Disclaimer: I do not own Young Justice, the comic or the show, or any of the characters associated with it. I make no profit from this work of fiction; it is purely for entertainment purposes.

A/N: First chapter I say this was going to be a oneshot drabble that got a little longer than intended, and now look at me. Posting a second chapter. There's something wrong here, but I can't quite get a handle on how to stop it. Oh well, I blame my weakness on Mahlia. This is your fault, do you hear me!

Kind of a recap on the final moments of chapter one outside of Roy's P.O.V.

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Pressure like death -it is death- crushing down on a bloodied chest. Weak moans, -gurgles, moans need air, there's holes in his lungs and- scratching, blind and useless against the stiff leather of an unforgiving boot.

"-I'm Arsenal now."

A simple smile, simply there, simply serene, simply doesn't belong.

And for the first time in a long time Richard Grayson finds himself shaking and speechless with a sore throat from screaming, and fear so raw he can taste it. It's sharp, metallic, and aches in his mouth so badly he can feel his heart on his tongue. He can't speak, can barely breathe, and the acute clarity of everything his senses take in is almost too much to bear.

His ears explode, and for a moment there's white. Rendered dumb, deaf, and blind. He's sure there's a joke in there somewhere, but he can't think of it with a trembling speedster draped over top him.

The soft warmth of the redder than red hair -too red, sickening red, red, red, red- leaving a trail of itself on his cheek like the slime of a snail. The way it curls and slides as the head it belongs to falls back onto his shoulder. The thud, what should be a thud, more of a squish -oh god don't think about it, don't throw up, don't heave, he's already covered in- - when the echo of the sharp report dies out and the gun stops hissing smoke in his face with all the smugness of a sated dragon.

Arsenal isn't smiling anymore but that doesn't make the look in his eyes any less terrifying. Before he can stop himself he's whimpering, the sound inhuman and not inspired by the hole in his arm. The redhead -the one standing above him, leaning down, looking at him, staring- seems to not mind his weird sounds, so he keeps making them, keeps squeezing air out of his painfully sore throat because -there's nothing else he can do, Wally's... he's- he's afraid and-

"N-no, please-"

Arsenal stops.

Looks.

Shrugs, and picks up the empty gun -so close to his cheek he can almost feel the violent tremors- the boy had taken from him moments before it was made painfully aware that the elder had a second one. He doesn't straighten though; he's still crouched there, hands on his knees, guns in his hands, and that look in his eyes.

The same one that makes Richard cower, turn his head, and weep when his search for comfort is abruptly shattered by hair flecked with grey matter.

The same one that he doesn't have to think about for a long time to remember where he's seen it before.

"It's okay, Robin," Roy murmurs, eyes the same -soft, gentle, controlled, too glazed-, "I'm not going to hurt you." -Like he doesn't understand that he already has.-

Loving.

His eyes are loving.

Why?

Richard cries harder.

Of all things, why is it that? He finds himself wishing fervently that it's hate, or regret, or nothing, just nothing, because now more than ever it reminds him of that moment.

The moment before the fall, when they were still obliviously carefree. When they were still happy, and proud, and alive and they -fuck- they loved him too. And now it's hard not to imagine them in Arsenal's place, crouching and smiling and guns and-

No.

It could be worse.

It could be pity in his eyes, and their faces could become his, in all of it's dark and brooding and protective glory and -this isn't real, it can't be because he would never... he wouldn't-HE WON'T-.

God forbid he be granted reprieve now of all times, with the limp weight of Wally shifting in his arms, one clutching tight, the other trembling against the pain. He turns his head, skin tingling where the cool metal of the gun touched it before and where rapidly cooling blood is touching it now, and his stomach lurches and he's still watching with that fucking look in his eyes.

It's been a while since he's been able to hug Wally without seeing Roy frown. The look is tinged with amusement, and he knows Arsenal knows what he's thinking and it's numbing.

He's not jealous of dead things.

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