[ Damian hisses and bats at him like an angry cat, grabbing and yanking and slashing, but despite the very real anger behind it, none of it is designed for either release or harm, even though Dick knows how easily Damian could manage both, even scruffed by the back of his shirt.

He holds on, and lets Damian's waves of rage buffet him while Damian's yells echo through the strange empty halls of this copy of the Manor. (His wails back in the Labyrinth and Dick's own screams, the ones Damian's shouting about now, hadn't been enough to drown out the sickening crunch of the drill against bone, the way the metal shrieked; even now, he can hear it.)

And then he drops, like a puppet with cut strings, and Dick has to drop with him or risk tearing the shirt, while Damian's fury transforms, turns watery and unsteady until his baby brother is curled there, arms around his head like he's bracing for impact, sobbing without any respite from the broken heart that he, Dick, inflicted on him.

He can't take it. He couldn't take Damian dying — again, again — and he can't take this, either, and Dick's on his knees in the next moment, gathering his brother in his arms and pulling him tight to his chest, letting him cry or thrash or yell however he needs to. Dick just— drags him close, winds around him, presses his cheek, his own dark hair to Damian's head, to the arms he has locked around himself, offering what little comfort he can to this child who he's hurt so badly. ]

I know. Hate me for it, it's okay. I'm sorry, Damian. I promised I'd be here with you and I broke that promise. I made you go through all that.

[ His arms tighten; he's shaking, too. ]

I never want to leave you. I'm sorry.