He always caught it.
It was one of those annoyingly perfect things about Grayson; he was always happy, always knew what to say to charm people, he always landed perfectly and with ease, and he always caught the escrima rod.
When I first came to live with Father, I had hated Grayson the most, mainly because there was no justifiable reason to hate him. Drake fought back with me, so there was some legitimacy in my hatred of him. Todd and I understood one another to an extent, understood the weight of a human life. And like me, Todd didn't really seem bothered by the weight of all the lives he carried. We also understood that we didn't have to tolerate one another simply because we were "family."
But Grayson was a different breed than the rest of the Bats, an eternal ball of sunshine. Disgusting. It took me months to be able to be in the same room as him without attempting to stab him. (I have to acknowledge his skill as I only ever managed to stab him a few times.) As time wore on and I was forced to acknowledge his virtues, I found one day that I couldn't hate Grayson. Like a fungus, he had grown on me until I couldn't help but feel some… affection for the ludicrous man.
Affection or not, Grayson slowly became a plague upon my life, insisting on helping me train. I didn't mind training, but all the while Grayson would yammer on and on about morality and duty. It was worse than listening to Father. Every time he began speaking of what Robin stood for it made my blood boil and usually ended with me attacking him. I never told him that these fits of anger were because I could feel his disappointment hanging over me. Part of me wanted to be the person Grayson saw me as, and that infuriated me.
Grayson had adjusted to my fits of temper quickly, easily dodging or catching whatever object I launched at his temple, then he gave me the same tired speech about how we aim to incapacitate, not kill.
However, this time I had the moral high ground, Grayson was simply too idiotic to see it. Superman's way would save countless lives, yet Grayson sided with Father. I hadn't considered my actions a betrayal, really, rather steps to help them see sense.
But neither of them did. That made me angrier than I had been for a long time. But even after that, Grayson had saved me from Grundy's hand. I burned with shame. Then, as I fought the scum that inhabited Arkham, still Grayson tried to lecture me as he saved the lives of villains.
My vision went red. "You're not Robin anymore!" I told him. "STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!"
I threw the rod without thinking, because it was Grayson. Perfect Grayson, who always caught it.
But Dick Grayson was only a man, and not even he could know to catch the rod when he was in the middle of a prison fight.
It found its target, hitting him soundly in the temple, just as mother had taught me.
Just as Dick had been warning against.
I watched in horror as my ever-graceful brother stumbled backwards and fell, his head hitting the ground with an audible crack, heard even above the sounds of fighting.
I stepped forward hesitantly. "Nightwing?"
He would stand up. He had to stand up. Moving closer, I watched his chest for signs of breathing.
None.
It felt like I couldn't breathe. The world was spiraling out of control. My voice broke. "Dick?"
Not using our real names in the field had been Father's one rule I'd never struggled with, but I broke it carelessly, almost without notice as I sank to my knees.
Living as an assassin had made me view death as an event, almost entertainment. Grayson's death was neither of those things. It was such an anticlimactic end to the life of a hero. There was no blood, no dramatic dying declarations. It would've looked like he was napping if his eyes weren't hauntingly open.
I vaguely registered Superman ordering the inmates to their cells. Looking up, I saw Father, saw the moment his son's death became a reality to him.
Tears I hadn't noticed until now dripped off my chin. "I… I'm sorry."
Pathetic. Such measlet words could never make up for such an unforgivable act. But they were all that I had.
Father's face nearly broke me. Not even the mask could disguise his horror. "You… What did you do?"
"He always…" I trailed off, knowing that no explanation would ever be enough.
"What did you do?!" Batman demanded.
"I didn't mean to…"
Such terrible, mundane phrases. I hated every word I spoke.
"GET OFF OF HIM!" Batman demanded, shoving me away.
Superman caught me, placing a hand on my shoulder as Father knelt beside Dick.
"I didn't…" I began, unable to finish the phrase.
"I know, son," Superman consoled.
I didn't mean to. I'd last said that phrase when explaining to Alfred how I'd broken a window at the Manor. Now, because of something I hadn't meant to do, I would never train with Dick again. I would never endure one of his hugs or lectures again.
Dick would never smile again, or laugh, or flirt with an attractive woman. Dick would never see me become the man that he'd always hoped I'd be. Dick would never be a father, and I knew he would have been the best father.
Father picked Dick up, cradling him like a child. The full weight of his life and what could never be settled on my chest, suffocating me. As Father walked away with my brother I sobbed, tears obscuring my vision.
"He…" The words stuck in my throat, but I forced them anyway. "He always caught it. The rod. He always caught it.
A/N: Almost all of the dialogue comes directly from Injustice: Gods Among Us vol. 16. I'm barely starting to get into comics, but Nightwing is my absolute favorite, and I just had to write this. His death was not nearly emotional enough to soothe me, and I just needed someone to acknowledge his death for longer than three panels. Super random, but I had to write something because Dick Grayson holds a special place in my heart.