A/N: this story is set after the end of Young Justice. The author would like to say that they have never read the comics and have no knowledge of them. Because of this, the author assumes this story takes place in an alternate universe. Additionally, the author is fully aware that they are completely ignoring the foreshadowing of the final episode of Young Justice. The author would like to state that they do not care. They would also like to point out that this story is written entirely for the author's enjoyment, and published for the entertainment of the reader. The author is aware that many aspects of the story are... less than perfectly written. The author has a file on their computer detailing the many things wrong with the story. Feel free to add to the list in a review.

Gotham City

July 4th, 12:00 PM

The relief Nightwing felt as he left the Watchtower behind was so profound that it had an almost dizzying physical impact. It seemed as though his entire life was nothing short of a series of catastrophes of which he was the pivot point that invariably spun completely out of control and culminated in the death of those closest to him.

Leaving all of it behind him, just walking away, knowing that the team was in good hands and didn't need him, was like the weight of the world suddenly lifting from his very tired shoulders. For him, it had been much longer than the few months of the Reach invasion. It been longer even than sending Kaldur undercover with Black Manta. Longer than he'd been Nightwing. Longer than there had been the team. Heck, it was longer than he'd been Robin.

The trail of misery had followed him from the circus into which he'd been born, to Gotham City, and from there to Mount Justice, shadowing his every move and haunting his every word.

It had not, as it finally turned out, been more than he could bear. But he had bitten off more than he could chew, and chewed more than he could swallow. The things he had done, and been willing to do, now returned to him to criticize and wear him down, reminding him of all the times he had failed, as well as the times he should have failed or could, because of his decisions, have failed.

He lay down on the hotel bed, not even bothering to remove his mask. Exhaustion that had clung to him for weeks, adding its bulk to that of his uncertainty, now flattened him. He let it, knowing that at last no one would suffer for his weakness.

He had known for a long time that he was going to leave the team, at least for awhile, as soon as the crisis was over. As soon as he could pass the responsibility on to someone stronger, and better than he.

The death of Wally West had merely hastened his need for departure.

He finally allowed himself to feel all the things he'd been holding back since this all started.

The feeling of being hit in the gut when he discovered that, because of his deception, Miss Martian had destroyed Aqualad's mind. His weakness preventing him from foreseeing the unwilling betrayal of Blue Beetle. His own distrustful nature forcing him to keep secrets from his team, thus putting his dearest friends in the worst danger of their lives.

Nightwing's training had instilled in him a darkness which he could not rid himself of. A willingness to sacrifice everyone he cared about for the sake of the mission. He could order others not to jeopardize the team, hold them accountable when their actions brought about failure. But he could not seem to stop himself from looking at any problem with a torrential flood of logic, which blocked out his ability to think or even feel. It was like he had an 'off' switch.

He understood willingness to kill the enemy, and the capacity to make rookie mistakes. He could find it within him to forgive others for almost anything, even the villains who would kill him if they could. But what he did not understand was his own willingness to kill his friends, to destroy all who surrounded him, simply to get the job done. And he could never forgive himself for the things he had done.

What he had done to Aqualad in asking him to pretend to turn traitor, then betray his own father. To Artemis, in asking her to become Tigress so that she might stand at Aqualad's side. To Miss Martian, for not telling her that Artemis was still alive. To Superboy, for not trusting him with the truth. But most of all, to Kid Flash. Asking him to give up Artemis, dragging him back into the life he'd tried so hard to leave behind. Nightwing had killed him, as if he'd done it with his own hands. The blood was on his conscience and no other, not even those who had caused the crisis.

Nightwing felt suddenly cold. So desperately cold that he shivered. The cold was not from the air, but from within. His insides seemed to be recoiling on themselves, leaving an icy hollowness inside. If someone had come right then and tried to kill him, Nightwing probably wouldn't even have moved.

Whether it was mercy or cruelty that this did not happen, Nightwing wasn't sure.

He rolled onto his side and curled up around himself, but his shaking did not subside. He didn't mind. It was the one thing that told his numbed mind that he was still alive.

Why couldn't any victory feel good?. Why was there a bitterness tainting every battle?. Even when the war was won, the air was heavy with regret. Those who gave their lives, or who otherwise destroyed themselves, who they were, the price paid for victory.

Zatanna's father, given over to Fate so that she might live. The Atlantean whom Aqualad loved. Miss Martian's mental innocence, ripped away in the pursuit of knowledge of the enemy. Green Beetle, Guardian, and so many others. Lives lost, or broken beyond repair. Artemis and Aqualad, scarred forever. Blue Beetle, free but changed for all time. There were too many to count. Faces leaped into his mind, racing away before he could even put names to them. Lost to fire, ice, bullet and gun, the end of their lives sometimes not even under their own sun.

Nightwing was not even granted the release of doubt, wondering whether it was worth the cost. His cold, logical mind assessed even the death of his best friend with an air of detachment and concluded, when the cost was counted up, the price that was paid was more than worth it.

Wally West, Kid Flash, had saved the Earth. His death was worth that price. Even had Flash and Impulse both died as well, it still would have been worth it. Even should the entire League perish, the cost would not be too high.

He was drawn to a memory, five years ago, of a simulation which had gone wrong. He had been willing to sacrifice all, had hardly grieved for those he thought dead, confident in the belief that new heroes would rise to fight the good fight, so even if all those that currently existed were killed, it would still have been a worthwhile sacrifice.

Nightwing wished he could have doubts about that. He wanted to ask "was it really worth it?", and not have his mind immediately answer the question with a resounding "yes".

Night drew its dark curtain over the window, but Nightwing did not rouse himself. For once, the night did not speak to him, did not urge him outward. He was not Batman, he was not the night. He was just Nightwing, plain and simple and exhausted beyond words.

Slowly, his mind began to turn to jelly, turning things over and over and over, and getting nowhere faster than he could think. The mind he had used constantly for years, demanding more and more of it with each passing mission, ran itself in helpless circles, trying to find solutions to problems that didn't even exist other than in his mind.

He couldn't even rail that it wasn't right, or wasn't fair. They all knew the risks when they got involved and to say that the price they paid for the mission wasn't fair was an insult to the people he regarded with such affection and high esteem. Kid Flash had not died in vain and, even if he had, it was a sacrifice he had made willingly. To say it should not have been made was an insult to not only Kid Flash, but all that he had stood for.

Then, like a bird on silent wings, consciousness at last fled, and Nightwing felt himself drift into the darkness, the blessed emptiness of dreamless, silent sleep.