It was in that moment- the one in which his body collapsed inward and gravity pulled him to the cold hard floor of his room that he realized there was nothing left. His world was bleeding out; every loss like a white hot knife permanently embedded in his body, viciously twisted by anyone and everyone he'd ever come to love.


Kaldur' had been a necessary sacrifice, acknowledging that fact didn't make the pain stop. It just dredged up images long ago buried, like the look of pure loathing in his eyes the last time they'd crossed paths. It was supposed to be for show, but no one could portray that much emotion without some part of it being genuine. Kaldur' would never completely forgive him. And no matter how well hidden his grief was, he was the first knife. Square between his ribs, slicing through muscle and puncturing one of his lungs.

Nightwing didn't flinch. Dick Grayson gasped for air, drowning in his own blood.


Barbara never understood the nightmares, the scars, and sporadic disappearances. She had tried, lord had she tried. But it wasn't enough, he would eventually run out of excuses. And she'd be ready and waiting, to tear him apart for his lies. He couldn't risk that kind of emotional turmoil, not with the world resting so heavily on his shoulders. Letting her go was the second knife, plunged deep into his abdomen. It hit nothing vital but the burning ache of its presence never left him.

Nightwing soldiered on. Dick Grayson choked on the bile rising in his throat.


Batman fired him, replaced him, abandoned him. But the big bad bat wasn't the third knife... Bruce was. He'd never seen the man so cruel and calculating, the way his ungloved-human-hands came so close to murdering that damn clown. His cold, unapologetic stare drove the knife through the center of his back, splintering vertebrae and sawing through nerves.

Nightwing brushed it off. Dick Grayson fell to knees, paralyzed with fear.


Jason Todd isn't just knife number four. He's knife number four and many after it, one for each injury he ever inflicted. Knife four and five through each wrist, because not only did he steal Bruce's affection, but also the title of Robin. Knife six and seven through each ankle, because he makes a good soldier, and because Bruce agrees. Knife eight and nine through each kneecap, because Jason Todd is dead along with Robin...and it's twice as painful as any other knife so in Dick's mind there might as well be two of them.

Nightwing faltered. Dick Grayson wept.


His shaking fingers pressed the numbers in easy succession, the dial tone replaced with a comforting ringing. Every moment his call went unanswered was agonizingly painful. But the moment he heard that voice, the world righted itself, the pain easing to something he could withstand. Then knife number ten sinks into his chest, stabbing through his already broken heart. The call goes to voicemail. Wally doesn't answer, not the first time or second or third. Eventually Dick's calls go straight to voicemail and he knows his ex best friend has turned off his phone. He waits for him to call back but it never happens. Wally's retired. He didn't want to play this deadly little game, didn't want to face the agonizing consequences.

So Dick stops calling and hugs his knees to his chest, desperately trying to hold together the parts of him that threaten to fall apart. He's surprised no one notices the gaping, bloody holes torn through his body. But then he remembers that the knives aren't real, that no one can see behind his mask.


It was in that moment- the one in which his body collapsed inward and gravity pulled him to the cold hard floor of his room that he realized there was nothing left. His world was bleeding out; every loss like a white hot knife permanently embedded in his body, viciously twisted by anyone and everyone he'd ever come to love.


AN: This didn't turn out at all like I wanted...