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He moves, just a millisecond - a nothing second - after he hears the crack of the bullet through a suppressor. It’s a familiar noise— Tim knows what is sounds like and he reacts accordingly to the soft pressure of a bullet uncorking from a barrel.
Something pops, like a bottle of chilled champagne, punches him in the chest as he shoved Bruce off of the platform, knocks the older man into the microphone podium and into a small sea of reporters with giant flashing cameras and open mics that had been milling around. People that had been pushing closer to Mr. Wayne and his comically large pair of scissors he had been holding.
Tim had laughed when he first saw the silver novelty instrument. Because why would anyone need scissors that large?
It had been funny.
Bruce hadn’t shared the joke.
The scissors are in his line of vision once again. Bruce must have dropped them at some point. They’re shiny and the sunlight hits the silver blades and sending sun-stars back at him. It’s disorienting because, for a second, he can’t figure out which angles he’s at, how and why he can see the scissors. They are strewn on the ground, in the grass.
The same grass that’s pressed against the side of Tim’s face, tickling his nose, every time he tries to breathe.
He’s trying to breathe, but it’s so hard.
Something is heavy on his chest, but Tim knows that he’s actually on his side. Even with the glare from the metal blade, the bright sun, and his doubling vision, he feels the grass on his cheek, the warm cement under his palm.
A velvet red ribbon, the one Bruce had cut just minutes before, is wilted on the ground, blowing sluggishly in the early spring breeze. The color is so shocking and bright next to the dull grey of the cement.
There are spots of red —
(arterial blood spray)
dotting the ground until Tim’s body heaves once, without his control and then the bottom half of his mouth is tacky with iron-tasting blood.
'I've been shot', Tim thinks. More blood pours out, pink and frothy, aerated with oxygen. He closes his eyes and waits until it’s over.
'I've been shot somewhere in my thoracic cavity.'
It’s probably extremely loud now. People yelling and screaming, running for cover. But Tim can’t really hear much beside the bubbling breaths he’s trying to take. He tries to move his lips, wills himself to stop shivering even though he feels hot, tries to call out for Bruce or Dick or his dad —
Just someone.
Please.
It’s white-grey for a second… or maybe longer. All he knows is that the red ribbon disappears and by the time the fog lifts and his eyes roll back to their axis, he’s looking up at the sky.
It’s very very blue today. That’s a rarity in Gotham.
His hearing is muffled, but that doesn’t make sense because the bullet hadn’t been that loud. Nothing loud enough to damage his ear canals.
Bruce’s profile crosses his vision, the second time he can see. The man is screaming something — Tim can see his lips move, the tension in his jaw and neck — points at something to Tim’s left and all Tim can see now is Batman.
Batman until Bruce’s clear, grey eyes catch his.
"Hi," Tim wheezes out. Because he doesn’t know what to say.
"An ambulance is two minutes away, Tim. You just need to keep looking at me, okay?" Bruce doesn’t break eye contact with him, doesn’t even blink.
Tim feels his own eyes widen, because Bruce hasn’t looked at him like that in a long time and it’s disorienting.
A hand is on his shoulder now, heavy and warm, fingers on his pulse, pressing and then gone like a cricket jumping away. The hands move suddenly and then fire —
Oh, fire down his side and he has to scream, tears open his throat with wails, squeezes his eyes shut as Bruce leans over him and stabs him in the side.
Repeatedly.
He hears himself beg Bruce to stop, just stop —
"—you have to calm down, Tim. Shh. Tim. Tim! Stop!”
He’s not sure if he blacks out, or if pain is making him temporarily blind, but when he can see again, when the world rights itself, when he can look at Bruce’s eyes again, he’s panting hard. Because it hurts more then anything in his life and he’s scared and Bruce is hurting him and he wants his mom —
"—putting pressure on the wound, Tim."
Bruce’s eyes look crazed. He wants them to look somewhere else.
"—losing a lot of blood. Fuck!"
And that centers Tim’s thoughts, because Tim doesn’t think he’s ever heard Bruce swear before.
"—the ambulance, Dick!"
And Dick is here somewhere. He turns his head in the direction Bruce had just briefly glanced over too and around Bruce’s large shoulder and strong back he can see Dick, hunched over and sobbing. His head is cradled in one hand, covering his eyes, but Tim can see the man’s shoulders tremble.
In the other hand, Dick has a hand curled around Damian’s wrist while the young boy stares at Tim.
Not at his eyes. Not like Bruce.
Damian is staring unblinkingly at Tim’s body.
His own eyes trail back to Bruce, who’s looking at Tim’s face still. Like he’s reading a book. Like he stares at the Sunday crossword puzzle.
Like he’s trying to memorize Tim’s face, or search for some kind of answer that he just doesn’t have for the man right now. Maybe if he knew the question…
He wants to ask what Bruce wants from him. Bruce has never been so shy about telling Tim what he wants before. He knows that Tim likes to help —
Not knowing what has Damian so frozen wins over the desire to ask Bruce about it.
Tim lifts his chin an inch and tries to look down, drags his eyes over his stained dress shirt, once a crisp, bright white and now dotted with saturated reds and pinks and a smear of green from the grass and dirt. By the time he gets to ragged ruins of shirt completely red, and raw hamburgers meat, a hand slams him back down in the dirt.
The hand had that was on his shoulder is now gripping his chin and Bruce’s lips move — “Hey. Hey!”
Oh. There’s a a hole in him. His left side is missing and there is a hole in him.
"Tim, look at me. You’re going to be fine. Look at me, Tim.”
No he’s not.
"The ambulance is almost here, and you’re going to be fine."
He’s not Damian, though. He doesn’t have cloned organs and metal spines fitted for him. Tim’s just… alone. He doesn’t even have any family left.
"Tim, you’re going to be fine," Bruce repeats, but his voice is higher then it usually is. Like he’s choking on something, like oxygen isn’t doing it’s job.
His eyes are watering now. He can feel his own tears at the corners of each eye, he can see the watery glaze over Bruce’s.
The hand from his chin moves to cup Tim’s cheek.
"Thank you, Bruce." Tim says in between shuttering breaths.
The man shakes his head, “For what?”
Tim sighs, really focuses on what Bruce’s fingers feel like on his face, on his skin. Not on all the pain that is shocking his system. “For letting me be with you for a little bit.”
"What? Tim, you—"
"It’s… the only thing I’ve ever wanted."
"Tim. Stop. You need—”
He shouldn’t say it, because he has no idea how close anyone is, but he can’t not say it, he has no filter and the words are coming out of his mouth before he really gives them permission, “Being your Robin… was the best thing that ever happened to me, even though I wasn’t what you needed.”
Tim knows he’s crying now — tears leaking down his face, snot or blood out of his nose. But it’s okay, because Bruce is crying too, now, so he doesn’t have to be too embarrassed.
And Bruce is breathing just as hard as Tim now, his face is red and his eyes are bright, “Tim! Tim! You’re—” He breaks off with a choke, finger restlessly stroke Tim’s cheek, “You’re exactly what I needed! What I need!”
Tim forgets that his mouth is bloody and licks his lips as Bruce continues, eyes sweeping over Tim’s face manically.
"I meant to tell you," Bruce chokes out, leaning in closer to Tim’s face, "I meant to tell you that you’re going to be my Robin again, Tim." He pauses for half a second to take a breath, "Yes, Damian’s going to be with Dick during patrol now, and you’re with me again."
Something swells in Tim’s stomach, where is stomach once was. Bruce doesn’t look like he’s lying and, “Yeah?” He asks, chest filling with hope.
"Yes. Yes, Tim. We’re going to be partners again. Like it should be.”
That sounds so good, so perfect. Tim’s lips pull into a bloody, pink smile, because maybe he can get through this if he’s Robin, “Oh- okay.” He nods while Bruce’s thumb swipes up the tears under the thin skin of his eyes.
"You and me Tim. We’re partners, we’re meant to be."
Tim smiles, the ambulance cries in the background, and he keeps smiling up at Bruce, who’s trying to smile back at him, but Bruce always had trouble with that facial expression, so it’s okay when it comes out broken.
Because they’re meant to be.