There's a small lamp on Tim's desk. It was something Dick gave him after learning he wasn't fond of the dark. Dick's heart melts a little, knowing he still has it, but he imagines he wouldn't have liked the dark tonight too much either so he's glad it's on.

Tim throws back his covers, a soft pink colour. The mattress feels amazing under Dick's muscles. Then he's being pulled into Tim's chest, which is odd, because Dick knows he likes to be the one receiving affection more. Still, Dick hasn't been held himself in a very long time. He can't help the way he melts into Tim's arms.

Tim's hands go up to his hair, brushing through it like he needs to be comforted. His fingers carefully sweep stray strands off his face, touch feather-light, like the tickle of a butterfly, in a way that makes him shiver. Dick's eyelids slip shut, and he succumbs to the longing in his chest, leaning back into it.

Silence falls over them, a tranquil sort. Tim doesn't stop, and he doesn't let go. Dick can feel himself slowly slipping as the minutes pass by.

At one point, Tim shifts slightly. One of his arms lifts.

“I love you, too,” Tim says, so soft it's barely a whisper.

Dick falls asleep to the quiet, steady sound of Tim's voice.

“Log command: note. This is Red Robin, reporting for Nightwing. End note. Nightwing did not log his bi-hourly check-in, so I went to go get him. Not sure how he got caught, he didn't say, but his tracking data gets weird around one fifty-three a.m. The data follows a path down Jackson street…”