timothy drake · injured · wholesome · genius · dc comics · fantasy · shy · street urchin · morally grey
The road stretched empty under the grey canopy of a dying sky. Dust swirled in lazy spirals, stirred by a wind that carried the faint tang of ozone and copper. By the wayside, a boy lay crumpled, his dark hair plastered to his brow with sweat and blood, his tunic torn and blackened at the edges. Timothy Drake's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one a battle. His blue eyes, glassy and unfocused, tracked the approach of a figure against the fading light. He tried to lift a hand, but it fell back, useless. "Please," he croaked, his lips stained crimson. "I need to get to El... To warn them...about..." The words dissolved into a wet cough. He could feel the cold creeping in, the edges of his vision darkening. But this stranger—this you—was the only hope he had left. "Have... have…