The billionaire lay absolutely still for a long moment, trying to process what had just been said. Dead. You…he…gun…oh, fucking hell… "Okay," he whispered numbly. "Okay. Hush, chum. Just…just hush now."

"Can't," was choked back. "Don't…can't…I…"

"Shhh…" Oh, god, I don't even know how to tell you that it's all right, Bruce panicked. It's like you said, if it had happened on night patrol you would have had your mask, that filter. You wouldn't have had to hold back your abilities; you could have approached the situation differently. Even if the man had died anyway, and the hostage too, it wouldn't have been like this. It still would been hard, of course, but…not like this. There was an accepted level of risk when they were in costume, knowing as they did what kind of people they were chasing and that some of them would fight until they were physically incapable of doing so. And with a gun…could it be any worse, really, unless he had accidentally hit and killed the hostage instead? My poor, sweet little Dicky…

"Bruce…don't hate me. Please, please don't hate me, I didn't mean it, I swear…!" He clung to him, dry sobs tearing from his throat. "I didn't…I couldn't…"

"I know," the older man soothed. "Hush. I know. It's okay."

"It's not!"

"Shh, shhshhshh…" Jesus, they let you leave the station in this state? Although to be fair, you hid it extremely well all evening. I'm not sure whether to be proud of your acting abilities or disappointed that you didn't seek help earlier. And now that the dam has broken, how far is this going to go? I've got to get you calmed down… "I know. Let's back up a little and talk about this, okay?"

"But…but I killed someone, Bruce! With…with a fucking gun!"

"…Is that why you think I would hate you for what happened? Because there was a gun involved?"

He seemed to choke for a moment. "H-h-how could you not?!"

"Because it wasn't your fault, Dick."

"I pointed a gun at someone and killed them!" he wailed.

"Yes, you did. You did that in the line of duty, though, in the course of protecting the innocent. You said yourself that you tried to disarm him, and the bullet ricocheted. From what you've told me, you did everything in your power to end the situation with the minimal amount of lost life."

"No…no, I didn't. I could have done better, Bruce. No one should have died, and instead two people did, one of them for doing nothing more than trying to…to have a simple trip to the bank…all because…because of my actions. They're dead because of me."

You're so confused, the billionaire sighed miserably. Of course this isn't because of you, how can you think that? "Dick, this isn't your fault."

"It is!" he nearly shouted back. "You weren't there, okay?! And I can't…I can't really tell you how it was. I just…I failed. I failed those two people who died, and I failed all the people who had to watch them die. I failed the rest of the department, I failed my…myself. I failed my parents, and Alfred, and Tim, and Damian. Jesus, what…what kind of an example did I set for them today? And for Jason, too. Why should he take seriously all those times I've asked him to stop being willing to kill, when…when now I've done it, too? And the worst part…I failed you, Bruce." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I failed you in the worst way that I ever possibly could. All those years of training, of learning how to do things the right way so that justice was served without people dying from our methods…I turned my back on all of that today, on everything you taught me. I…I pulled the trigger. I killed him. And I c-can't take it back…"

Suddenly he was out of bed, wriggling his way free of the billionaire's grasp through that strange acrobatic magic that Bruce had never been able to fully figure out. "…I can't take it back, Bruce," he repeated, his arms crossed over his stomach, hands clutching his sides. "They're reviewing me. They're gonna kick me off the force, probably…probably ch-charge me, I don't know with what, but…then what, I end up in jail with all the people I've put in there? I don't want anyone to see me like that. I don't…I don't want anyone to have to come see me in fucking prison."

"No one is throwing you in jail, Dick," Bruce sat up. He ached to go to him, to lead him back to the mattress, get him settled, and call Alfred for a sedative, but he knew better than to approach him too quickly when he was so distraught. He's shaking. Oh, baby…don't…don't blame yourself for this. Please. "Come on, you aren't the first officer who's had to fire their weapon in the line of duty. You're not even the first one in Bludhaven to have done that this year."

"It's not the same," he negated, shaking his head. "How…how can I keep being Nightwing, up on my high horse about not killing, now? How…how do you not hate me, Bruce? You have to hate me. You…you hate everything to do with guns, and I…I remember your face when you saw mine. That day last summer, at the Sister Cities Solstice Celebration? I was in the BPD booth, about to go on patrol, and…and I saw your face. I know, Bruce. I know how you feel about the fact that I carry a gun at work."

I didn't mean for you to see that, he winced. He, too, could easily recall the instance his son was referring to. He'd put in an appearance on the Gotham side of the annual festival, stopping by the booths related to Wayne Enterprises and announcing the first musical performance of the day at the main stage that the company sponsored, before deciding to cross the river and see how things were going on the other side. Dick had texted him early that morning to say that he would be helping to man the police booth before he went on patrol at the event, and glancing at his watch Bruce had decided that he might still catch him there if he hurried. He'd woven his way through the vendors and pedestrians that packed the closed Franklin Memorial Bridge, eager to see his boy at work and willing to brave the crowds to do so. They didn't let up once he stepped onto Bludhaven soil, and he was beginning to fear that he would be just a minute or two too late when he spotted a banner bearing the seal of the City of Bludhaven imposed on a police shield. He'd rushed forward, then come to a sharp halt just a few meters short of the tables that were overloaded with BPD t-shirts and informational pamphlets.

Dick had clearly just said something that his fellow officers found extremely amusing, since he was grinning broadly while everyone else in blue laughed. Someone clapped him on the back, and as the chortling died down he'd turned towards a pegboard behind him and lifted a shoulder holster free. The butt of his standard-issue sidearm had gleamed dully in the bright mid-summer light, and Bruce had startled. It wasn't that he hadn't been aware that his son carried such a weapon while at work, by any means, but merely that he'd never seen him with it. The ease and comfort with which he fastened the piece in place had disturbed the billionaire, but he'd plastered a faint smile on as the person he'd come to see spotted him and came forward. "…Dick, I-"

"I saw, Bruce. I understand, I really do, but…you never mentioned it. You walked that first round of my patrol with me, and we talked about all sorts of things, but…not that. I wanted to, you know. I…I'd tried so hard to not let you see me with it, you know? Even when I came home in uniform, I always took it off before I came inside. Before…before I even came through the gate. But I saw your face that day, and I saw how you hid it, your…your disappointment. And you never said a word, and I was too afraid to, Bruce, afraid that you'd think I was…was becoming like Jason, I guess, and…and then nothing was ever said. But nothing changed between us, either, and I started to wonder if maybe I'd misread you. Maybe…maybe you weren't disappointed, just surprised. Or something else entirely, I don't know. Maybe the sun was in your eyes…but now…it was disappointment, wasn't it? You were sad, and that was before I…I used it on someone. Now…it's worse now, huh? You…you have to hate me now, Bruce. You have to."

"Dick, I don't hate you. Christ, chum…no." He reached for him with one hand, inviting him back to the bed. "I don't hate Jason, you know that, and I sure as hell don't hate you. I'm not even disappointed; I just want to help you feel better. C'mon, kiddo, please. We can fix this."

"…No," he shook his head, pressing his hands to his temples. "No. You have to hate me, Bruce. You have to!"

"Why?" the billionaire pled, almost whining. He's staying here longer than the weekend, the part of his mind that wasn't in full parental panic mode said firmly. He's staying indefinitely, at least until they get the investigation closed and we can get him someone to talk to. I hate to send him to a psychologist, but it's probably required for officers involved in shootings in any case, and frankly I have no idea where to even begin with this. It would be one thing if it was only that a death – two deaths – had occurred on his watch, but the gun aspect is all knotted up in there, and I don't know how to tackle that. "Why do I have to hate you? Tell me."

For a long moment, the silence was so oppressive that it made their ears ring. "…Because I hate me now," Dick said finally, his tone carrying a hollowness that made every cell in Bruce's brain cry out in denial. "And so should everyone else." With that, he turned and fled soundlessly into the hall, just barely dodging the billionaire's fingers as they clawed out after him.

"Shit!" Bruce exclaimed, losing his balance as he leaned out over the edge of the mattress in his attempt to snag his son's arm. He rolled as he hit the floor, avoiding injury, but the sheets tangled around his legs. "Fuck, get off of me, god damn it!" Kicking out and shoving at the fine fabric, he struggled for several seconds before he heard a definitive tearing sound and felt his bindings loosen. Where did you go, kiddo? Jesus, don't you dare have run off to do something stupid, please…we can fix this…

He bolted into the hallway, glancing in both directions before he focused on the shut door directly across from him. Don't be locked, he begged, attacking the knob. His fingers slipped over the highly polished metal ineffectually. Fuck! You never lock your door… Dashing back, he fished out a ring of keys from his sock drawer and flew into the corridor once more. His hands shook as he shoved the proper one into place and threw the portal open, rushing in frantically. Not here. The bathroom door's open, he's not in there either… His eyes jumped to the window just in time to see a fine spray of snow blow in through a small crack at the bottom. For an instant, he felt his heart pause, then speed to double time. …The roof, he sobbed as he pelted after him. He's gone to the roof. No, baby…please, no…

Author's Note: I promise I won't leave you with that cliffhanger for too terribly long. Third chapter will be up by the end of this week. Happy reading!