Titan Tower's crime alarm blared loudly through the still-ruined halls. It was not the best time for it to be blaring. Only two days had passed since Slade was hospitalized, his condition still critical. Two days since Robin had locked himself in his room, never stepping out once, not even to eat. Worry was mounting in Titan Tower like a bomb waiting to explode, and the crime alarm might have just set it off.
This time Starfire was the one who approached Robin's door. For a while, she thought there was something between them. Maybe it was puppy love, maybe it could have been something more. Whatever it was, Slade had torn a rift between them. Nothing would be the same ever again, but she would be a sorry friend indeed if she didn't at least try to help Robin through this ordeal. So, with the alarm blaring in the background, she meekly knocked on the door.
"Robin, we are needed," she said, half-pleading. She waited with bated breath and when he didn't immediately respond, she took in another breath to repeat herself. But the door opened. Robin stood in the threshold, his face haggard with two days' worth of beard prickling his chin. The mask, belt, and cape had found its way back to his uniform, but they hung loosely on him. He was gaunter, thinner. He was tired.
Starfire wanted to hold him, give him strength through the embrace of a friend. But there was a distant look in his eyes, a shadowed glare, a hidden warning…do not touch me, that look said. Starfire felt her heart grow cold at the unspoken message. She felt hurt.
"Let's…let's go," Robin said hoarsely. He pressed a few compartments of his belt. Birdarangs, gas bombs, and even his retractable quarterstaff fell out onto the floor. He walked off.
Starfire bent to pick up the fallen weapons. "Robin, you're…."
"Leave them," he said coldly.
"But…."
"I said leave them!" he shouted. The roar stunned her to silence. It was so full of vehemence, anger. He had never talked to her—to anyone—like that before. Not even…not even Slade.
Doctor Light had freed himself from prison. It was a simple matter to put him down. The fight was over practically before it had begun. The Titans cornered him in front of a bank he was robbing, clobbered him senseless. All the Titans fought…except Robin. From the start, he hung back. He didn't lead the charge. He didn't even run support. He just stood there, his facial expression saying that he wanted to fight. But his body didn't obey.
After the authorities had carted Light away, the Titans gathered around their leader, who had drawn into himself, standing in the street tight-lipped and silent. Beast Boy approached warily, extended a caring hand, and said, "Hey, dude…Robin…are you…." But Robin slapped his hand aside, hard enough to bruise.
"Just leave me alone," he growled. He turned and walked off. In his heart, he was not only walking from his friends, but from his own failure. He didn't want to think about how he couldn't fight. About how his very body refused to enter battle. About how fear—fear of being killed, of killing someone else—paralyzed his muscles, froze his mind, made him want to curl up into a ball and cry like a helpless child.
But most of all, he didn't want to think about what would happen if he lost control again. The gunshot still rung in his ears, like a haunting ghost. And the eyes. Oh, God, the eyes.
Moving without thinking, Robin walked alone. He didn't use his grappling hooks, nor his jumplines, nor any mode of transportation but his own two feet. He walked all the way to the hospital, amidst the stares of normal people, who didn't wear masks and didn't fire guns at villains. They pointed and said things, said, "here walks a hero," and "shouldn't that boy be in school?" and "his kind are making violence seem good to kids" and "they're menaces like the criminals they fight."
They were words that he had heard before, back in Gotham. Batman had been the target of many of the jeers. How many times had he heard a psychoanalyst on TV claim that Batman was the cause of many supervillains' psychoses? How many times had he read an editorial on how Batman was no better than the bad guys in the Rogues Gallery? How many times had he, Dick Grayson, ignored it all?
Now it was all starting to make sense. Why heroes were feared, why they were hated, why people blamed them and wanted them gone.
No one stopped him when he entered the hospital. No one tried to restrain him when he went to the emergency ward. The guard on duty didn't say a thing when he pushed open Slade's door.
The room was dark as night, quiet as a grave…except for the beeping of an EKG. It sounded rhythmic, but weak. Slade was not out of the woods yet. And it was Robin's fault for putting him there.
Robin looked at the chart on the bed. Wilson, Slade. Robin didn't even know the man had a last name. He wanted to cry. A last name—a family name. Wilson. Grayson. Wayne. Families. The fact only made Slade—Slade Wilson—look more human, more like a man. Not a faceless monster, not a criminal genius. A human being.
And then Robin realized why Batman never killed, why the thought of taking a life was so repulsive, why it was better to die rather than become a murderer.
"I almost killed you," Robin whispered into Slade's ear. Slade Wilson's ear. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Robin." The voice was like gravel. It was hard. It was cold. It was unforgiving.
Robin didn't turn around. "I…was wondering when you'd show up. The papers…."
"Yes. The papers." A hint of sadness eroded the granite of the voice. But it was quickly recovered. "You crossed the line, Robin. Even if he isn't dead, you used lethal force. Why?"
"I…was afraid. I thought I was going to die." Robin's voice cracked. He forced the words out. "I'm sorry." He didn't know who he was apologizing to now, Batman or Slade, Slade Wilson.
They were silent. The room was silent, except for the beeping of the EKG. Then, He spoke: "One time I almost killed the Joker. For his crimes, for all the people he killed, no one could have said I was in the wrong. But Jim Gordon stopped me.
"Do you know what he said? 'You and I have seen more than our fair share of tragedies and thirsted for revenge. If Batman wanted to be a killer, he could have started long ago. But it's a line.' If I had crossed that line back then, if I had taken the Joker's life, Jim would have come after me. Because in his eyes—in the eyes of the law and in the eyes of everything we stand for—I'd have been no different than the Joker."
Robin said nothing, but he gripped the rails of Slade, Slade Wilson's bed. Beneath the green gloves, his knuckles were white.
"You must want some time alone, Dick," the gravelly voice said. "I'll…talk to you tomorrow."
And suddenly, Robin knew he was alone.
Author's Note: Batman's anecdote about the Joker is actually from the Batman comics, the storyline "Hush," to be precise. I thought it would add to the emotional weight of Robin's gunning of Slade. Also, Slade Wilson is his real name. In the Batman and Nightwingcomics, Slade's alias is Deathstroke.