we go deeper than the ink.
tim drake, damian wayne
In his dreams, it plays out differently.
There is still blood everywhere else, but not on Damian's hands.
The basement does not smell of rust and gunpowder. No heavy copper weighing down in his throat. Damian is a little grateful. No smell nor taste in dreams.
He holds Drake’s hand in lieu of his katana here. His other hand still presses down on Drake’s wounds, but in his dreams, they are inconsequential. Drake's lips are moving, teeth stained with blood, but he's not talking. When he breathes, there’s no whistling. There is no sound at all. For that, Damian is thankful too.
In his dreams, Drake doesn't push him away. Doesn't put the mission first.
In his dreams, they manage to get out of that basement together. Blood dripping behind them, Drake's arm slung over Damian's shoulder. When he looks up, Tim is smiling. When his mouth moves again, Damian parses the words perfectly.
Let's go home, little brother.
