The cell door's clang resounded through the darkness as Connor stepped into the cell. His breath misted out in front of him, but he'd long since stopped noticing. It was cold. The fact itself had at some point been distressing, or scary. But not anymore. Now, he couldn't even remember what warm looked like. Because once you've lived with cold long enough, you no longer just feel it, but you can see it. It changes everything.

Shadows flickered across the dank, smeared walls. The stained concrete room seemed to swallow the sparse moonlight that filtered in through a small, barred window in the ceiling. White, misty snow swirled lazily across the gritty floor. Connor's face fell grimly. The storm outside had lowered the temperature of the prison down at least twenty degrees. His gaze travelled towards the far end of the room, where a small figure lay on the one, shallow cot, which was chained to the wall.

He wouldn't make it till morning.

The thought was so abrupt and not of his consent that Connor lost his ability to breathe for a moment.

But just a moment. Because, he'd known somehow, deep down, that this would happen.

A month ago, he wouldn't have accepted the notion. He would have raged, and pounded against the walls and screamed for help. He would have done anything.

That was before he realized…he could do nothing.

Nonetheless, injustice burst in his chest. It just wasn't fair. After everything he'd done, this was how it was going to end. Thirty days in captivity, Connor had devoted himself to this one, singular task.

And he had failed.

He pulled the tray of food closer to his chest and walked forward a few paces down the narrow strip of their cold, stone cell. He knelt down by the small figure, and sighed.

Robin was no longer Robin. Not to Connor. It had only taken the removal of his mask by their enemies, and a few days of thought for Connor to figure out his true identity. Dick Grayson, billionaire prep student, pampered playboy's son, likely to end up not having to work a day in his life. Shallow, privileged, filthy rich. This was how the rest of the world saw Dick.

But not Connor. This was how he saw Dick. How he had been forced to see him. Stripped to the bone, vulnerable, beaten, all his weaknesses laid bare for Connor to see. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

Dick didn't deserve this. He deserved to be Robin.

But not anymore. He was someone different now. Someone that Connor knew in the most tragic way possible. As someone he had tried with all his might to keep alive.

And he had failed.

Reaching forward, he gently tweaked Dick's ear. It took several long, agonizing seconds, but the pale, sunken eyes fluttered open. Two glassy orbs, stained white with blindness gazed unseeingly into Connor's eyes,

"B-Bruce…?" Connor's heart clenched with sadness.

"No," he said gently, "Bruce isn't here."

Dick's brow furrowed in confusion. He coughed quietly, and wheezed in a small, shuddering gasp,

"I-I don't-"

"Shh…" Connor soothed, touching Dick's still, fragile arm. It was cold to the touch. "It's okay. It's me."

Dick's forehead slowly smoothed out.

"Connor…" he breathed. Connor nodded, smiling shakily,

"Yeah, Dick, it's me."

Dick's eyes closed, and he gasped again. Connor's heart clenched, and he had to slowly exhale to calm the rise of grief in his chest. The fever had started a week ago. Connor tried everything he could to tame it down, but it persisted. But only yesterday had Dick's lucidity completely slipped away. Before, he drifted in and out of true awareness, falling into bouts of panic as he awoke in darkness, forgetting briefly what they had done to his eyes. Connor remembered that day, one of many where he paced his cell for hours, waiting in constant agony for them to finish interrogating Dick.

They tossed him in, as always. But that time had been different. Connor was so shocked, Dick had sobbed into the floor for thirty full seconds before he shook himself awake and finally ran to help him up and tend to his wounds. That was the one day Connor didn't immediately rush to the door and pound against it, screaming and swearing vengeance. That day was the first that he held Dick in his arms, and let his fury dissipate. For Dick's sake.

For Dick's sake.

Connor stood and very gently lifted Dick's tattered shirt. The first time he'd done that, it had been extremely awkward and embarrassing for the both of them. That time, Dick had had to coach him through how to listen to a person's lungs to see if they were infected without his super hearing. His powers had been taken from him the moment they threw him in this giant facility. They'd done something, he didn't know what. But he had never felt so helpless before.

Dick had been there on the first day, to comfort Connor when he finally slid to the floor against the wall he'd been pounding, knuckles bloodied and eyes wet with unshed tears.

"Don't worry, it's not that hard, just put your ear hear," Dick had rolled up his own shirt and leaned back, his face hard and determined.

That was back when Dick had the strength speak, even after being waterlogged for hours.

Connor could place almost anything on an exact time. Because time became his obsession. Time to clean Dick's cuts with their drinking water. Time to go work in the slums for six hours so he could get an extra piece of bread at dinner to tear into little pieces and coax down Dick's throat. Time to sleep, and pray that he wouldn't wake up to find a fresh corpse on the bed next to him.

And then there was a time that their captor realized Dick wasn't going to talk. They threw him into the cell one day, soaking wet, throwing up mucus and water, and then never came back.

At first, Dick was still Robin. He battled through the pain and the nausea, and took it in full stride when Connor pulled back from his chest and told him that there was some strange noise it made when he inhaled. He just set his lips in a grim line, cracked a forced joke, and waited until he thought Connor wasn't looking before he let the tears fall.

It hadn't been unexpected, of course. It would be naive to believe that having his head held underwater several times wouldn't have consequences.

But still.

At first, Dick had been the strong one. Eventually, he informed Connor that he would have to be. And then, his strength began to fade.

Connor couldn't say for certain when it became natural for him to massage Dick's throat to help him swallow bits of food, or cradle Dick's head in his lap and listen to him ramble feverishly for hours, about all his worst fears and his most impossible dreams. Connor listened to every little thing, and not one did he let himself forget. It became important to Dick. He would stare with childish dependency into Connor's face, or where he thought it was, and ask him anxiously if he remembered if Dick had already told him about that "one time". Connor would nod, swallow past the lump in his throat, and speak steadily,

"Yeah, you did."

Connor finished lifting Dick's shirt, and very gently pressed his ear against the small boy's narrow chest, feeling the sickeningly prominent ribs scrape against his cheek. Dick didn't react other than to hiss a little at the sudden warmth on his skin.

Sure enough, when he inhaled, his lungs sounded sickly and ragged, like wet sandpaper. As always. But something was different this time. Something Connor couldn't quite peg. But he knew, it was confirming his fears. Dick was dying.

The possibility hadn't occurred to him until about a week ago. Dick began to forget things. He'd wake up, not knowing where he was, or who was with him. And Connor would have to calm him down, to keep him from hurting himself. Eventually, he got used to it. And eventually, he realized that his very soul was invested in keeping Dick alive.

Silently, Connor straightened and pulled Dick's shirt back down.

"Not so bad," he lied. Dick didn't answer him. His eyes had fluttered shut. Connor's eyes travelled downward. Dick's chest rose and fell briefly with long pauses inbetween. Every shallow breath that passed through his lips, which were blue from cold, rattled and shook. Connor fought back a flood of unbidden fury. It was so wrong. It was so unfair.

Dick deserved to escape. Dick deserved to be saved by Connor.

But they both knew that would never happen. Even before thoughts of escape had disappeared, they knew it wouldn't be Connor who would get them out of this mess.

It was Dick. It was always Dick.

Connor clenched his jaw, and bent downward. He picked a piece of bread off of the tray, and sat on the edge of the cot. He broke off a ridiculously small section, and leaned forward. He gingerly lifted Dick's head with one hand, and pressed the bit of bread against his lips. Dick showed no signs of consciousness, let alone an ability to eat. His teeth chattered weakly, almost imperceptibly. Connor's insides froze with grief. It had been a long time since any of Dick's movements had contained any energy.

"Come on, man," he said, but Dick wouldn't take the bread. There was no way he would eat anything now.

For some reason, this small realization snuffed out the last, straining flicker of Connor's hope.

A flood of tears threatened to burst forth, but he blinked them away.

"Okay, then, not today," he said quietly, laying Dick's head back down, "You know what? Let's just have some quiet time, huh? Just you and me."

Dick didn't speak. Connor smiled a small smile,

"Nice job. You're really good at this, you know?"

Dick wheezed a little in his sleep, eyebrows scrunching together in distress. Connor frowned, quickly stood, and situated himself on the cot. He carefully slid his hands underneath Robin's shoulders, and slowly dragged him onto his own lap. He hugged the boy close to his chest, trying to offer some warmth.

A month ago, this closeness with another person would have caused Connor extreme discomfort. Now, it was second nature. At least to this person. This one person.

Dick had made Connor human, made him normal, in a way that no one else had been able to. He'd never treated him like a clone. And he never expected any less of him than he did anybody else. It was that kind of respect that started to change Connor.

Dick whimpered in his sleep, and coughed raucously. Connor grimaced. It sounded horrid. He pulled the boy a little closer.

"I…" a small whisper. Connor looked down in surprise.

"I'm s-sorry…" Dick breathed, then drew in a shuddering gasp, "I…I c-couldn't…"

Connor couldn't be sure that Dick even knew who he was speaking to, or where he was. But, there was something about his voice, something…final. Something true.

In that moment, Connor knew that Dick was truly there with him, mind and body.

"No, shh," he replied, combing his fingers through Dick's matted, overgrown hair, "Don't talk."

Dick shook his head a little, and a tiny sob broke through his clotted chest,

"No, 's my fult. I din' know…to sve…"

Connor hushed him gently and rocked back and forth,

"Don't say that. None of it's your fault. I…" he choked, "I wish I could have saved you,"he blinked away hot tears, "I'm sorry. I tried. I tried so hard."

This wasn't his place. He wasn't the person to comfort a dying child, to hold him as he passed. Connor was the one who smashed things.

But that didn't matter now. Dick was all that mattered. And Connor was the only one.

Suddenly, a blast of icy wind blew in from the ceiling window, snow billowing out along the floor.

Dick shivered and curled farther into Connor's chest. Connor let him, holding him tightly. He felt so incredibly small in his arms.

This was it…by daybreak, it would be over. Dick could have anything from minutes to hours, but only one of them would be waking up in the morning.

Grief, so sudden and strong, seized Connor. He choked on a sob, and buried his face in the raven hair. Dick drew in a tiny breath, almost one of surprise.

"I've got you," Connor wept, "I've got you. I've got you."

Connor didn't know how long they stayed like that. He didn't know how many times he told Dick that everything would be okay, that they would be home soon.

That he had him.

And he couldn't say exactly when it was that the small body in his arms became just that. A body. There was that moment…when Dick let out a tiny breath, and didn't draw another in. But even then, Connor didn't let go. Some irrational part of him seemed to believe that if he just held on tight enough, he could keep them both alive.

Because no matter how human Dick made him, there were things he still didn't understand. What makes a person dead? If he kept Dick warm long enough, would he just wake up?

But even he couldn't deny it forever. He'd watched Dick's breaths gradually reduce, watched as his eyes slip closed. He'd felt Dick relax in his arms, and eventually stop shivering. He'd died in his sleep.

Connor didn't care.

Three days later, they would have been rescued. Three days later, Connor would be found working himself to the bone with the rest of the prisoners. And his teammates wouldn't be able to say what exactly it was that was different about him. Until they saw the corpse. Eventually, Connor would find peace with Dick's death, and strive to better himself in honor of his memory.

But for now, he didn't care.

...

A/N: I'm a horrible person...

Don't worry not all of these will be death fics, but...I'll go sit down and think about what I've done for awhile, before I post the next one.

...I am a horrible person