A/N

title from the opening line of wendell berry's poem "testament". written for kuppatan's prompt "hanging on".

many thanks to elaienar for beta'ing!

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It was almost funny how in-control Tim felt at the start of the fight. He'd landed on the edge of a roof halfway through a solo patrol, and discovered that he was not alone. The three men in gas masks carrying a suspicious-looking crate to the rooftop access had turned to face him simultaneously, with identical looks of shock on the portions of their faces that he could see, and had immediately gone on the offensive. Tim was faster. By the time they'd dropped the crate and pulled out their weapons (a pistol, two knives, a lead pipe-seriously?) he was upon them, bo-staff fully extended and ready to kick butt.

They were surprisingly good, especially considering that he'd attacked them while they were off-guard. He had the upper hand for a while, using the crate (which had a thick smoke seeping out of it) to gain an advantage over them, but then the man with the gun managed to break away far enough to take a shot at him. It missed, barely, but when Tim glanced up he saw-

A body. Purple cape spread carelessly, the ends soaking up blood that was spreading slowly from around it. Blonde hair escaping from the edges of the purple (eggplant, her voice echoed in his head) mask.

He froze, horror filling him, his fingertips suddenly numb. His heart pounded in his ears, and his breath stuttered. He couldn't have been still for more than a second, but it was just long enough for the guy on his right to deliver a solid hit with the lead pipe, right across his ribs. It made a horrible, crunching sound, and Tim's vision went white from the pain. He stumbled backward, his limbs suddenly horribly uncooperative and clumsy, tried to gain some distance from the rib-breaker. Which he did, but while distance was a good protection from short-range attacks, it did nothing to help with long ranged ones. And Tim had forgotten about the gun.

The second shot hit him in the shoulder. Tim stumbled-nearly fell. He barely had the presence of mind to hit the distress signal on his belt before the other two caught up to him and renewed their attack. He was forced on the defensive, his movements slow and sluggish, one arm dangling uselessly by his side. He blocked two, three blows from the lead pipe, but he could only do so much one-handed, and the other man ducked in and viciously slashed Tim's left side, managing to find a gap in Tim's armour. It hurt.

Tim stepped falteringly backward. There was too much input-the grating pain from his broken ribs, the burning of his entire left side, his racing heartbeat, the dizziness and the faint buzzing in his ears. His grip on his bo-staff loosened, and it clattered uselessly to the wet concrete. The pool of blood surrounding the limp, purple-clad body scarcely twenty feet away from him was spreading, surely but slowly, into an ocean of deep red.

Steph.

There was another gunshot. Someone yelled, but the words were meaningless. His heart pounded, and he felt the ledge behind him the moment before he fell. In that split second he understood what was happening. He was falling. He had no backup. He was going to die.

There was a flash of movement, another voice yelling, and then a black-gloved hand grabbed Tim's hand, forcing a strangled scream out of his throat as his shoulder was wrenched out of its socket.

"Robin!"

Tim blinked the tears out of his eyes. The hand clutching his was attached to a form that seemed familiar, though the face was partially obscured by a mask. The mouth moved again.

"You have to hold on."

I don't think I can, Tim tried to say, but the blackness encroaching the edges of his vision took over.

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There was bright light and cold air when Tim opened his eyes again, and he could hear people's voices, strangely muffled, like they were talking through cotton candy instead of air. His body felt numb.

"-he's lost too much blood, Bruce, we can't give him the anti-toxin now-"

Kon was standing at the foot of his bed, pale and blood-spattered, eyes flat and dead. His face was hard, angry.

"Why weren't you there?" he asked. "Why didn't you save me?"

He tried to open his mouth, and failed. Panic filled him. Something started beeping urgently. Kon moved closer, the air darkening around him.

"You should have been there," he said, rage and venom dripping from his voice. There was blood trickling out of his eyes. Tim couldn't move.

"-heart rate's spiking, we need to do something."

"We can't give him any more anesthesia!"

"-needs to calm down-"

"-m? You need to listen to me, son. It's not real. It's just the fear to-"

"-going to exacerbate the lung puncture-"

The sounds cut out abruptly, and darkness took over.

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It was quieter the next time Tim opened his eyes. There was still the soft, regular beeping noise coming from somewhere to his left, and the edges of an oxygen mask were pressing into his face. His whole torso throbbed painfully, and when he drew in a deeper breath, his ribs grated against each other. His head was fuzzy, and the edges of his vision were blurry. He blinked, slowly.

"Tim?"

He glanced over to see Batman-Bruce-standing beside him, his cowl pulled down to show his face. His lip was cut, and there was a deep scrape along his cheek. Tim tried to respond, but his tongue was heavy and wooden in his mouth, and his voice refused to cooperate.

Bruce must have seen panic on Tim's face, because he drew up a chair and sat down next to him. "Leslie just finished operating on you," he said, his voice calm and smooth. "You got hit with a dose of fear toxin. We haven't administered the antidote yet, because you've lost too much blood."

He said something else, but his voice had gone all weird and fuzzy, and Tim couldn't understand it. He caught a flash of movement behind Bruce, and glanced over to see the source of the motion. Steph was sitting on the railing in front of the batcomputer, swinging her green-clad legs cheerfully. She was wearing a green domino mask, and the yellow lining of her cape stood out in the dim light.

"Hello, Boyfriend Wonder," she said. There was something wrong with her posture. "Or should I say ex-wonder? I mean, it was only a matter of time before you lost the costume. You always knew you'd never be as good as Jason." She laughed, the hollow sound echoing through the cave. Out of the corner of his eyes Tim saw Bruce had turned to see what he was staring at.

"Tim?" he said.

Steph hopped off of the railing and stalked toward them. "Too bad you didn't figure it out earlier," she growled. Her boots were dragging across the floor, the sound harsh against his ears. "We wouldn't have died if you'd just owned up to your worthlessness."

Tim couldn't tear his eyes off of her. There was blood pouring down from under her mask now, and her skin was deathly white. "You killed us, Tim," she whispered.

"Tim!"

He gasped, eyes flicking up to see Bruce standing over him, his hand on Tim's shoulder. He looked back to where Steph was, but she was gone. His breath caught in his throat, a sob of (relief? something) forcing its way out. Bruce's eyebrows furrowed, and he sat down beside Tim and grasped his hand. It felt real and solid and comforting, and Tim choked down another sob. He closed his eyes, trying to regain control, focus. It wasn't real. It wasn't-

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The next time Tim woke up he had the odd sensation that his body was floating. Bruce was asleep in a chair beside him. He was still wearing the Batsuit, and someone had stitched up his cheek. He tried moving his right hand, and discovered that there was an IV line attached to his arm. He stared at it for a minute, then transferred his gaze to the ceiling of the Cave.

The monitor beside him was still beeping gently. Tim thought for a moment about trying to remove the oxygen mask so that he could breathe properly, but decided against it. He glanced over at Bruce again.

He was looming over Tim, a look of grim displeasure on his face, his eyes cold. "Did you learn nothing from what I've taught you?" he asked, his voice angry and rasping. "I wouldn't have offered to adopt you if I'd known you were such a failure. Pathetic."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, his breath stuttering. He clenched the sheets tightly with his good hand. When he opened his eyes again, Bruce was still asleep in the chair, his head starting to tilt to the side. Tim took a deep breath and forcibly let go of the sheets. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

He lay there, drifting between consciousness and sleep, vaguely aware of the comings and goings of various people. Alfred sat beside his bed mending his costume. Bruce did katas on the mats. At one point he thought he saw a small figure in a bright yellow cape sitting at the end of the bed, talking cheerfully about the book report he was doing. He disappeared in between blinks, and never came back.

When Tim finally got a firm grasp on the art of keeping his eyes open, Bruce was sitting beside him again, eyes closed, but clearly awake, and the oxygen mask had been removed. He painfully maneuvered himself into a more upright position and tried to speak, but only succeeded in making a quiet rasping sound. It was enough to get Bruce's attention, though, and he sat up and looked at Tim.

"How long?" Tim managed to get out. It felt as though he hadn't used his voice in a year. Possibly more.

"Forty-three hours," Bruce said. His mouth was a firm, hard line, which would have looked angry or disapproving to someone who didn't know him.

Tim laughed, trying to cover up his shock. That was. A significant amount of time. "Well," he croaked. "Guess I should never try that again."

Bruce's mouth softened, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "That would be...wise," he said. "I don't think Alfred can handle this kind of stress."

Tim tried to stretch his lips into something resembling a smile. "I don't think I can handle it, either." He tried to keep his voice steady, but it cracked despite his effort. Bruce looked as though he were about to say something, then leaned forward and carefully pulled Tim into a hug.

It wasn't the most comfortable position, but the physical contact was something that Tim desperately needed. He buried his face in Bruce's chest, taking in the clean smell of the well-worn sweatshirt. He tried, unsuccessfully, to blink away the dampness in his eyes as Bruce gently stroked the back of his head.

"Uh, Bruce?" he said at length. "Can you-my ribs-"

Bruce let go somewhat hastily, then made a smooth recovery and helped Tim lie back down. Tim exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the pain in his-well, everything. They sat there in companionable silence as Tim laid there drowsily.

"You did well, Tim," Bruce said, when Tim's eyelids were noticeably drooping, and this time Tim actually managed to smile at him before falling asleep.