"Accepting death is not difficult. Accepting reasons someone wants to die is." –Anonymous

"They're asking for you."

Tim stood rigid in the doorway, his mask discarded and glasses forgone. There was no more room for secrets, not after everything they'd gone through—everything he put them through.

Slowly Dick raised his head, willing the younger to look him in the eye.

He wouldn't.

Bit by bit Dick unfolded his aching limbs. It took a large amount of effort to straighten his hunched back, to uncurl his timid shoulders, and still his knocking knees. When he finally managed to stand, the sheets of his bed came away a rusty crimson, the blood drenching his costume having not yet dried. It appeared his supposed friends were sparing him no courtesy, desperate to be rid of him.

Savoring the minute it took to cross the room, Dick paused at Tim's side. He embraced the teen solidly; swearing internally that his brother's coiled fists shoving at his chest wouldn't have hurt so badly if it weren't for his already cracked ribs. Carefully he brushed back the black fringe of hair, and pressed a kiss to Tim's forehead. It wasn't goodbye, not logically speaking, but it certainly felt like it.

Ignoring the sound of choked back sniffles Dick made the solemn march to the conference room. He paid special attention to the photos that lined the hall, knowing full well that with the exception of a long walk back he wouldn't see them again in person.

He felt like he was nine years old again when he stopped at the looming double doors, fascinated by his reflection in the shining gold emblem stamped into them. His face, bruised and bloodied, pulled and compressed in all different directions. The image of his face, his identity so distorted by the Justice League's gold plated logo seemed oddly ironic and he had to repress the urge to laugh. There wasn't anything funny about it, it wasn't a trick mirror at the circus, and his fate beyond his reflection wasn't one filled with cotton candy and acrobatics. Behind the doors in front of him his life was being weighed against his actions, his every move dissected and criticized.

Twisting the frigid brass handle and pulling the door ajar, Dick tried not to pay much mind to the ominous hush that accompanied his presence. Team members, old and new, were packed throughout the conference hall. Most of his so called friends and teammates gazed at him warily, some unconsciously gripping tighter to their lovers as he passed. Their reservations were understandable, but to see the actual apprehension up close and displayed before his very eyes was like pouring salt in a freshly inflicted wound.

Sitting directly opposite of Wally, a long stretch of oak table between them, Dick folded his hands and prayed they'd make it quick—like a Band-Aid, or a bullet.

Almost as if he'd read his mind, Wally's voice cut soundly through the resumed chatter. His narrowed gaze cutting Dick like daggers as he, without pause or preamble brought the blue-eyed and bloodied vigilante's world to pieces.

"I move that the team demand Nightwing's resignation, effect of immediately."

A terse silence filled the room, its already suffocating environment made worse by the sudden lack of sound. For a brief, heart fluttering moment Dick thought no one would second it. Maybe he hadn't gone all too far, maybe he hadn't toppled over the point of no return—and maybe Bruce would willingly dye his hair pink and become the new side show for Joker.

Without a mask to hide them, Dick's dull blue eyes moved to follow a movement from one of the more neutral corners of the room. He'd liked to have said that seeing Conner's hand rise with slow conviction was a surprise, but it wasn't. The Kryptonian's carefully weighed words ricocheting around Dick's hollow gut like acid tipped glass.

"I second the motion."

Wally nodded his acknowledgement in Conner's direction, his gravely serious gaze sweeping across the room.

"All those in favor?"

There was an audible rustle as hands were lifted in response. Dick willed his gaze down toward the table, his pinky tracing the R which had been carved into the sturdy oak what felt like a lifetime ago. He had wanted Bruce to see it every time he sat down at a meeting, a reminder to play nice, and that a little bird was waiting to be taken out on patrol. Even then the action had seemed childish and the penmanship of lacking quality. Still, it was a small comfort in a world of hurt.

"Nightwing."

His gaze snapped up, focused intently on Wally's outstretched hand, palm open and waiting. By then everyone's hands had been lowered, just as Dick had hoped. To know who had ousted him, torn him from the home he'd returned to them—it would have been an unnecessary agony.

"You're communicator, please."

There was a new patience to the speedster's tone, his eyes a fraction softer. For a moment Dick saw a flicker of his best friend, of a man who wanted to keep him safe from the perils of his chosen occupation, even if it meant forcibly removing him from a position of harm.

Pulling the com unit from his ear, Dick pressed the requested device into Wally's palm. If only for a moment he felt the redhead give his hand a comforting squeeze. As soon as it had come, the connection was gone. Rising from his chair, Dick unhooked his utility belt and laid it across the table. The finality of the gesture didn't go unnoticed, something of akin to relief having washed over Wally's features.

The walk back was indeed a long one, the pictures he'd studied so intently staring back unchanged. When he reached his room the door slid open soundlessly at his approach, Tim slumbering fitfully in his bed. Discarding the bloodied sheet, along with the remnants of his uniform down the laundry shoot—Dick tucked a fresh blanket around the teen, smiling as his brother's nightmare was soothed by his reassuring touch.

Quietly, Dick rummaged through one of the two boxes he'd packed with the few personal items he'd accumulated in his home away from home. He produced a framed family photo, the entire batclan in costume and making a very conscious effort not to kill one another while Alfred was wielding a camera about.

Dick traced Jason's arm as it was looped tensely around his shoulders, dangerously close to his neck. Bruce looked to be at a loss, even behind the cowl, as he cradled Damian in one arm and firmly held Tim back from Jason with the other. Barbara and Stephanie had snuck their way in too, smiling at the expense of their clueless men. It was one of Dick's favorite pictures, and he wordlessly placed it on the bedside table next to Timmy's head.

Hefting the boxes into his arm, a pain throbbing in his chest, he took comfort in knowing that the room would always belong to a Robin. The door whistled shut behind him with a sense of finality. Taking his time as he made his way out Dick didn't think much of his departure at least not until an inhumanly strong grip had taken hold of his wrist, a brisk gust of evening air rushing between him and the uneasy Kryptonian who was holding him back, one foot already out the door.

"Dick."

His name was spoken with quiet concern and an underlying bite of bitterness.

Shifting the weight of the boxes, chest seizing with discomfort, Dick leveled his old friend with a solemn stare. "I'm tired Conner, really tired." There was a raw honesty to his voice, words slow and resigned. At this Conner swallowed hard and let his hold on Dick's wrist go slack, his gaze dropping to the floor between them.

"You'll take care of him won't you?"

There was no need for elaboration, and with Conner's devotedly determined gaze as his reassurance—Dick walked away. His costume and purpose gone, what remained of his life guarded by flimsy cardboard boxes.

Just three blocks from the Hall of Justice, the young hero collapsed in a back alley.

Feeling slowly drained from his body, a welcomed numbness moving inward to quiet the pinpoint burst of agony emanating from the place in his chest where his heart was struggling to beat. The all too heavy boxes fallen from his grasp, personal possessions strewn amongst the garbage. He'd once told Bruce that so long as he wore the cowl he was doomed to die alone in some long forgotten gutter.

Lying prone in a puddle of stagnant rain water, surrounded by wood rot afflicted crates—Dick decided it wasn't a bad way to go. It was quiet, calm even. And despite the fact his last rattling breathes would be ones without consequence, taken laboriously and forced back out, Dick was somewhat content. Because even though he was lying in the gutter, he was staring at the stars.

No matter what he did, no matter what extent he went to in order to do what was necessary—the stars would never stop shining.

Even when his eyes, glassy and cold, stopped truly seeing them—they would still be there.

Sometime after Dick's chest had fallen still a single star streaked down through the heavens, away from its comrades, and into oblivion—as if to acknowledge the loss that the world knew not yet it had suffered.

AN: Well there you have it, whatever it is. I'm debating on writing an aftermath fic to accompany this one, and no worries All My Soldiers is next on the update list. Love always-Hale